The trouble with glossy magazines is that they tend to be stuffed with articles about handbag designers - the sort of women who, with their perfectly styled lives, immaculate houses, and adoring partners, make you want to become a hermit.
Personal shoppers in big department stores are seriously under-used.
There's a particularly British wariness of appearing to try too hard. It's somehow distasteful. Everything should come to us seamlessly and, if you have to work at it, you're somehow a loser.
It's stupid to say that there's any comfort to be had in 'knowing your place,' but there is a sense of reassuring escapism to something like 'Downton Abbey.' There's a perceived romance and elegance that is wonderful to lose yourself in.
No matter how irrelevant social class now is, even the most eager egalitarian must be quietly proud that the posh English rose is still an industry standard for peerlessly sophisticated beauty.
The Queen's wedding dress in 1947, there was some embroidery on the train which was definitely there to illustrate new dawn/post-war optimism, that sort of thing.
In falling over in heels while trying to look attractive, you don't just hurt your body, you bear the humiliation of injuring your very soul. Physical pain? Whatever, bring it on. But the humiliation? Oh, you have seen to the very weakest part of me.
When you first hear the name 'Max Irons,' you'd be forgiven for assuming that Marvel comics has come up with a new superhero.
Anya Hindmarch is indeed a handbag designer; she has the requisite fabulous life, tasteful home, and loving husband. She is also beautiful and self-deprecating, and has five children aged 5 to 20 and a philanthropic bent which spans causes from cancer care to Britain's Conservative Party.
Anything looks good if you've got the body of a Victoria's Secret model and the porelessly smooth skin-tone of a piece of glass.
