In the art world certain issues are often returned to time and time again. Issues such as funding, publicity and venue space are deservedly tackled by culture secretaries and writers alike. There is one issue however that is so sensitive people tend to avoid discussing it. Yet statistically you have a 1 in 4 chance of being affected by it (not really, I made that up). So why does this issue so rarely come up in conversation, why do we feel the need to side step this, specifically: What do you do when your friends' band is, frankly, rubbish?

My statistic might not be scientific but at a wild guess it is safe to say you, dear reader, have at least one friend in a band that is not going to be heading Glastonbury any time soon and not just due to the festival's former policy of giving the fields a break every five years. Namely this band are rubbish, but what is to be done when your friend demands an on the spot review?

People constantly ask me the same question. They say Squeamish Kate, how can we be more like you? Come summer I am asked this all the more. Last year Squeamish Louise wrote about dressing for summer when you are a heavyset person. This year I am writing about dressing for summer when you are usually a little bit of a wilting flower in the sun and wish to get a little crafty. As others sweat and burn in the beam of Mr Sun I stay cool and unsullied by UV rays. My trick is not staying inside all day until night falls. I always keep a tube of Soltan factor 50 in my bag alongside something else that can be scrunched and screwed up into a ball until the time comes. Ladies and gentlemen I bring you The Beach Cape. 

I have lived in the city. I have lived in the country. I have lived in a Belgian suburb and I can conclude that nobody wants to talk to anybody. Or rather; nobody wants to talk to their neighbours. Street parties can go forth and multiply because in real life I am not convinced anybody wants much to do with street parties beyond pocketing as much free cake as possible and making a swift exit. They certainly don’t want to talk to their neighbours, not with tell-tale cake crumbs around their pockets. So party shops, you can stop printing Union Jack napkins and publishing How-tos for street Diamond Jubilee street parties because we shan’t be taking part. 


Anyway, everybody already spoke to their neighbours in 2002, at the Golden Jubilee when it was easier to convince us a street party would be vintage and fun and twee. This is not because the general public hates the Queen, though frankly 3 Jubilees is greedy, but because they presume to hate their neighbours and there’s no telling how many people have touched that cucumber sandwich. 

Since the year my school uniform featured a light grey jumper and I realised I could cheer it up with The Body Shop’s lip ink in taupe I have been a fan of red lipstick. In a sea of clear lip-gloss and over plucked brows I stood out with my blood red matte lips. In my black and white yearbook photo I look like some goth who’s peculiarly observant of the ‘Focus on One Feature’ make up rule, in black lipstick.

My aunt mentioned recently how all eyes would home in on her reddened lips when she joined any feminist group in the 80s and 90s. Make up was apparently not compatible with the notions of equality and choice.