Guilty pleasures

I’m fairly convinced I’m not Vogue’s target audience.

Nevertheless, it’s been my magazine of choice ever since I was thirteen and barricaded in my Lake District bedroom, listening to Leonard Cohen, trying to ignore the smell of pigs from the barn and the strains of evangelical Christian guitar-playing from the sitting room.

It’s like a porn habit. I’m sure editor Alexandra Shulman would not want her classy mag to be put in the same bracket as, say, Penthouse, Playboy or, at a pinch, Razzle, but all the signs are there:

1. Buy magazine in far-off town, out of sight from gossiping family friends: check
2. Smuggle magazine into house, past mother/sisters/flatmates/girlfriend in depths of rucksack: check
3. Experience feeling of rising excitement whilst tearing off the cellophane wrapper: check
4. Suffer angst at exploitation of women whilst unable to stop looking at half-naked bodies in slightly fetishistic outfits: check.
5. Pretend to like it for the articles: check
6. Have slightly dirty but satisfied sensation when latest copy is stashed under the bed: check

It is sort of post-feminist, though. Gotta love the way that, unlike Cosmopolitan or Elle, it never has articles on, say, '21 Ways to Give the Best Blow Job.' The Vogue Woman is so hot that men will fall at her feet whatever she does in bed. Anyway, she doesn’t care. The Vogue Woman is too busy checking out what the other girls think of her outfit.

I’m supposed to be at a lesbian arts festival in York. Instead, I buy a copy of said magazine on the way back from the library along with a 100g slice of organic goats cheese, a mini bottle of good Bordeaux, and ingredients for carrot soup. It’s been a shit week and my intentions are good. No partying. Moderation. Bed by ten. No drink and dial. No ill-advised Facebook entries. Start the weekend on a good note. Possibly go to the gym. Hot yoga.

6.15: I make soup, phone Mother to enquire about recent dentist trip (she was happy, managed to bully them into giving her hardcore drugs to ease the pain. Like mother, like, er…..).

6.45: Clean bathroom, file six months’ worth of bills, wince at mobile charges, check blogs, all the while listening to worthy Radio 4 debate on abortion.

7.45: Radio 4 off. Ella on. Settle down to eat soup and other aforementioned comestibles with Vogue propped up in front of me.

8.00: Read article on “What men really think about women and their weight.” Feel pleased to be a homosexual.

8.15: Suddenly gone off soup.

8.30: Move on to '50 chic ways to survive the winter'. Cashmere underwear is the way forward, apparently. Suspect not if you sweat as much as me.

9.45: Vogue advises to “experiment with a dramatic Russian colour palette, as seen at Ferragamo." Vogue loves “Boris & Natasha” and “Midnight at Moscow.” Decide this is the way forward. After all, am named after a Russian Empress. Get out crusty box of make-up and apply liberally.

9.50: Realise that I look more like Morning in Middlesbrough.

9.55: Emergency trip to the off-license for 20 Marlboro Lights and cheap bottle of Chianti.

10.05: Pour half the bottle down the sink (maintaining control and half-arsed attempt at moderation). Read that “there’s something about propping up the bar in a classic London hotel that has particular appeal in winter.” Now we’re talking.

10.15: Next suggestion is to “host a dinner party and see all your friends without having to brave the weather.” I must stock up my freezer with "stilton, pear and rosemary tartlets, braised venison with red wine and juniper berries and baked cinnamon apples with fresh vanilla custard.” Check freezer, which contains a piece of ice and an unidentified furry lump of what might be pitta.

10.20: Peel off sachet of Dior Extreme Wear Flawless Makeup from advertisement and apply randomly. Pout in mirror.

10.23: Switch off bathroom light. Get candles. Pout again, better.

10.25: Put Missoni scarf on Christmas list.

10.35: Let nobody say that Vogue is behind the times. “Internet style has moved beyond click and buy sites. Today, online communities are comparing fashion notes across continents.” I am pleased to know that “Users can get instant feedback on their day to day wardrobe from anyone, anywhere.” Resolve to utilise the facility forthwith.

10.36: Lust after a Martini.

10.42: Read Miss V, Vogue’s 'fashion spy', on shopping in Venice. Experience brief moment of sisterhood and well-being.

10.50: Scan article about Sophie-granddaughter-of-Roald-Dahl’s debut novel (“beautifully written”). Feel slightly sick. Swig down another glass of red. Smoke 2 fags.

11.00: Flick through photo story on Angels and Insects. “Like a modern-day Titania, this fairy queen’s regalia is the iridescent glitter of otherworldly beetles and bugs.”

11.10: Dress up in 18th century wench frock and trusty green stilettos. Put on Edith. Totter about.

11.30: All gone tits up. Wonder about licking sink to excavate last drops.

11.32: Slightly sheepish at composing whole blog entry in tired old Bridget Jones format. Resolve to write next in style of The Female Eunuch, or, possibly, War and Peace. With personal pronouns and everything.