The latest of this year’s ludicrously named TikTok trends – whimsigoth, weird girl aesthetic, coastal grandma – is one frazzled English woman, and it is (dare I say) charming.
Harking back to the days when Richard Curtis made agreeable loved-up larks instead of movies co-starring Ed Sheeran, the frazzled English woman is the star of her own British romcom from the 2000s. She is a befuddled Keira Knightley in Love Actually, complete with newsboy cap. She is an accident-prone and artfully dishevelled Bridget Jones who wills both Colin Firth and Hugh Grant into her orbit via the power of journalling alone. She is Kate Winslet’s jilted Iris in The Holiday, pining after emotionally unavailable men (and also the worst house-sitter of all time).
The video which instigated the whole affair attributes a series of wardrobe criteria to the archetype: skinny scarves, claw clips, cardigans, knee-high boots. This is – on TikTok at least – a trend based in aesthetics: how to dress like a frazzled English woman.
But since I am dedicated to the cause – and also since I refuse, under any circumstance, to wear a newsboy cap – I decide to take things further.
How would it feel to be a frazzled English woman?
Unfortunately, the only English women in my life are Charli XCX and Peppa Pig – neither of which I would consider particularly frazzled. So I turn to my housemate, longstanding Bridget Jones expert, for advice.
“We need to talk,” I tell her ominously, because I am a melodramatic person – which is surely a point in my favour if I am to miraculously transform into a romcom heroine. I grill her for 20 minutes on the couch.
“The frazzled English woman drinks,” she says. I nod. This is going great for me so far.
“But she also experiences extreme anxiety the morning after because she has no idea what she’s said.” I nod again, more solemnly, spiralling about the last time I had two pints and started ranking animated rodents from most to least handsome (the list goes from Flushed Away to Stuart Little and I will not be taking questions).
What else does the frazzled English woman do? “Four days out of five, she sleeps in with 10 minutes to go before work starts – and one day a week she wakes up at 6AM and decides she’s a new woman.”
“Oh,” my housemate says, “and she’s definitely not a cool girl.” No one would ever describe me as cool (evidenced by the fact that I am writing an article about frazzled English women). I feel closer to the archetype than ever before.
The next morning I set my alarm for 8:50AM, which allows me significantly less time to get ready than the typical 90 minutes of doomscrolling with which I begin most days. I log on to our morning meeting looking (what I think is) extremely bedraggled. My hair resembles seaweed, and not the kind you can eat at a sushi train. I am wearing a T-shirt with Garfield on it.
None of my colleagues comment at all. This is how they must see me every day, I think – a horrifying suspicion that makes me even more frazzled. So far, so Bridget Jones.
At lunch, I rummage through my wardrobe for a skinny scarf. The best I can find is a tie, which I wrap loosely around my T-shirt in a manner which almost certainly makes people cross the road when they see me. Avril Lavigne, however, would be proud. I am finally ready to walk to my local cafe – where I decide, much to the chagrin of all around me, to order in a British accent that I will not be replicating here for fear of being (rightfully) punched.
On the way out, someone on the street is taking a photo of a tree. I imagine myself as Keira Knightley in Love Actually: the unwitting subject of her secret admirer’s camera lens. Except there is nothing unwitting about this situation and also my secret admirer does not know I exist – yet.
To rectify this, I manoeuvre my way towards the tree and stand very still, not breathing, in a position I think is “effortless” and “chic” but is actually “deranged” and “contrived”. I fantasise about ending up in the background of snap after snap, making this street photographer fall in love with every click of the shutter. I fantasise about our future together, where I will peek at their camera and recite Keira Knightley’s famous line with practised diffidence. “They’re all of me,” I will whisper and later they will turn up at my doorstep with placards.
Sadly, they see me and instantly move away.
My transformation into a frazzled English woman is almost complete. The only trait I am missing now, I realise, is a complete and utter infatuation with a man who won’t give me the time of day.
“Hi,” I text my loving and longsuffering partner that afternoon. “Would you consider cosplaying as someone who is emotionally unavailable?????”
His response is swift. “This is chaos,” he says. “No.”
• Michael Sun is Guardian Australia’s editorial assistant for features, culture and lifestyle. Twitter @mlchaelsun
