Quite

by Claudia Winkleman

we should all own boots that give off a certain attitude too. They have the power to make you walk like someone who is on their way to a wild party with a roguish rockstar, even if you are actually just going to Tesco Metro for some eggs.

I’m going to come straight out with it. I don’t believe in summer. It’s all toes out (not fine) and enormous bottles of water and shoestring strap dresses and finding a tiny bit of earth to lie down on. It’s a heightened, terrifying collective joy and a rushing panic that plans need to be made.

I’m not going to tell you to get a fringe like me. I’m not going to tell you to dye your hair dark brown like mine. And I’m not going to say the answer to life is hair falling in your face 24/7. In fact, if you’re prone to conjunctivitis it could be a terrifically bad idea.

Excuse me? I’m lying on a lounger and have crisps on my chest. I have 30 minutes of golden time as the other four are walking down the beach. I’m listening to Britney Spears on my headphones, my nose is solidly in this book. Please, please tell me you’re not talking to me. Ah, you are. Jesus, you’ve sat down.

So skiing. Don’t understand it. Can’t understand it. Don’t want to. Some say it’s the best holiday around but I’m not sure those people have been to the Lake District or New York or anywhere in Italy or even their own beds. If you want to wear some padded clothes and injure yourself while shitfaced, just go to your nearest shopping centre via the off licence. Down a couple of cans, sellotape a duvet around your body and fly down an escalator. Cheaper. And very possibly more fun.