Recently, Heather and I were talking to a British publication about Posh Spice, and the consensus on their side seemed to be that Posh was an over-exposed pain in the behind. Whereas on our side, the consensus (of two) was that she was AWESOME and needed never to leave Los Angeles, because one day we hope to run into her at CVS buying fungal cream or something. Especially if she's wearing THIS:
Is she some kind of international spy, too busy to get her trousers hemmed? And wouldn't it be a thrilling bit of gossip if it turned out that Posh WAS an international spy, and the whole bit with the Spice Girls was just her cover, so she could travel to foreign lands and gain access to a variety of venues more easily? I've decided that's true. After all, who but a glamorous international spy wears a trench coat, a fedora and SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT? I treasure her.
Later, of course, she went undercover:
Is she some kind of international spy, too busy to get her trousers hemmed? And wouldn't it be a thrilling bit of gossip if it turned out that Posh WAS an international spy, and the whole bit with the Spice Girls was just her cover, so she could travel to foreign lands and gain access to a variety of venues more easily? I've decided that's true. After all, who but a glamorous international spy wears a trench coat, a fedora and SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT? I treasure her.
Later, of course, she went undercover:
As a marmoset.
And then later, of course, she went to the airport attired thusly:
I must confess that I love this, and I would steal it off her scrawny little frame in its entirety (well, I'd leave her the Blair Waldorf headband) and run away with it, if I didn't think her scrawny little frame was actually probably preternaturally strong and she would then proceed to rip up a portion of asphalt and beat me senseless with it, at least to get her Hermes back. I can't say I blame her.
