Ever since I returned from Jordan (last year! It seems like only last month…) I have secretly mourned one thing above all others.

More than kunafa. Even more than awameh, if that is possible. And yet it is so peculiar, that I almost squirm to write it.

I miss the women’s magazines, primarily, VIVA.

On this fair island, women’s magazines fall into three categories: the penny rags, the scandal rags, and the faux-fashion mags.

Above this, there is a fourth, which includes such bucolic publications such as ~shire Living, and Good Housekeeping.

The penny rags – normally sold for approximately 30 pence or so – have never sated my desire for a quick read.

Rather, their garish covers in lurid pink and yellow, and flushed with an outbreak of exclamation marks, fail to detract from the über-scandalous content within.

Now, let’s not be coy – I adore gossip as much as the next woman, but the content of these rags makes my stomach turn, much in the manner of when flashed by a dishevelled, slightly sour-smelling man on the Tube. It leaves my mind feeling slightly soiled and in need of a quick swish of Dettol.

The scandal rags, however, differ insofar as they draw their scintillating gossip tit-bits (often quite literally) from the celebrities.

Delightful for the medium length train journey, their glossy covers lend an almost sanitary and acceptable air to their tittle-tattle, and provide a veritable snack of aesthetic news.

Perhaps ‘faux-fashion’ is too harsh a term, but Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan and to a slight degree Elle fail to turn me on to fashion as much as they intend. I think it stems from the fact that their snippy dresses tend to look divine between the silken pages, but cheap as crinoline in the store. A big let down.

While Marie Claire once provided a subtle blend of deceitful fashion and social articles – political figures, conflict backgrounds, victims of war and personal struggles – the 300-page publication now drowns in the light-hearted bilge of that which is usually comprised within the scented pages of its major competitor, Cosmopolitan.

As I am not partial to a monthly update on the latest cattle market, nor the weddings of individuals with thrice-barrelled names, the ~shire Living publications remain languished on the table of my doctor’s surgery, to be only opened as a shield against the various viruses darting around the waiting room.

It was with great relish then, that I discovered VIVA. What exactly captured my attention, I am not sure; was it the satisfying blend of serious, flippant, and useful? The wit? The style? Whatever element it was, I loved it.

In fact, so enamoured was I, that I made space in my straining suitcase to bring a few issues back, which still prove enjoyable after one year.

Having mulishly relented to the prospect that Marie Claire-lite was the closest I would get, I took out a subscription. The twelve copies are still languishing unread on my shelf, Renee and George beaming down, tempting me to update my look in 427 ways; applaud the top twenty female “movers and shakers”; and experience a weight loss camp, tears and all.

That was of course, until today.

Strolling through the sun-blasted streets and feeling as perky as a chicken in season due to my summer wardrobe debut sans convulsive shivering, I wantonly snatched Vogue from the newsagent’s shelf and settled myself in a coffee shop to peruse what I thought would be an encyclopedia of ridiculously priced and sculpted fashion.

I confess: this morning I was a Vogue virgin; this evening I am a Vogue subscriber – and a Marie Claire unsubscriber.

Once again, I cannot precisely define what makes it such an enjoyable and titillating read. Is it the two page author interview? The scandalously priced items – ‘Why yes! I shall take that crocheted glove at a snip of £1,500!’ – or the sublime photography?

Either way, I am sold.

Unless, of course, I move back to Jordan at some point and incur an internal struggle on a scale not witnessed since the Nutella vs. Mirenda (a Greek brand of chocolate spread) battle of 2004.

[Image via: Oh Joy!]