As I have mentioned here many time before, I read many — MANY — newspapers and periodicals, but Tatler is the only one that I am currently having shipped to my home in California from its home in the UK and I have never once regretted it. I love it. It is ridiculous in many ways — an article in one of its 2015 issues prompted me and Heather to have a very long middle-of-the-night conversation about whether The Royal We had enough ridiculous names in it, because many posh British people have absurd names —  but it is my favorite sort of ridiculous and it’s also rather cheeky and smart. It’s the only women’s glossy where the tiny blurbs that accompany the clothes in a fashion shoot actually make me laugh. I just…treasure it. And I am a hoarder and it turns out I cannot throw away my Tatlers, which means I have A LOT OF THEM in my bedroom. And as I was cleaning up a pile of them last night, I thought, “you should write about some of these covers.” So here we are. My takeaway: Tatler’s covers are very same-y, and everyone on them is very white, and when they don’t know what to do for a cover, they throw on a Windsor of some sort. In short: the cover’s not nearly as enjoyable as the insides.

Tags: Tatler
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