Thursday, 28 October 2010
As I write, it's just half an hour until my leaving party from Glamour magazine (chi chi bar! free drinks!). Yes. I'm going. And I'm still in denial (even my Prada-inspired party outfit of a nipped-in print dress, knee-high socks, patent shoes and film noir red lips isn't easing the blow). You see, even though my new job is a great career move (I'm off to be the Assistant Editor and Fashion Director - whoop! - of the Mail's Weekend supplement), I am going to miss my friends and the fabulousness of Glamour so much.
I will miss the outfit scrutinising and admiring. I will miss spending hours debating the saturated fat content of Pret A Manger sandwiches together. I will miss the razzle dazzle of our Women of the Year awards, mingling with the A-list and primping and preening as if we're the stars.
I'll miss my triumvirate of desk buddies - blonde, gloriously evil and hilarious.
No longer will I smugly be able to use the Glamour name to get me inside the hottest parties, onto guest lists, into the sample sales. No longer will I feel a swell of pride whilst sitting beside a girl on the train, who's reading a feature I've written (which happened just last night). New adventures lie ahead - putting my stamp on a new product, dipping my toe into the world of hacks and suits - real journalism, the school of hard knocks - the place from which anything is possible. It's scary, but I have never been the kind of girl to turn down a challenge.
And hopefully, although I'm saying goodbye to Glamour, I'll always be glamorous.