Woody
Allen and I share a malady, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
We both
are sufferers of the condition of 'nostalgia' and long for our spiritual homes
in our idealised, rose hued visions of past decades. He wishes for the
twenties, the 'golden age', when apparently walking in the rain in Paris was
common practice.
I long
for the sixties. For the time when Mary Quant dresses were in, the Beatles and
their bowl cuts reigned and Edie Sedgewick was still Andy Warhol's muse.
I
mean, Andy Warhol was there - need I say more?
I
struggle living in a world where Audrey Hepburn isn't around and instead Kim
Kardashian sets the trends (while sullying the good Kimberley name!) and
reality TV destroys any semblance of class.
How am I
meant to come to come to terms with having Snooki on the covers of magazines instead of Twiggy? Ke$ha topping
charts instead of Simon and Garfunkel? There is something very appealing about
a time when the letter 's' wasn't a dollar sign and the word 'Lady' in front of
your name meant you were actually aristocracy.
If I was
Samantha (or if she was actually not a fictional character) I would twitch my
nose and find myself on the pavement of Carnaby Street, London in the midst of
it all.
The idea
of stumbling back in time is enchanting; to wander the streets and be part of
the inner circles of the icons, share drinks, laughter, angst and music and
realise that they too are wishing for the past.
For I
know the story would no doubt end with Disney-esque poetry, as I discover the
flaws of the 'swinging city' and begin to long for my own time. I would realise
the benefits of what 2012 has to offer (predicted impending doom aside) and one
day click my heels together and whisper 'there's no place like home.'
Wouldn't
the journey be fun though?
related posts.
the way we were by kimberley veart
optimists anonymous by kimberley veart
