There is a place in the UK in which One Direction has been cloned, and then had Jack Wills vomit on them. This place is Newmarket. If you know anything about horseracing, you will probably know Newmarket. This tiny little town outside Cambridge is one of the most prestigious horseracing towns in England. And so it’s full of super-rich, horsey people. And if you want to fit in with the Newmarket locals, there are some wardrobe staples to adhere to:
A quilted gilet
A denim shirt (or, for the more adventurous types, a checked shirt)
The typical hairstyle for the guys is a windswept Frankie Cocozza, whilst girls tend to wear loose buns of hair on top of their heads that look like they haven’t been brushed properly. Oh, and The Only Way is Essex amounts of fake tan.
I went to Newmarket to visit my friend DM and her Little Un. Don’t get me wrong, I was very entertained by the One-Direction-got-puked-on-by-Jack-Wills clones, and I also found an AMAZING little clothes shop that I will be blogging about over at The Fashion Lover. But the best bit was sitting there with DM and Little Un after 6 months of not seeing them and drinking copious amounts of tea, playing Pick up Sticks and pretending not to watch iCarly. When we did venture into a bar, we found ourselves on Chino Watch (3 drinks and 30 pairs of chinos later, it was time for a cuppa and bed), and expressing our horror at the outfits the girls were wearing (two inches of snow on the ground and you’re wobbling like Bambi on ice and I can see your knickers…classy).
So now I’m worried.
Am I middle-aged? Have I skipped the bit in your early twenties where wearing a lacy scarf as a dress is fashionable and desirable? Did I miss the part where drinking blue WKD’s is a good idea or grinding yourself against an artfully-windswept, chino-glad pre-teen is the pinnacle of a good night out?
In honesty, I’d rather pass. I did the getting drunk bit at university, and had the time of my life, but now I find it more desirable to remember the time I spent with my friends, instead of having a pyjama day trying to piece a fuzzy blur of a night out and hoping that you didn’t give your number to a weirdo.
I love sitting and having a hot chocolate with DM and Little Un in a cute café with gilt mirrors and local artists on the wall, and I love watching Friends whilst eating bacon butties, and hearing Little Un read Roald Dahl to me.
I love Saturdays mooching about the shops, and Sundays watching the rugby and eating my weight in roast dinner.
I love jumping in the car to drive to Newmarket to see DM with a weekend bag of jeans and boots and comfy jumpers, knowing that I’m going to see one of my best friends and I don’t have to wear make up if I don’t want to. I love seeing Little Un after 6 months and seeing how much she’s grown and see glimpses of the stunning girl she’s going to be – and having her do a fashion show for us, clomping about in my boots with my big new bag clutched her side.
So I’m a homebody. So I love my friends and family and there’s nothing better than sitting down with a good book on a Saturday night sometimes. Going out and about in my “home” town (not a fan of associating myself with said town really) I often feel this is a crime. But the weekend in Newmarket proved to me that it was okay – not because everyone was doing the same, but because no matter how rich, how horsey and how windswept your hair, you still look like an idiot.
And I don’t.