hipster v. hickster
by Amy Liptrot
page 2 of 2

Looking back now, I identify a recurring problem. I loved fashion, and wanted to dress up in its glossy untouchable world, but made continual mistakes based on a fatal misinterpretation of trends.

I refused to be sensible and admit that high-fashion ideas were not appropriate for real life. Especially the strong winds and unforgiving temperatures of Orkney.

But I think we did have some level of self awareness. For a start, it was a laugh to order Sleaze Nation from a newsagent more used to handling Farmers Weekly, or, for the worryingly bourgeois, the Glasgow Herald.

My best friend and I briefly published (well, used the English department's photocopier, anyway) a fanzine, but unlike similar south ventures, we didn't include gig reviews as there were no gigs to go to.

(Apart from folk rock heroes The Lapels, whose singular show inspired Menswear-level hysteria). I couldn't wait to leave, and boarded the ferry with hardly a backward glance.

Now I realise that it's all about the allure of the Other. The exotic. To my London born-friends, my life on the island seems unbelievable. In accordance, I begin to fetishize an adolescence untouched by instore signings and under-16 raves.

In a lot of ways, growing up in such an isolated place has made me more free than others from the binds of consumerism or fear of crime. But try telling that to my 15 year old self dying to visit Top Shop.

If only I had realised when I was picking magic mushrooms for free, from a field, that the very Autumn/Winter '04 moss-green is greener on the other side..."

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