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I used to buy a coffee table of magazines every month. Hard to believe I had the time to read them all. Even harder now to see why I wanted to.
Did I ever really spend hours with articles on cellulite and sexual warfare? Perhaps they made me the woman I am today. But the woman I am today has no time, energy or need for such advice.
Day-dreaming about domesticity is my new escapism. So I buy Living etc and Elle Decoration. Sometimes. Just for a quick flick. Or Junior magazine for toddler things. And I never thought I'd ever say this, but I devour Good Housekeeping. Perhaps buying Vanity Fair recoups my credibility: it's full of proper journalism.
I still think of myself as young, hip and free. But it's almost impossible to find a magazine that makes me feel like this while providing the vital reviews of washing machines, the latest (affordable) fashions, exotic holiday details (with kids) and where to buy my second home (see, I still have fantasies).
But Threesixtyo could well make it on to my select magazine shopping list. Despite my day job, I knew nothing about this magazine when I spotted it on the newsstand. And there was no editorial introduction to tell me what was in store. But I bought it anyway. Hell, the promise on the cover of the chance to 'Escape from the pressures of everyday life' is pure seduction, thirtysomething style.
The content is a bit like all the fun bits you find at the back of the Sunday supplements, once you've ploughed through the dry columnists and the worthy news feature on somewhere you've never ...