I have sunk. Over the past few days I have felt myself falling and today I am just totally flat. I am worried about work, about the way I write and about how long it takes me to get a good introduction done. I am anxious and annoyed at myself for not getting on quicker; I am trying desperately hard but I just want to be there so much faster than it seems to be taking me.
I was gifted with the opportunity to write and research the splash, the front page of the paper. I managed to get the quotes and the contacts which is often the hardest part but when it came to writing it I froze. I couldn’t seem to convey what I wanted to say in the opening paragraph and after writing it and discarding it twelve times panic set in. It was so annoying because I had the time I just folded under the pressure. I was starting to feel last week as though I was finally getting the hang of things but after fluffing up today I just feel so angry with myself for not being able to follow things through. I know I can write but I just seem to be struggling.
I do not think that it helps that I have been coming home to an empty house the past couple of days. I like to think I am an independent woman who is happy in her own company, and most of the time I am. It is times like this evening though that I feel myself getting a bit tearful and wish the boy was here so I could curl up on his chest and warble out my worries from the day. As it is though I am alone and sad and have little enthusiasm for anything. The football was on and I watched it for a little while but couldn’t seem to summon the usual love of the sport. I knew I should eat but there was nothing I wanted and I did not see the point in cooking for myself. I had started to wonder whether it might be good for me to move into a place by myself, where any stresses were all my own but on days like this I worry how I would cope. Perhaps I will be one of those women who ends up with seven kittens or maybe I shall be sensible for once and take up Tai Chi.
- Today’s dress was brought for me by the boy as a cheer up treat yesterday. It is some unusual make but it was from British Heart Foundation and was only £3.99. I wore it with my checker tights and some huge heels to give me a bit of a boost. I am not usually a fan of purple but according to the boy it suits my hair colour. My baby brother took the photos for me before having to head out to see his lovely lady. He is a big fan of strange angles which he creates by spinning the camera around and randomly taking the photos when I am least expecting it.
Though the giant and I have a terse relationship when we are skiing we somehow manage to put our differences aside and enjoy each others company. When I was nine-years-old my father decided it was time to take me along on the O’Neill family annual skiing holiday. My mother has never been a big fan of the sport so she tended to stay at home with whichever tot was too young to come along. Although I was a daddy’s girl when I was younger by the time my first skiing trip came round my feet were planted firmly at my mother’s side and the idea of leaving her to go away with the giant seemed to me like an act of treason. In the end our darling Catherine managed to convince me that skiing was “really good fun” and I conceded to join her and the giant in a trip to Austria. I must admit I did not immediately take to the activity, it was freezing cold and no matter how many times I sucked on my gloves my fingers felt like icicles. By the end of the holiday however I was hooked; I loved the way the wind whipped through my hair as I hurtled down the slopes, I loved how fast me and my sister could fly down the flat runs, pausing only to size up the best path for show jumps and I loved how well we all got along without the pressures of two other siblings, housework and homework. My sister, my father and I would get up and out by half seven and stay out on the slopes till the last lift of the day. The flights back then used to cost a fortune so we would save our money by bringing Mars bars from home and the occasional slab of Milka to keep our energy levels up throughout the day. My father would share it out between us on the chair lift and we would chomp it down before embarking upon another run.
The best holidays were always those where we split into ski school groups during the morning then met up at lunchtime to swap stories. I do not know why it is we get along OK when we are skiing, perhaps like our shared love of football, having an activity which we both enjoy means we have something in common other than blood. Whatever it is we always seem to have a good time up on the mountains and we have spent whole afternoons together tearing down The Alps, racing and seeking out new challenges, chasing the sun and attempting to escape the cloud and the mist.
I feel privileged that I have been able to go skiing from a young age, although me and my sister were taken out of school I do not think we missed out on any where near as much as we gained from going. Some of my favourite and most traumatic childhood memories are from these holidays, such as all the times my sister and I used our sunglasses to check out hot men on the slopes or the time my father fell over the side of a cliff and we had to beg passing skiers to stop and help us drag him up. For some time my father and I were at a level with our ability but sadly he has now overtaken me and it makes me a little sad that we no longer ski in union. We had a race today and for the first time in years he beat me leaving me with a burning desire to get my fitness back on track as soon as we get back to the UK to make sure this travesty never happens again, I mean for goodness sake he’s practically retired!
- My sister kindly took the photos for today and we tried to get a backdrop of The Alps but the railway crossing got in the way a little as well as some rude drivers who seemed to think they had the rights over the road . Today was supposed to be Little Black Dress Friday as started by The Uniform Project a couple of weeks ago to promote creativity and sustainability. Unfortunately it has been postponed till next week but as dress supplies out here are as scarce as the snow in the valley I decided to wear my long black dinner dance dress regardless. My mother bought it for my dinner dance when I was 16 and since then I have worn it on only five other occasions; four of these were to dinners and evening dos with different boyfriends, the last was for a visit to the opera in Verona with my father, my brother and my mother. I love it to bits and even though I look rather different in it now to when I was a slender sixteen-year-old, I still think it is one of the most beautiful dresses I own.
Today I fell off the wagon rather dramatically. In my defence I have been doing fairly well; other than a few drinks on a couple of special occasions over the past four weeks I have been surprisingly sober. I can not deny that I haven’t missed the drink; I love the grape and the grain as I do a long overdue conversation with a good friend so being without it has left me feeling a little lonely at times, particularly when my society consists of the suitably sozzled.
Though I had decided to do my best to have a booze free holiday it turns out not drinking in France is nearly as depressing as not smoking. When I tuck into a long lunch with a baby bubble beverage rather than one of their sweet stumpy beers I am looked at like a leper and feel like a right old bore. After all I say to myself I am on holiday and after all surely occupation of a different country means one must adopt their laws and customs. Surely I think by not drinking their delicious vino I am causing unintended offence.
After running through similarly logically sound arguments all day I finally fall well and truly off the wagon during dinner. I manage to convince myself that holidays are technically a special occasion and after all I have cause for celebration and this is the first time I have shared a meal with my family after getting my good news. It may be an excuse and I am perhaps kidding myself but it certainly feels like an occasion. We go to our favourite restaurant in Chamonix. Although The Hotel Eden do some of the most fanatic dishes in the whole of The Alps, their prices are pretty high and although I would love to go to their restaurant until I am employed it is just not realistic. Our favourite restaurant is one of the best value in the whole of Le Praz, a small village just outside of central Chamonix. It is only a five minute stroll from where we stay and their menu has I think stayed the same for the last five years.
It is one of those restaurants where as soon as you walk in you know who the owner is. The family who own it are often eating there themselves when we come in and the television stays on the sports channel for their pleasure. The y have not changed their menu or themselves to accommodate the influx of tourists into their village. We order in our very best French, desperate not to seem like the atypical arrogant anglais who can not be bothered to stretch his tongue to please his hosts. If we make a mistake she kindly corrects us and when there is an issue with translating the puddings she will switch to sign language and indulge us in our guessing games but she will not use the English tongue and for this I admire her. Once when we had fondue there the lady who owns the place along with her sports fanatic husband took pity on our peasant ways and showed us herself how best to coat the futons in the melted pot of cheesy gold.
We usually have the same, a special salad which has a poached egg on top as well as little bits of bacon and croutons drenched in oil. It is delicious and if I was more of a fool I would ask her for the recipe. The salads are followed by steaks, chips and more devilishly dressed salad, I do not want or care to know how many calories I consume in this meal but every squat, sit up or stair climb I have to do to burn it off will be totally worth it. Even I, the ketchup queen, will happily go without red sauce because everything is cooked so well it would seem an insult to injure it by adding one’s own accompaniments.
Tonight, there was just a little bit of tension at the start of the meal and as I have been fearing a repeat of last years family feuding I turned to the drink as a distraction. I find it hard to relax and just be and whether or not it is wrong or healthy having a drink just brings me down a level and loosens me up. I am always on such a tightly wound string it is nice to lose a little control once in a while and as I had told myself earlier that day I am after all on my holidays. Though I did my best to take it easy, technically speaking the tablets I am taking do not exactly advise alcohol. Two glasses of delicious table wine later I was feeling fabulously free and when the owners decided after our drunken debate with a table of Irish men about who would win the rugby the next day we all drank to France’s victory with a liquor from 1946. It totally finished us all and the walk back was hilarious. I am standing in the photos but many did not work as I was swaying ever so slightly.
On the plus side on our return to the apartment rather than falling into the trap of desperately trying to keep the party going I got myself a glass of water, watched a bit of the football until I was forced to admit that all I could see was a red and green blur I slid under the duvet, typed a few words of my blog and slunk into the loveliest sleep I have had in days. I may well have fell off the wagon, but at least I didn’t get hurt.
- Today’s dress is a kaftan borrowed covertly from my mother whilst she was away in Chamonix. Knowing the only way she would find out is if she read the blog I decided to chance it as she should be doing her essay so should certainly not be browsing through her daughters drones. I know it is ridiculous but I wore it with a beret as when in Rome and all. The green jumper was loaned to me, with permission and everything from my older sister. I love it and am thinking of accidentally acquiring it during the course and the panic of our packing. We are sharing a room at the moment and it is great fun. The top is apparently from Asda and the shirt dress is from Marks & Spencer Autograph collection. I think it is meant to be a top. The pictures were taken by my sister’s boyfriend, James Cornish who is quite the amateur photographer and kept doing strange things like practice shots.
Hurrah hurrah hurray, the summer is finally on its way. Whether you suffer from SAD, the blues or even just get cold a lot, there is nothing more wonderful than the first real rays of sunshine. Today, in spite of suffering from a collective hangover the Onions boys headed out to play tennis and football at Fog lane Park and me and my boy go on walk about in Withington town. For the first time in months sitting outside to read the Sunday papers seems like a viable way to spend a day and I actually can not wait to get out from under the covers because the sun is streaming through the curtains. I am a bit keen on the idea of going and playing frisbee in the park but the frock I’m wearing today is so pretty and feminine it seems a shame to go out and get it all sweaty and grass smeared. I could of course wear sports gear but it feels somehow a bit dishonest not to stay in the same dress the whole day and in the end I settle for a brisk walk. Perhaps I will have to start hassling Nike for tennis and yoga dresses to stop me becoming a sweaty Betty when wearing pretty prints like this. In just a couple of weeks I will be flying out to ski Chamonix and I am sorry to say that even I am not mental enough to ski in a skirt. I am an extremely cold person as it is and without excessive layering I succumb to hypothermia within minutes of hitting the slopes. I am hoping it will be acceptable to all if I just wear my dresses in the evening rather than on the piste, in return I promise you some brilliant apres ski stories and some of the most stunning backdrops to pictures of the dresses thus far. I really enjoyed wearing this dress today. The boy chose it for me to wear as we are going to watch The Miserable Rich play at The Deaf Institute this evening. As I am heading home in a couple of days he wants to see me in this floral feminine print even though it would not usually be my cup of tea. It is because I am heading home in a few days that I want to wear the dress I know he will like the best; though I do not like to dress for men as a rule, I do enjoy looking nice for him just as I know he likes to look nice for me. I brought him a stripey blue and white polo t-shirt shirt for our anniversary and when he wore it to his gig last night I felt really proud of him, even though his look was jeopardized earlier in the evening by a car of egg throwing bandits. I love finding clothes for him which he likes as he is very fussy about what he will wear and getting him to wear anything other than green, brown or blue is a miracle. Since we started going out however I have managed to persuade him to try all kinds of other colours and designs other than hooded tops and jeans and I once even managed to make him try on an orange t-shirt. I like the fact that he dresses well but is not too into his looks. I have dated men in the past who are obsessed with their hair and refuse to let it be ruffled for fear of wasting their carefully selected product. I once went for a meal with a guy and became utterly convinced he had a twitch in his right eye as it kept flickering to the side of my face; it wasn’t until I got up to leave that I noticed the mirror behind me and realised he had been checking how he looked the whole time. It was funny but also a little sad. The gig we go to turns out to be brilliant and although I am technically wearing black, the flowers on the dress and the cloudless night continue to remind me that spring is in the air. At the gig many people arrived wrapped up warmly in their winter coats of muted colour but as they start to warm up there is a shedding of their dull outer layers and much like the sun which has emerged today from the folds of the bleak winter all around us there are people dressed in bright pieces from last years summer wardrobe. Greys and browns are on their way out at last as colour and cheery clothing is welcomed back at last. Whilst the sun goes to get his hat on lets all go out and play!
- This dress is on loan from Sinead Kenny. It is originally from Wallace and feels beautiful on and the thick lining and structured waist makes it a really elegant fit. There have been a lot of floral patterns coming out lately which are really beautiful, particularly those printed on silk. Economise on the material if you have to but don’t penny pinch when it comes to the print itself or you will end up looking as cheap as your outfit. The photos were taken on our way home from the gig on a green patch of Withington and outside a section of Christie’s hospital. If you look close enough you can see the sign which says do not walk under this barrier, as I was limboing and crawling under it I will hopefully not get a letter in the post advising me of legal action any-time soon.
Today’s dress is fantastically floral and sixties style short, it was brought by the boy as a valentine’s Day gift, the Marks and Spencer fair trade roses fluttered a few days but are now largely dead and finished. He brought it for me from a really great vintage shop in Manchester’s Northern Quarter along with three other dresses. The manager and the staff there are absolute legends and really seem to enjoy being surrounded by the beauty of such wonderful clothes. One wonders around trying not to grab and cuddle up to every item of clothing within. After a not so successful chat with Oxfam’s manager about possible dress donations my attempt to get the manager on board was rather more half hearted but she was an absolute doll, said she’d take a look at the site and as the boy is a bit Brassica at the moment gave us the dresses for £20 rather than the £35. It is a really great shop, Best Vintage for those who are about the area and comes out at the top of the vintage boutiques because they are neither uppity or ripping offity.
The images today do not really do the dress justice which is completely my fault. My super-star friend, Ms Clayton returned from rehearsals down South in a pink taxi at nine this evening and we all had a lovely night out with some old friends from our gang who had come up from London. Myself and the boy are as I mentioned the wrong side of the poverty line at the moment and added to this the frequent phantom pharting of the men at the table beside us we decided to head back to our place rather than bust a move in town. The boy and his house-mates after living together for more than five years are finally splitting up and when the boy myself, the super star Clayton and her boy and band member got home we had a right old giggle at everything and nothing and it did make me a little sad that soon these impromptu back room gatherings will be a thing of the past.
Today I have been all over the place, as the side effects have started to fade from the new invasive mood stabilizers I was in a buzzing mood and at times I felt wonderfully high. Singing, teasing and dancing about I felt better than I had in weeks and when we were out unlike last week I felt connected and present and genuinely had a great time without ever having to force a smile.
The dress was great fun to wear and though it was naughty short by shimmering up the stairs and ensuring no one was in the vicinity when I was crawling around the floor trying to find the right shoe of any suitable pair I prevented traumatising anyone with an eyeful.
We were out tonight with some of our oldest friends and though me and the boy have talked about the idea of living together I really do miss the days when we got together when we lived with our own fantastic friends who were a constant source of fun. I never felt lonely because in both my house and the boys there was always someone to horse around with. The boy lived with six other guys and we would play cards, pro-evo or just sing into the early hours. Even during the day there was always someone to watch one of my movies for my American film studies module and at my house I would play-fight with the boys and we would tease each other to the point of psychosis.
One particularly strong memory is when three weeks into our dissertations both the boys ran into my room and declared it was party time, switching my stereo on to the Beach Boys whilst we all surfed on my double bed or the numerous chairs I had around the room ready for Sunday brunch. I don’t miss being a student but I miss student living and I miss my friends all being in the same place, being a grown up sucks.
When I was finally let into the press room, by myself I was shocked when Mr Megson made a crack at me. “I had not realised there would be models coming today. I struggle to get any of my staff to tell me which player is which but you come along and all of a sudden we have a full house.” I sat down blushing, suddenly cross at myself that I had left the panel bare but relieved I had a suit jacket to cover my blushes. I loved the conference, it felt so cool to be right at the heart of the sports news and the team at the sports desk made me feel incredibly welcome and didn’t take the piss out of me for my lack of sporting knowledge. I would love to work on a sports desk but my knowledge of cricket is terrible and you really need to have your eye on every ball to fit in but I still love how fast paced the news is. You have to file match reports on the whistle and the game can change from one minute to the next leaving carefully crafted copy shockingly irrelevant.
Today I don the dress for lunch with my Fairy God Mother and my mother, Mary Marita Margaret Majella. We settle on Emerson and Wests an old style tea room in Harborough where they make beautiful deserts and do the best egg and chips this side of Ireland. I foolishly break tradition and going with stomach and not my heart choose the roast beef. It is dreadful, served with vegetables which are cooked to the point of mush presumably for the benefit of the many elderly members of the community to be found here. Equally the pudding is zapped in the microwave to the point where the taste is entirely compromised by the scolding your tounge receives on the first bite and no mix of cream or custard can salvage the damage.
I am low today, horribly so and I guess this is why I seem to be trawling down memory lane to the happiness of last year and not boring you all to death with my moans about what I am feeling the absence of. I am glad when I take off the dress, it feels as though it belongs to a happier day, and in spite of the love of my mother and my fairy mother I just never manage to lift myself off of the ground to which I have sunk.
Day 24 – manners in motion; indiscretion in the film industry and potential problems of using one’s phone
After conducting the penultimate train journey in aid of researching by article soon to be published on the terror of trains I was feeling particularly positive about my journey. I had managed to avoid buses or delays rand right up until the very last stage of my journey I was able to say I had a fairly pleasant travelling experience.
All that changed however when I boarded the bus to Mauldeth Road last night which would take me to see the boy upon its route to Manchester Airport. As I tried to relax and read the week’s review in The Sunday Times, I suddenly became frightfully aware of a verbal assault on my ear drums. A particularly toffish type character was spouting away about his latest film project in spite of being surrounded by people who were too poor to get a taxi. At first I stuck my fingers into my ear hoping he would get the hint but his dulcet tones still evaded my delicate drums. As he had not get the hint I decided that if he wanted people to hear every details of his film project and his meeting with the elusive Catherine as well as his opinion on Rio Ferdinand and the girls of Coronation Street, the least I could do was give him an extra platform for his drivel and practice my teeline at the same time.
The dress I am wearing today is strangely enough from supermarket giant, George at Asda. I brought it when I was working at McClelland and the boy was doing some recording at blueprint. I was rather poorly and had gone to work looking like a scruff so changed into this dress before going to Blueprint if I bumped into the Elbow boys or Justin Timberlake who had recorded there the previous year. Obviously I wanted to look nice for the boy as well. Today’s photos are once again taken by him and this is perhaps obvious by the fact he chooses to focus more on my legs than the dress but hopefully you can see enough to appreciate it is a cute little number. We took the photos in Fuel again as we had been to a comedy night before chilling out afterwards with some strawberry beer.
What follows is a script of the boy on the bus speaking on his phone to an actor involved in his project which sounded as though it was going to be another zombie inspired apocalyptic reel. The poor actor barely had a chance to speak but I have also left out some details to prevent too much of the project being given away and to protect the privacy of some of the people he mentioned but otherwise it is an exact account of his ramblings. Chris Moyles could have been inspired by this gentleman.
“We are going to blow them up. It’s going to be a full on explosion. Going to be a big blow…
She is living with one of the girls in Corrie’ at the minute and she wants her to have a part. She also knows other people that she knows in that area…
apparently she is doing some singing at the moment at a club that is owned by a United player, what’s his name, I don’t know because I don’t care about any of those United players, Rio Ferdinand that’s it, that was his name. Anyway she has sung at his club and Catherine is going to try to get us that as a location.
She was really positive, she was saying I will get you this, I will get you that. She has done TV, she has done feature films so she has picked up some contacts along the way. As they say it’s not what you know, it’s who you know
I will tell you what, the Romoans now have a mansion to live in.. it has a massive basement and a moat. They found the remains of a priest who lived there and there is a cella which we need
I know, you are a legend for introducing us…
I am going to teach her to fight how to use a gun and get her in the look of being a very interesting character who is also a gun touting maniac.
This is just when everything starts happening and the only way this film is not going to get made is if you or me die or me being completely ridiculous and stupid and not working on it.
Catherine know some people from the BBC so we will be able to get some good interest from the press and get some journalists really listening to us and interested in this film.
I really want to get a helicopter in the scene, I think we need it.
When I was growing up and my baby brother was still, well a baby, my Dad had no choice other than to take me along to Premiership football games at Coventry City. This was back in the days of Dion Dublin, where every single season we managed to hang on from relegation by the skin of our teeth. Although my father spent much of his time trying to shield me from curse words and hooligans; politely informing them if they bumped into me one more time he would have to punch them into next week, fellow supporter though they may well be, we used to have a great time together and until my brother started to come to the games it was our little father and daughter day out. One of our collective favourite memories of going together, I would say my own was when I met Kevin Keegan when we played Newcastle but I think my father was too busy trying to prevent me defecting teams to enjoy the experience; was when we scored a goal in the last minutes of play thus escaping relegation for another year. It had snowed and everyone was so overjoyed that there was a massive pitch invasion which my father joined in with. I felt extremely proud as I watched him return his face aglow having thrown a snowball at one of the opposition players.
As I got older and my brother got taller my Dad started taking both of us along to the matches. It was a pity really but the costs just got too high and naturally he felt obliged to bring his son along to an experience which is more often associated with father and son pairings. I had reached the wonderful age of answering back and instead of attending matches in a pom-pom hat and baby blue corduroy coat I wanted to go in tight leather trousers, thick green statement knits and berets. It was not that I wanted to be a wag I had just started to become as interested in fashion as I was in football and I guess it was difficult for my father to take a Faux French daughter to a football ground. I still went to see Coventry play from time to time and watched football on TV when I had the time, particularly match of the day if my Dad had it on and I had been allowed to stay up, but slowly but surely I started to spend my Saturdays hanging out with friends in town shopping with the little money we had, drinking hot chocolate, chit chatting and checking out boys.
These days my Saturdays are spent in much less clear-cut pursuits, but I would do myself an injustice if I did not admit that football and fashion are still the main focus of this day. If I am not checking the web to see how the games are going, I am bopping about town looking for bargains whilst glaring at anyone foolish enough to mention the results, hoping I can catch them on match of the day before anyone gives the scores away. I have been lucky enough to report on matches for the non-league paper, and got to take my father along to a spectacular end of season final between Durham City and Woodley Sports where visitors Durham came behind from three down to win the match and rise up to the next division.
As I wondered round Manchester yesterday however I was struck by how many things have spilled off of the field to become everyday behaviours which have a negative effect on my fashion finding. As I waited outside the Arndale I was shocked by how many people emerged from the double doors to spit out the contents of their mouth, be it spit or chewing gum. Assuming these people had not been engaged in rigorous sport inside the shopping centre, (though shopping can at times be a fast paced activity it can certainly not be compared to the cardio kick which is the great game) I could not understand why they thought it was acceptable to spit in a public place. I wish I had had the courage to face them but foolishly I had read an article about a woman who was knifed after asking someone to be quiet in the cinema and my usual interfering nature escaped me. The other fashion I noticed whilst waiting for the boy to emerge from the shops was bear bellied girls. It was not that I found the sight of these girls stomachs particularly hideous, they were extremely tone tummies, it was just that they looked so completely wrong in context. Although most of the snow has left Manchester it is still utterly freezing, even I have lately had to abandon outside shoots till the weather improves, and yet these women were walking round like they are in the Bahamas. Although this dress leaves little to the imagination in terms of length (I did have to exclude some photos from the blog) when on the street I was cloaked in many layers and more importantly other than my face and hands no bare flesh is being exposed to the Northern elements. In a club or on a hot day you expect to see flesh, on the football pitch you hope to see it either in appreciation of the beauty of the male form or because your team have just scored a goal and the scorer is celebrating by whipping off his top regardless of the card he will receive, but outside in Manchester in January bare flesh is about as unexpected as the spittle which lines the pavements.
Today’s dress is 1980s vintage Miss Selfridge. The material is thick and heavy and although I had to wear a vest tucked firmly into tights to protect myself from the elements it does feel like a winter dress with minimal need for remodification. I must admit I was thinking of saving it for an interview or a film inspired post but I was feeling a bit low yesterday and needed the kind of lift which wearing such a brilliant item can give you. Like much of 80s fashion it has the all important power dressing factor. The shoulders are so wide that even my cloak hanger upper form struggled with wearing it. It has really unusual braces which you pull in and clip to the material to give you as little or as much of a waist as you might want. I wore it with patterned tights and Kurt Geiger statement purple and dark blue heels from last years collection. They are all of about sis inches high with a platform at the front and mean I do not feel at all intimidated by lout returning through town with too much drink in their bellies as I am usually several inches taller than them by the time defeat or alcohol has bent their back. I went full force with the make up, tracing gold and beige shadow up to the brow and leaving my hair naturally large to fit in with the time although I had to wipe off my lipstick as I was looking a little too lady of the night. I got the dress from eBay for 0.99p plus postage and packaging. Sometimes you get really lucky on eBay if nobody else can see the potential of a dress off the model or the floor especially if you decide what you are paying and take into account postage and packaging. I think I had to pay £4 to have this delivered, but even for £5 I think it is a good bargain and am already a little sad that I didn’t have the energy to wear it out last night and settled for match of the day and Poland’s finest export to date krupnik instead.