I am in love with the earth, trees and flowers and wild swimming and that, and want to live in a way that loves it. Which has kind of meant I have stopped washing my hair and created a home out of recycled leftovers. I am addicted to jumble with a stubbornness that means I can’t buy anything new and RELISH revealing my latest thrifted swag. I love to craft; I think making stuff puts you in touch with your soul and generally feel that being eco-thrifty (as opposed to pound shop thrifty) is a beautiful, subversive political act. I have had hate mail, accusing me of communism. I was proud. Like a coming of age. I am a ranty liberal, bicarbonate of soda loving, organic- obsessed telly-spurning, sometimes a leetle bit too dirty, hippy. (I hope none of this sounds smug? You can’t be smug when confessing to being a bit dirty can you?)
And, to top it all off? We shifted our family from our South London terrace to a YURT on an organic farm in NEW ZEALAND. You wouldn’t read about it. (Well, you really would, right here, if you like…)
It’s my eyeballs, you see.
THEY LOVE TO BE PLEASED.
They like style. They enjoy the absurdities of fashion. They want the whole world to look like the Mad Men set. They are 1950’s eyeballs embedded in a 1982 body.
I spend way too long combing my quiff, toying with clothes, admiring interiors. These blinking eyeballs really don’t like earthy. Browns, greens, a hempy vibe just won’t satisfy them.
So, sorry, world. You only get hippy with a twist, a shaky hippy, one prone to wobble when faced with another unnecessary vintage dress.
And unless I cast out these rapscallision eyeballs of mine, it will simply have to do.
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