
I mean... those are sleep shorts, right? Actual satiny boxers? With a ruffled sweatshirt? Is not getting dressed the new getting dressed? I can roll with that only as far as my home office.

I have no idea why her sunglasses have eyebrows, but it's making me think of David Gest. Not how I'd hoped to lunch today.

Glinda the Good Witch meets a mosquito tent meets Tinkerbell at her First Communion.

Well, I hope she doesn't need to inhale, or else we might be in for a walking Page Three moment.

Oh, Lady Grantham. You are a vision.

I might be crabby, too, if I had to wear those clodhoppers.

And THIS is a shirt, right? I'm fairly sure. Even if it's not, it's definitely NOT a dress, as I don't think anything labia-skimming is really considered a dress. There are rules. We live in a society. Although if this is a sign that we don't, and it is End Times, them I am going to find her and steal her boots.

Oh sweet God, but then look what happens when people DO wear pants. I am okay with the color, and I could maybe live with the top if need be, but somebody please rescue those shoes -- and her lower half -- from those trousers. I would call 911 on this one, but they're in England, so 999 it is.

The snake top might be kind of cool, if I didn't suspect that it's a leotard/bodysuit thingamy (which is totally the official Vogue term). But those pants are sucking the life out of both her and me. Whither the GOOD pants, London Fashion Week?

I can't believe that I actually enjoy seeing Olivia Palermo pictures. I have no idea why she is invited places, since her only claim to fame really was a couple seasons of The City, which itself was the ugly stepsister of The Hills, which was no prize either. And Olivia was a jerk on that show. And hasn't worked since that I can tell. And yet she's got this wardrobe of amazing shoes and then variably awesome or weird separates and dresses, and she manages to put them together in ways that are at least interesting, even if they don't always work. She's immaculately groomed and usually perfectly accessorized, and dammit, apparently there IS a market for Olivia Palermo pictures and it is me. Sigh.

Here I go again. I don't hate this. DAMN YOU, PALERMO. Do you have the only good pants in all of London?!?

PHEW.

And, aw. He's smiling! He's so happy! They seem charming! I once felt like Andy Murray was the tennis player a nation was trying SO HARD to love but with an air of waiting for someone more lovable to come along. And then he went and lost Wimbledon and won the gold medal and won the US Open, and with tears and humor and humility and class, and I am totally Team Andy and I'm sorry and you look dashing and your lady is so chic here and GO GET 'EM, son.

Is it strange that I don't hate this? I feel like I should. But if you take off the costumey hat, the whole thing is quite cute. Some people might even like the hat, but to me it's just a rancid cherry on an otherwise delicious ice-cream sundae. It's just sitting there, not even fully committing to her head, as if waiting for someplace else to leap. Watch out, Andy Murray. Duck and cover.
