The Dangers of Reading Vogue

I am and always have been an inveterate reader of magazines. My first hit was Teddy Bear comic followed by Princess Tina, Pink and Diana when I was a child, moving swiftly on to Jackie, Fab 208, NME, Honey, 19, Over21; flirtations with The Face and Wallpaper and then Cosmopolitan, New Woman, Marie-Claire. Even when I was married I used to secretly buy wedding magazines and swoon over the dresses. And now I get my magazine fix with about six craft magazines a month, monthlies Eve, Red, Delicious and Woman & Home, and occasionally others like House Beautiful, Zest, Easy Living. And very, very rarely: Vogue.

If I'm in a waiting room I usually reach for the Vogue and find myself thinking how interesting some of the articles are, and why don't I ever buy it?

Well, today dear reader, I did buy it. I knew my DH was going to watch The Bourne Ultimatum, and if there's one thing I find very perplexing, it's those Bourne films where Matt Damon seems to travel the world at breakneck speed always being pursued by the CIA or others, for what reason I can never fathom as he never seems to know himself.

Anyway, the only magazine on the shelf I hadn't read, apart from those completely beyond the pale like Prima or Heat, was Vogue. I was so desperate last week I even read OK and Gardeners World.

The thing with Vogue is that it makes me utter this sort of anguished, swoony sound. It's a sort of choked sob. It's because I get this pang because I'll never wear the massive rocks in the jewellery ads, or drive the flash sports cars in the ads or wear the clothes in the ads or features (o0r be thin enough, even if I had the money and/or confidence to walk into one of those shops).

And then there are the parties with ridiculous socialites posing smugly in their Chloe or Gucci clobber. This issue also featured very sickening interviews with three British top models. Lily Cole, all of 19, is buying some glam apartment in Manhattan and frets about having enough space for her clothes. Agyness (whatever happened to Agnes?) Deynes shares her hectic diary where she seems to rush from one party to the next, staying at the Dorchester in between parties (as you do). Sigh. I never went from one party to the next, even when I was their age. God, I'm jealous.

Now, parties are to be dreaded and largely avoided for fear of getting lumbered with someone boring: plus nowadays I rarely get "the glad eye" from anyone which used to make parties worthwhile. For me, the anticipation of a party and the buying of a frock and evening bag is the best bit. Once you've gone in, had the ums-and-ahs for your attire and one or two dances, you might as well go home and see what you taped on Sky Plus.