Trawling the web to see what's what in the world I noticed that now it is April and the sun has shone for enough consecutive days for everyone to stop tweeting about there being a large alien yellow ball in the sky (seriously, if you tweeted something along those lines I am surprised at you) it's time for women to be told to ditch the opaques.

Opaques is fancy newspaper fashion talk for black tights. You will rarely see black tights in a fashion shoot, in fashion pages land tanned Caucasian women waft about their open plan offices pairing their smart/casual skirt suits with bare legs, their feet never chafing against the unforgiving p/leather of their high heels in pinky beige (also known, off-puttingly and bafflingly, as flesh tone). Nobody wants to see their designs and stylings paired with black tights, which is a shame for they are glorious and everybody knows it.

You know, a little while back BBC show Woman's Hour, (32.20 minutes in) which is sadly not airing today, had a feature on wearing red. We weren't aware but apparently it's a notoriously tough colour to wear. According to the British Heart Foundation (which you can donate to here) a third of women "secretly wish they had the confidence to wear red." They worry it draws too much attention to them.

This, dear reader, is silly. Red is a wonderful colour that doesn't even say 'look at me' - here's lesson 1 about wearing colours, colours say nothing. Only the wearer gets to make utterances or statements, if people let their clothes speak for them nothing would get done. Or said.

Anyway, as it's midweek and Wednesday is always a wash out, we thought a How-to was in order. If you are still standing in front of your wardrobe (and probably incredibly late for work) wondering what to wear we are here to help zhoosh up your outfit with red...

I read, I think in a Greer book, probably The Female Eunuch or The Whole Woman (recommended to our year 12 English Literature and Language class by our teacher Barry who was a big fan of Greer's handbag = outer womb theory) that because so many women have been on the pill for so long before proper investigation in to female body chemistry (plus it's all in the water, allegedly, so next time you're feeling cheap at a restaurant order up a tall glass of tap oestrogen - it'll make you feel classier) we have no idea about how a cis woman's hormones might roll if left to their own devices. Naturally this implies that eating hormone infested meat and swallowing contraception is maybe not a good idea (especially if it's a prophylactic) but also - it's too late now!

The Real Women debate is something I have written about previously. It's not a subject I like, in fact I would go as far as to say it irritates me. Perhaps this is because I am not a real woman, or I am simply not clear on how you can define what a real woman is. The most recent 'hurrah look at those real women!' meme has been an image of some lingerie shop mannequins in Sweden. The photo was taken in 2010 but for some reason it's taken 3 years for it to blow our puny minds.

The mannequins in question are bigger and more plausibly shaped than those seen in UK shops. They are apparently a closer reflection of the average shopper than the usual 5'10 size 10 plastic fantastics in the window. While the 'real woman' mannequins photographed are more voluptuous they are also white, well proportioned and more toned than the average size 16 woman.

After then Christmas break Sue's back, battling 50 Shades of Grey parodies that don't live up to their horticulture promise and recording machines. At least she's got the tranquillity of the university library to seek solace in. Or does she?

Happy New Year one and all. Somewhat late I realise (it will be Easter soon), but nonetheless sincere. I am up to my neck in assessments and class essays, and so have slipped rather with my Squeamish entries. Anyway, a brief recap … during the Christmas break, to get into the Christmas Spirit, my pal Fern and I decided to meet in town to visit the Christmas market.

A while ago, after much unexpected publicity and celebrity endorsement from Jennifer Saunders, Lauren Laverne and Graham Lineham among others, the campaign urging Dominic Mohan and Rupert Murdoch to Take the Bare Boobs Out of The Sun seems to be reaching a conclusion.

Tweeting as @Kazipooh, No More Page 3 supporter Karen Mason sent an @ message to Rupert Murdoch. “Seriously, we are all so over page 3 – it is so last century! #nomorepage3.” To which Murdoch tweeted back: “You maybe [sic] right, don't know but considering. Perhaps halfway house with glamorous fashionistas.”

Would this be a halfway house, a compromise? Were the people campaigning to be literal then yes, it would be. Their aim is to get bare boobs out of The Sun and I suspect glamorous fashionistas would not have their bosom entirely exposed.

Sindy is due to celebrate her 50th birthday this year, and her creators are staging a comeback. Like many icons who reach their twilight years, she wants to look her best and so she’s had some work done. No biggie. Barbie’s been doing it for years.

But we’ve always felt that Sindy was more sensible. She had too much dignity to go under the knife. At 50 I assumed she’d look like my GCSE Art teacher, not Sharon Stone. Is the nice girl image that Sindy’s been lugging around in her matronly pockets all these years a fair one? Is she really any more feminist than Barbie?

In 1963, Pedigree Toys introduced Sindy, a clean, girl-next-door doll with a round face and a thick waist and outfits that would make Jan Brady reach for the scissors. She was designed to capture the hearts of British girls in the same way that Barbie had strutted into every home in America.

Sindy’s prudish charms were a hit, and for the next twenty years she dominated the doll industry throughout Europe, knocking up a grand total of 150 million sales in her lifetime.

Do you want to know a fact I learned this week? Over the Christmas season women wear 3 times as much make up as usual. That's thrice as much! According to the Daily Mail women are: “slathering 12 products on to their faces before going on a night out.” Slathering! The usual amount of products women slap on is 4, for a night out the product number climbs to 8.

Debenhams, who bravely undertook this research, said the poll showed the basic 4 products of foundation, mascara, lip gloss and blusher make up the basic lady routine. Come Christmas these products are augmented with bronzer, eye liner, eye shadow, lipstick, false eyelashes, glitter, highlighter and setting spray. Although I suspect setting spray is a big fat lie and women have been taking tips from Snog, Marry Avoid and setting their glittery faces with hairspray. 

Women, Marks and Spencer's wants to talk to you. You real women I mean. They want your money and in exchange they will give you all a dress to share – Travelling Pants Sisterhood style -- and shape you all into better women. 

Yeah last month M&S announced it had dropped Twiggy and Myleene et al in favour of the Real Women ad campaign bandwagon. "The campaign features a selection of models representing a range of ages and sizes which mirror M&S' broad customer base." The new advert, with the strapline: 'For Every Woman You Are' featured women of various ages and sizes all wearing the same dress (OK not the same dress as it were, they had one each) reflecting the way of the high street. Lots of women of all shapes and sizes living the Western nightmare of having to pretend not to notice someone across the road has the same top on. That's Real Women. 

After a miserable summer it seemed a drop in temperature would hardly be noticeable. A question of zipping the coat that hasn't come off since late August a little higher. As it turns out over the weekend I, for one, was freezing. Trudging home at 4am on Saturday night (morning? Morning) in a parka and scarf I was still chilly but I suppose my 'function over fashion' look wasn't going to attract any young men cruising for chicks to slut drop. Although this could also be because I live somewhere where the One Way system is so impossible to navigate everybody just gets the bus.

'What's slut dropping?' I hear you cry. 'Did your parka simply make you too bulky to hold up from any height to drop you from?' No, and shame on me for implying my dress had anything do to with whether or not I was perceived as a slut. Slut dropping is infuriating on many levels. It turns out young male students have a dream of running an incredibly inefficient taxi service. They drive around, presumably sober, searching for lone drunk women students (sorry, my sense of humour left me for a moment there, I mean sluts) walking home. The male students pull up, offer her a lift and then drive as fast and as far as they can in the opposite direction of the given address. Then, preferably in the middle of nowhere, THEY DROP THE SLUT! HAHAHAHAHA! Those cheeky chappies.