Only Langella and Clint Eastwood look good in a cape. The rest of us look as if we are on our way back home from electroconvulsive shock therapy. Brains now addled by 3000 volts of electricity, the trustees have acquiesced and released the bindings from our tad tight strait jackets.
Do you like unicorns? The color pink? Then I'm sure the cult of the cupcake has become a modus vivendi for you. They are pretty and they are oh so tasty but wake up and smell the cupcake you run the risk of being considered nauseatingly sweet. This in turn puts you at risk of being chased along the street by your sickened friends whose exhausted gag reflexes has driven them to wield a giant needle loaded with insulin. Let us harken to a world BC (before cupcakes). Macaroons be warned: you are headed down the same rocky road to perdition.
Oh dear, unless you are Joan Collins in her Dynasty era or living life through an opium soaked haze and require a sheath of netting and froth to detract from a pallor last seen when the Black Death was rife, please eschew the fascinator. Any woman, who has to purchase a quality in order to possess it, then, attach it to her head, may as well walk naked down the street wearing a sandwich board.
“We saw your boobs…” Well, we did, do! Our latter day well corseted Venuses are rarely seen without their well cantilevered bosoms spilling from a gown like hastily formed hillocks of vanilla Playdoh. Ripe of body, they have sashayed centre stage into our consciousness and allowed us all to wolf down dessert without guilt. But, ouch those engorged globes look positively painful, someone stick a pin in those balloons. There is also the small matter of decorum to be considered. Really?
Great weekend friends on the other side of the herring pond.