Hi all you avid readers...yes, both of you.
It's been quite a while. Life has taken over somewhat. The past month has been quite the whirl. I'm verging upon a quarter life crisis, but I have been for about 6 years now. Speaking accurately, it's probably a third-of-a-life crisis but sure I don't want to panic myself completely.
Good news: I have a fabulous new job.
I promise I'll be back soon. Ish.
Loves xxx.
Monday 2 August 2010
Thursday 17 June 2010
Bras for the Bigger Busted Lady
As you may or may not be aware, I am the owner of a pair of considerably dimensioned assets. Coupled with my petite frame, it all starts to look a bit Pamela Anderson at times. Ironically I have met Pamela Anderson. And have her poster on the inside of my wardrobe. But let's save that story for another time.
Now, for the larger boobed ladies of the world, underwear shopping poses quite a challenge. For the slender of back and large of breast this challenge is compounded further. In this age of boob jobs, you would imagine finding a 32E or, God forbid, a 32F wouldn't be a massive (excuse the pun) problem, what with all the Jordanesque girls around. Apparently companies just refuse to make this size. So for several years, La Senza was the only refuge I had - unless I wanted to go down the Freya route - giant gauze cups, God-awful patterns and 3 inch wide straps. Could you imagine one of those sexy numbers poking out of the side of a tank top? The horror. Even in the saving grace that was La Senza, it was difficult enough to find something was:
a) black, red or pink - the only underwear colours I deem acceptable. Don't even go near me with a nude. It makes me want to vomit.
b) didn't have massive shoulder straps to keep everything adequately "supported".
c) attractive but didn't have appliqued flowers/hearts/polka dots or most alarmingly, pinstripes. Just in case you wanted to channel your inner business woman through your underwear choices. I like lace. That is all.
So for years I battled onwards, in the hope of eventually finding where all the silicone enhanced ladies of the land buy their lingerie. Today, I was nearing my wits end. I had searched ever faithful M&S (same strap problem, or worse, anything above a D consisted of a mesh cup. I have a nipple phobia. So much so that a former flatmate used to deliberately not wear a bra and see how long I could stand her for. The thought of a visible nipple through a mesh cup actually makes me gag), La Senza and Selfridges. My last hope was Debenhams. And behold, I struck lucky. Usually I cannot abide Debenhams, as they separate the bras into sections based on size, which always proves terribly embarrassing, especially when there is stray lost male in the vicinity and you happen to be perusing bras with cups bigger than his head. But they had a plethora of colours and sizes and skinny straps and lace and nice matching french knickers and it just so happened to be a half price sale. Phew. It was great. So, just some words of wisdom for those who share my plight. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
Now, for the larger boobed ladies of the world, underwear shopping poses quite a challenge. For the slender of back and large of breast this challenge is compounded further. In this age of boob jobs, you would imagine finding a 32E or, God forbid, a 32F wouldn't be a massive (excuse the pun) problem, what with all the Jordanesque girls around. Apparently companies just refuse to make this size. So for several years, La Senza was the only refuge I had - unless I wanted to go down the Freya route - giant gauze cups, God-awful patterns and 3 inch wide straps. Could you imagine one of those sexy numbers poking out of the side of a tank top? The horror. Even in the saving grace that was La Senza, it was difficult enough to find something was:
a) black, red or pink - the only underwear colours I deem acceptable. Don't even go near me with a nude. It makes me want to vomit.
b) didn't have massive shoulder straps to keep everything adequately "supported".
c) attractive but didn't have appliqued flowers/hearts/polka dots or most alarmingly, pinstripes. Just in case you wanted to channel your inner business woman through your underwear choices. I like lace. That is all.
So for years I battled onwards, in the hope of eventually finding where all the silicone enhanced ladies of the land buy their lingerie. Today, I was nearing my wits end. I had searched ever faithful M&S (same strap problem, or worse, anything above a D consisted of a mesh cup. I have a nipple phobia. So much so that a former flatmate used to deliberately not wear a bra and see how long I could stand her for. The thought of a visible nipple through a mesh cup actually makes me gag), La Senza and Selfridges. My last hope was Debenhams. And behold, I struck lucky. Usually I cannot abide Debenhams, as they separate the bras into sections based on size, which always proves terribly embarrassing, especially when there is stray lost male in the vicinity and you happen to be perusing bras with cups bigger than his head. But they had a plethora of colours and sizes and skinny straps and lace and nice matching french knickers and it just so happened to be a half price sale. Phew. It was great. So, just some words of wisdom for those who share my plight. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Review: Make Believe Self Tan Lotion with Bronzer
As you are all aware, I am quite the fake tan aficionado. Being Irish and all that jazz, the girls I grew up with were obsessed with colouring their skin as deep an orange as possible. So much so that I believe my old Bebo account (God, now that really was a long time ago) from back in the day cites "waking up to a biscuity smell and a satsuma-hued glow" as one of my favourite things.
It kind of still is.
Which is what upset me about Make Believe, or more specifically, as I don't like to paint all products under the same brand name with the same brush, Self Tan Lotion with Bronzer. Now, first things first. My tanning preferences require a good, dark colour. I'm not saying it HAS to be orange, but I would like to look pretty damn sunkissed if I'm going to the hassle of messing up my bedsheets and enduring the smell of DHA penetrating layers of my skin for a night. This is difficult to achieve on skin which naturally has a transparent white to bluish tone. Seriously, you can't get any paler than this. Which is why, dear friends, I wear fake tan EVERY SINGLE DAY OF MY LIFE. No exceptions. - plus it makes you look skinnier. Which is all important.
So on Monday night I applied a layer of the above lotion. The stuff itself does smell lovely, like some sort of delicious summer dessert. As all tanning fans will know, that's pretty damn hard to achieve. St Tropez tried it with their promising "Aromaguard" technology, but sadly all they managed was to make the cream smell more like a bottle of Veet Hair Removal than a tanning lotion. Unfortunate. The colour of the bronzer in the Make Believe stuff is very nice it has to be said, and creates a good colour straight away. The problem occurs the next morning. So I wake up, admire my glow with the bronzer and hop in the shower. I get out, pat myself dry and take a glance at my gorgeous tanned self. Not a bit of it. There is literally no change. My skin is still no darker than my (white) bathroom tiles. You can imagine how upsetting this was for me. In fact, the effect was so negligible, I was forced to wear a long sleeved top, as I couldn't bear my pale arms to the glare of the general public.
Not to be deterred by a minor setback (I'd also heard good reviews on other blogs about the same product, AND it did come with a fairly hefty price tag - albeit with a third off in Boots!) I decided that perhaps due to the unnaturally pale colour of my limbs, it needed another application. And so I went through the same process last night. I awoke this morning full of hopes and dreams of brown arms. These were dashed when the same problem occurred. There is perhaps a mild colour difference between an un-fake-tanned bit and a Make Believe-ed bit. But not much. Certainly not enough when you consider that the tan was working on what can only be described as the blankest of canvases. Disappointment indeed.
As I'm going out tonight I'm going to have to resort to desperate measures and rub on a bit of the old faithful Sally Hansen. It has never let me down. And in the meantime, it'll be back to Fake Bake. Although my beauty PR friend has handed me a bottle of Rodial's Brazilian Tan Dark - the very darkest fake tan on the market.
Do I dare?
It kind of still is.
Which is what upset me about Make Believe, or more specifically, as I don't like to paint all products under the same brand name with the same brush, Self Tan Lotion with Bronzer. Now, first things first. My tanning preferences require a good, dark colour. I'm not saying it HAS to be orange, but I would like to look pretty damn sunkissed if I'm going to the hassle of messing up my bedsheets and enduring the smell of DHA penetrating layers of my skin for a night. This is difficult to achieve on skin which naturally has a transparent white to bluish tone. Seriously, you can't get any paler than this. Which is why, dear friends, I wear fake tan EVERY SINGLE DAY OF MY LIFE. No exceptions. - plus it makes you look skinnier. Which is all important.
So on Monday night I applied a layer of the above lotion. The stuff itself does smell lovely, like some sort of delicious summer dessert. As all tanning fans will know, that's pretty damn hard to achieve. St Tropez tried it with their promising "Aromaguard" technology, but sadly all they managed was to make the cream smell more like a bottle of Veet Hair Removal than a tanning lotion. Unfortunate. The colour of the bronzer in the Make Believe stuff is very nice it has to be said, and creates a good colour straight away. The problem occurs the next morning. So I wake up, admire my glow with the bronzer and hop in the shower. I get out, pat myself dry and take a glance at my gorgeous tanned self. Not a bit of it. There is literally no change. My skin is still no darker than my (white) bathroom tiles. You can imagine how upsetting this was for me. In fact, the effect was so negligible, I was forced to wear a long sleeved top, as I couldn't bear my pale arms to the glare of the general public.
Not to be deterred by a minor setback (I'd also heard good reviews on other blogs about the same product, AND it did come with a fairly hefty price tag - albeit with a third off in Boots!) I decided that perhaps due to the unnaturally pale colour of my limbs, it needed another application. And so I went through the same process last night. I awoke this morning full of hopes and dreams of brown arms. These were dashed when the same problem occurred. There is perhaps a mild colour difference between an un-fake-tanned bit and a Make Believe-ed bit. But not much. Certainly not enough when you consider that the tan was working on what can only be described as the blankest of canvases. Disappointment indeed.
As I'm going out tonight I'm going to have to resort to desperate measures and rub on a bit of the old faithful Sally Hansen. It has never let me down. And in the meantime, it'll be back to Fake Bake. Although my beauty PR friend has handed me a bottle of Rodial's Brazilian Tan Dark - the very darkest fake tan on the market.
Do I dare?
Sunday 6 June 2010
The No Carb & Alcohol Test: The First Hurdle
Last week I decided to take extreme measures and cut out the carbs and alcohol. I am holidaying in exactly one month and things need to change in time for the beach. A lifestyle revolving around the hearty consumption of alcohol and cheese on toast has served me well for many years but as I have a morbid fear of fat I feel it must change sooner or later.
Now, let me clarify the phrase "cut out carbs and alcohol". By cut out, I mean I will drink less than usual. "Usual" has recently grown to several glasses of wine four nights a week. "Several" means lots. You catch my drift.
As for the carbs, I'll stretch to a few spoonfuls of granola or two crackerbread in the morning if I'm feeling cheeky. Believe me, I'm dying inside. I LOVE carbs. Potato and white bread and pasta and pizza and chips. But I'm hoping to train my body into not needing these things. It's tough, and lunchtime is a minefield of taunting sandwiches and baguettes but no, I refuse to be broken.
Friday evening was a perfect opportunity for some silly alcohol induced fun, what with the beautiful weather and the outdoor drinking and whatnot. But in the company of old friends I decided to have one drink and that was it. They couldn't believe it. Lo and behold, the world didn't end and I enjoyed myself just as much as ever. Although during our dinner at Pizza Express I definitely would have rathered jump on the American Hot train rather than the Pollo Verdure salad. Oh well.
Last night was a house party with canapes a plenty and hosts willing to top up glasses willy-nilly. Some rice crackers were consumed, as well as a homemade brownie. I'm not going to lie. But, in my defence, I managed to stick to two glasses of wine for the duration of the whole night. This was very possibly the proudest achievement of my life. To fully understand why this was the case you must understand the background. I was once dubbed Party Girl Extraordinaire - a label only ever bestowed on those with dubious drinking/staying out late/dancing on table habits. This combined with my family's nickname for me of "The Common Denominator" - I have a penchant for being the one person who attends EVERY social event, regardless of bodily wellbeing, hungoverness, flying to foreign parts the next day - you may see why I feel the world should be proud of my two glasses of wine.
And with those thoughts, I will keep you posted. Just don't expect a miracle.
Now, let me clarify the phrase "cut out carbs and alcohol". By cut out, I mean I will drink less than usual. "Usual" has recently grown to several glasses of wine four nights a week. "Several" means lots. You catch my drift.
As for the carbs, I'll stretch to a few spoonfuls of granola or two crackerbread in the morning if I'm feeling cheeky. Believe me, I'm dying inside. I LOVE carbs. Potato and white bread and pasta and pizza and chips. But I'm hoping to train my body into not needing these things. It's tough, and lunchtime is a minefield of taunting sandwiches and baguettes but no, I refuse to be broken.
Friday evening was a perfect opportunity for some silly alcohol induced fun, what with the beautiful weather and the outdoor drinking and whatnot. But in the company of old friends I decided to have one drink and that was it. They couldn't believe it. Lo and behold, the world didn't end and I enjoyed myself just as much as ever. Although during our dinner at Pizza Express I definitely would have rathered jump on the American Hot train rather than the Pollo Verdure salad. Oh well.
Last night was a house party with canapes a plenty and hosts willing to top up glasses willy-nilly. Some rice crackers were consumed, as well as a homemade brownie. I'm not going to lie. But, in my defence, I managed to stick to two glasses of wine for the duration of the whole night. This was very possibly the proudest achievement of my life. To fully understand why this was the case you must understand the background. I was once dubbed Party Girl Extraordinaire - a label only ever bestowed on those with dubious drinking/staying out late/dancing on table habits. This combined with my family's nickname for me of "The Common Denominator" - I have a penchant for being the one person who attends EVERY social event, regardless of bodily wellbeing, hungoverness, flying to foreign parts the next day - you may see why I feel the world should be proud of my two glasses of wine.
And with those thoughts, I will keep you posted. Just don't expect a miracle.
Thursday 3 June 2010
Summer Clothing Dilemmas
Hi there boys and girls!
So the sun is finally managing to pierce through those heavy English clouds and shine down on us, praise the Lord. This fact, however, makes a certain daily decision even more difficult:
What to wear?
Are bare legs acceptable in the office? Are flip flops? Or a more subtle and robust flat sandal - one that manages to avoid tassels, beading and jewels - so we don't all look like we're on our way to the beach? A flat pump - with the risk of highly sweaty toes? A chaffing heel? A highly-dangerous-to-walk-in wedge? Are shorts work-wear enough? How short do I dare? Is a vest too clingy on the breast area? Is it OK to flash a summer-bright bra strap? Is a maxi-dress OK on anyone under 5ft 7?
So very many questions. And yet no answers. I have seen so many fashion crimes on the tube this week I actually dread the daily commute. My eyes are offended by a multitude of summer-induced sins. Namely:
The nude tight. Too hot for an opaque tight? Then why the hell are you wearing the same garment in a highly unflattering matte "American Tan"? Note: When accompanied by an open-toed sandal this is possibly the most upsetting thing of my entire day. Or even better - the nude tight OVER, and I repeat OVER, an anklet. For the love of God. The sort of person choosing to wear skin-coloured hosiery is definitely not in the same personality category as a free-spirited hippy anklet-wearer. So just stop it.
Sports shorts. So it's a beautiful summer day outside and you are scrambling around in your wardrobe looking for something weather-appropriate. Whereupon you happen upon a plain tank. And a pair of polyester sports shorts. The ones manufactured by Kappa, Adidas and the like back in 1998. A short is a short, right? NO NO NO NO NO. Team this ensemble with a pair of white sports socks and you may as well be dead.
Skirts with back slits. Now come on. Those derriere brushing slits are pushing the levels of decency at the best of times. But paired with pasty bare legs, they are all sorts of wrong.
"Nautical inspired" (read anything involving red, white and blue) outfits. Just because you are wearing a white stripey top with a navy blue skirt, it does not entitle you to don any red shoe you can find it to really work that anchor and sailboat look. This was never fashionable (well, maybe once according to Dolce & Gabbana, but Lord knows you can't trust them to lead you in a classy direction). In fact, red shoes are mainly the work of the Devil. Nothing sets off sunburn/pink knees/shaving nicks better than red footwear. Just a warning.
Ladies, the above is why God made white loose cotton shirts, sand roll-up chinos, t-shirts, cropped leggings, tunics and summer day dresses. For those of us with taste.
So the sun is finally managing to pierce through those heavy English clouds and shine down on us, praise the Lord. This fact, however, makes a certain daily decision even more difficult:
What to wear?
Are bare legs acceptable in the office? Are flip flops? Or a more subtle and robust flat sandal - one that manages to avoid tassels, beading and jewels - so we don't all look like we're on our way to the beach? A flat pump - with the risk of highly sweaty toes? A chaffing heel? A highly-dangerous-to-walk-in wedge? Are shorts work-wear enough? How short do I dare? Is a vest too clingy on the breast area? Is it OK to flash a summer-bright bra strap? Is a maxi-dress OK on anyone under 5ft 7?
So very many questions. And yet no answers. I have seen so many fashion crimes on the tube this week I actually dread the daily commute. My eyes are offended by a multitude of summer-induced sins. Namely:
The nude tight. Too hot for an opaque tight? Then why the hell are you wearing the same garment in a highly unflattering matte "American Tan"? Note: When accompanied by an open-toed sandal this is possibly the most upsetting thing of my entire day. Or even better - the nude tight OVER, and I repeat OVER, an anklet. For the love of God. The sort of person choosing to wear skin-coloured hosiery is definitely not in the same personality category as a free-spirited hippy anklet-wearer. So just stop it.
Sports shorts. So it's a beautiful summer day outside and you are scrambling around in your wardrobe looking for something weather-appropriate. Whereupon you happen upon a plain tank. And a pair of polyester sports shorts. The ones manufactured by Kappa, Adidas and the like back in 1998. A short is a short, right? NO NO NO NO NO. Team this ensemble with a pair of white sports socks and you may as well be dead.
Skirts with back slits. Now come on. Those derriere brushing slits are pushing the levels of decency at the best of times. But paired with pasty bare legs, they are all sorts of wrong.
"Nautical inspired" (read anything involving red, white and blue) outfits. Just because you are wearing a white stripey top with a navy blue skirt, it does not entitle you to don any red shoe you can find it to really work that anchor and sailboat look. This was never fashionable (well, maybe once according to Dolce & Gabbana, but Lord knows you can't trust them to lead you in a classy direction). In fact, red shoes are mainly the work of the Devil. Nothing sets off sunburn/pink knees/shaving nicks better than red footwear. Just a warning.
Ladies, the above is why God made white loose cotton shirts, sand roll-up chinos, t-shirts, cropped leggings, tunics and summer day dresses. For those of us with taste.
Sunday 16 May 2010
A Lovely Little Poem, Possibly my Favourite
Ok so I do admit that I found this poem on another blog, but it is pretty fantastic. And straight to the point. Two qualities rarely found in poetry.
Sunday 9 May 2010
French Women Don’t Get Fat and Even if They Do They Still Look Nice
I took the Eurostar to Paris yesterday for a spot of shopping and perving on fine-boned French men. The usual trek around my favourite store in the world, Galeries Lafayette, was as wonderful as ever – I can confirm that their new(ish) shoe department really is a joy to behold. Apparently is it the largest in the world, and honestly ladies, nowhere else even comes close. The only gripe I have is the layout, which is a tad confusing for those not blessed with a natural GPS/any sort of spatial awareness – much like myself.
While foraging in Lafayette and Printemps I stumbled across a fantastic new label - The Kooples. Aiming to mix Parisian fashion with that cool London edge, it boasts a collection of mainly black separates for girls and boys. Beautiful tailoring, unusual fabrics and a bloody amazing brand image - this label is going places. I fell in love with the most sensationally tailored tux jacket, but then remembered that I am technically a pauper and cannot afford such things. One to watch for definite.
I also made the trip right across town to the Petit Palais to see the new YSL exhibition but the musee turned out to be closed due to it being the 8th of May. Being a good Catholic, I really should know what religious holiday this date corresponds to, but I don’t. I think the Virgin Mary was involved though.
Now, on the Metro I spied several women dressed in questionable fashion, usually with a decidedly shit choice of shoe. But somehow, and don’t ask me how, they pulled the whole look off, reeking of chic. At first, I blamed the dusky complexions, messy hair and skinniness but after a while I realised that even the heftier ladies looked great. Confidence appears to be the only common denominator. Confidence and the addition of a good printed scarf. There’s a lot to be said for covering up – a lesson for us all in the UK. No one wants to see a pale boob hanging out of top or a generous muffin top spilling over a jean edge. Some layering would do us all a world of good. And for God’s sake put away the pink feet and the sandals. It may be May in London but it’s only 10 degrees out there.
While foraging in Lafayette and Printemps I stumbled across a fantastic new label - The Kooples. Aiming to mix Parisian fashion with that cool London edge, it boasts a collection of mainly black separates for girls and boys. Beautiful tailoring, unusual fabrics and a bloody amazing brand image - this label is going places. I fell in love with the most sensationally tailored tux jacket, but then remembered that I am technically a pauper and cannot afford such things. One to watch for definite.
I also made the trip right across town to the Petit Palais to see the new YSL exhibition but the musee turned out to be closed due to it being the 8th of May. Being a good Catholic, I really should know what religious holiday this date corresponds to, but I don’t. I think the Virgin Mary was involved though.
Now, on the Metro I spied several women dressed in questionable fashion, usually with a decidedly shit choice of shoe. But somehow, and don’t ask me how, they pulled the whole look off, reeking of chic. At first, I blamed the dusky complexions, messy hair and skinniness but after a while I realised that even the heftier ladies looked great. Confidence appears to be the only common denominator. Confidence and the addition of a good printed scarf. There’s a lot to be said for covering up – a lesson for us all in the UK. No one wants to see a pale boob hanging out of top or a generous muffin top spilling over a jean edge. Some layering would do us all a world of good. And for God’s sake put away the pink feet and the sandals. It may be May in London but it’s only 10 degrees out there.
Monday 3 May 2010
Stolen Purses and the Morals of the People of England
Now really.
Getting an iPhone stolen is bad enough, but to get your purse lifted out of your bag in the same fashion just a few weeks later is more than a coincidence. I really don't know what I've done to piss off the universe but seriously, it's bleeding me dry. I was merrily dancing away at Walkabout in Shepherd's Bush yesterday evening (yes, my social life swings between highly glamorous and the spit 'n' sawdust style £1-a-shot bars. I like to term it "partially classy") when it all went down. Opened my Chloe for a split second to pull out my coat ticket from my purse and in a matter of moments said purse was no longer there. God damn it.
To be honest I was more concerned about how I was going to purchase that lovely Chicken Legend I had set my sights on than cancelling my cards, but Mother Dearest stepped in and did all the dirty work for me remotely. And my lovely friends supplied the chicken. The thieves really threw a hard punch by picking possibly the only girl without a bank branch in London and on a bank holiday weekend. It was truly evil. And it certainly wouldn't happen in the homeland. Then again, neither do most things.
Getting an iPhone stolen is bad enough, but to get your purse lifted out of your bag in the same fashion just a few weeks later is more than a coincidence. I really don't know what I've done to piss off the universe but seriously, it's bleeding me dry. I was merrily dancing away at Walkabout in Shepherd's Bush yesterday evening (yes, my social life swings between highly glamorous and the spit 'n' sawdust style £1-a-shot bars. I like to term it "partially classy") when it all went down. Opened my Chloe for a split second to pull out my coat ticket from my purse and in a matter of moments said purse was no longer there. God damn it.
To be honest I was more concerned about how I was going to purchase that lovely Chicken Legend I had set my sights on than cancelling my cards, but Mother Dearest stepped in and did all the dirty work for me remotely. And my lovely friends supplied the chicken. The thieves really threw a hard punch by picking possibly the only girl without a bank branch in London and on a bank holiday weekend. It was truly evil. And it certainly wouldn't happen in the homeland. Then again, neither do most things.
Sunday 25 April 2010
Things that make me happy this week...
Sunshine. And lots of it. Oh to wear pastels and not look ridiculous - sunshine is the only way forward. Also, I can confirm that sun goes very nicely with a bottle of Pinot.
Olives. That Mediterranean taste has me hooked. Reminiscent of warm nights and the promise of a fun filled holiday evening ahead. Not so much yum, just a bit foreign tasting, which is lovely now and again.
Uniqlo. Look beyond the (admittedly fantastic) leggings and all I used to see was a few good jeans and ill-fitting lumberjack shirts. I popped in last week and out I came armed with a clever long line printed tee and a dress for work. I could have bought rings around me. And cheap! What more can a girl want.
Starbucks Coffee Light Frappucinos. 90 calories. Can you believe it?! 90 calories for a little taste of heaven? Drinking coffee flavoured ice cream before 9am in the office has never been so acceptable.
Whole Foods. I'm a little bit obsessed with nutrition, so this place is a godsend. Unusual-sounding, European packaged foods had me at hello.
Fage Greek 0% Yogurt. Good Lord, I'm a bit mad on the old food front this week, but seriously, 52 calories per pot, mix with a little honey and a sliced banana or some granola and it's a breakfast fit for a sunny Swiss hillside. I feel fitter just eating the damn thing.
Mango. I love literally everything in here at the moment. The boho chic vibe is stronger than strong, and perfect for everything I'm trying to channel this summer. I have loved Mango for quite some time, but the summer range is just super-fantastic. I'm in love.
Olives. That Mediterranean taste has me hooked. Reminiscent of warm nights and the promise of a fun filled holiday evening ahead. Not so much yum, just a bit foreign tasting, which is lovely now and again.
Uniqlo. Look beyond the (admittedly fantastic) leggings and all I used to see was a few good jeans and ill-fitting lumberjack shirts. I popped in last week and out I came armed with a clever long line printed tee and a dress for work. I could have bought rings around me. And cheap! What more can a girl want.
Starbucks Coffee Light Frappucinos. 90 calories. Can you believe it?! 90 calories for a little taste of heaven? Drinking coffee flavoured ice cream before 9am in the office has never been so acceptable.
Whole Foods. I'm a little bit obsessed with nutrition, so this place is a godsend. Unusual-sounding, European packaged foods had me at hello.
Fage Greek 0% Yogurt. Good Lord, I'm a bit mad on the old food front this week, but seriously, 52 calories per pot, mix with a little honey and a sliced banana or some granola and it's a breakfast fit for a sunny Swiss hillside. I feel fitter just eating the damn thing.
Mango. I love literally everything in here at the moment. The boho chic vibe is stronger than strong, and perfect for everything I'm trying to channel this summer. I have loved Mango for quite some time, but the summer range is just super-fantastic. I'm in love.
Friday 16 April 2010
Damn Icelandic Ash and other Assorted Delights
Greetings today from a somewhat puffy-eyed and teary lady (all that retained salt water couldn't be good for beating the bloat anyway). Today, due to a horrid turn of events, UK airspace has shut down. Apparently a volcano erupted in Iceland causing clouds of volcanic ash to float into our skies - does this scream "beginning of the apocolypse" in anyone else's head? Now, apart from the word VOLCANO and ICELAND being somewhat odd sentence buddies to begin with, it has also resulted in all planes being grounded. Damn earth core bastards.
My main problem with this little inconvienience is that I was meant to fly to my old alma mater today for a huge black-tie outdoor ball, complete with A-list acts and lashings of alcohol. It's Europe's biggest private party. And I'm not going to be there.
The best I can do is manage to make it back via train and boat for 6am. By which stage the Ball will just have ended. Thus I have no choice but to knock back a glass of Pinot on the ferry and hope for an afterparty. Sorted.
In other news, Jared Leto popped into the office a little while ago. He just waltzed in one day, had a look round and a wee chat with us. Then proposed marriage.
Well, slight embellishment there but he did ask me if I was working hard, which everyone knows is actually code for some sort of pick-up line. He was looking very moviestar-ish - shades in the pouring rain etc. It was a nice little distraction...
Also, Jameela Jamil arrived in last week to pick out some items and I hate to disappoint ladies, but she really is as hot in the flesh as she is on-screen. And tall too...the most bitter-inducing trait of all. She was wearing a bra top under some short denim dungarees, tights and HUGE platforms. I hate her for it. But I love her too.
Also, party updates - the last few weeks have been a tad hectic what with press days and such so my party posts have been sadly lacking. A few weeks ago I went to the Pop-Up Store launch at Whiteleys in Bayswater. The famous shopping centre played host to a number of cool pop-up stores including FrostFrench (Sadie and the kids were all there, bless), Junkfood and Wildfox. Mini cheeseburgers and spinach parcels were served by 50's style waiters and free tequilla cocktails were on tap. After rocking up the red-carpet my companion and I spotted Kelly Osbourne (avec ever-so-subtle pink-grey hair: LOVE IT) looking, it has to be said, sensational, along with her beau. Some boy band were standing next to us, trying to catch our eye, but unfortunately I wasn't cool enough to either know or care who they were.
Towards the end of the evening, Alice Dellal's band Thrush Metal came on. We had no dea who they were (Alice and co. were dressed up as old men, complete with suit and plastic masks so it was difficult to tell whether they were boy or girls). Despite standing right at the front, I didn't feel a band called "Thrush" anything could ever be my sort of thing so we happily returned to the cocktail bar. A night well spent.
I also attended the launch party of the new restaurant and bar Coquine in Kensington. Right next door to Eclipse, it serves French style food upstairs, while downstairs plays music into the night. The decor is eclectic and unusual, with booths resembling picture frames in the bar, and carpet-lined light fixtures in the restaurant. Jerry Hall and Tyrone Wood (son of Ronnie) were spotted mingling with the crowd, while model-turned-DJ Ben Grimes played the tunes. With some fantastic and downright yummy cocktails accompanied by mini creme brulee pots, I was in heaven. After the party wound up, the faithfuls ended up in Boujis - my idea of wonderful. I don't know what it is about posh boys but I like it. And I like it even more when it's in Kensington - my spirtual home.
Anyway, I'm off to board a train and then a ferry (club class obviously, none of that foot passenger dirt for me)in an attempt to make it back to good ol' Trinners before the weekend is out. Wish me luck...
My main problem with this little inconvienience is that I was meant to fly to my old alma mater today for a huge black-tie outdoor ball, complete with A-list acts and lashings of alcohol. It's Europe's biggest private party. And I'm not going to be there.
The best I can do is manage to make it back via train and boat for 6am. By which stage the Ball will just have ended. Thus I have no choice but to knock back a glass of Pinot on the ferry and hope for an afterparty. Sorted.
In other news, Jared Leto popped into the office a little while ago. He just waltzed in one day, had a look round and a wee chat with us. Then proposed marriage.
Well, slight embellishment there but he did ask me if I was working hard, which everyone knows is actually code for some sort of pick-up line. He was looking very moviestar-ish - shades in the pouring rain etc. It was a nice little distraction...
Also, Jameela Jamil arrived in last week to pick out some items and I hate to disappoint ladies, but she really is as hot in the flesh as she is on-screen. And tall too...the most bitter-inducing trait of all. She was wearing a bra top under some short denim dungarees, tights and HUGE platforms. I hate her for it. But I love her too.
Also, party updates - the last few weeks have been a tad hectic what with press days and such so my party posts have been sadly lacking. A few weeks ago I went to the Pop-Up Store launch at Whiteleys in Bayswater. The famous shopping centre played host to a number of cool pop-up stores including FrostFrench (Sadie and the kids were all there, bless), Junkfood and Wildfox. Mini cheeseburgers and spinach parcels were served by 50's style waiters and free tequilla cocktails were on tap. After rocking up the red-carpet my companion and I spotted Kelly Osbourne (avec ever-so-subtle pink-grey hair: LOVE IT) looking, it has to be said, sensational, along with her beau. Some boy band were standing next to us, trying to catch our eye, but unfortunately I wasn't cool enough to either know or care who they were.
Towards the end of the evening, Alice Dellal's band Thrush Metal came on. We had no dea who they were (Alice and co. were dressed up as old men, complete with suit and plastic masks so it was difficult to tell whether they were boy or girls). Despite standing right at the front, I didn't feel a band called "Thrush" anything could ever be my sort of thing so we happily returned to the cocktail bar. A night well spent.
I also attended the launch party of the new restaurant and bar Coquine in Kensington. Right next door to Eclipse, it serves French style food upstairs, while downstairs plays music into the night. The decor is eclectic and unusual, with booths resembling picture frames in the bar, and carpet-lined light fixtures in the restaurant. Jerry Hall and Tyrone Wood (son of Ronnie) were spotted mingling with the crowd, while model-turned-DJ Ben Grimes played the tunes. With some fantastic and downright yummy cocktails accompanied by mini creme brulee pots, I was in heaven. After the party wound up, the faithfuls ended up in Boujis - my idea of wonderful. I don't know what it is about posh boys but I like it. And I like it even more when it's in Kensington - my spirtual home.
Anyway, I'm off to board a train and then a ferry (club class obviously, none of that foot passenger dirt for me)in an attempt to make it back to good ol' Trinners before the weekend is out. Wish me luck...
Thursday 11 March 2010
Thieves and Asian Fusion Cusine
So my iPhone was stolen on Saturday night. My iPhone which I paid for outright and decided not to insure. Ah, the wisdom. All my contacts are gone so there goes my career.
On another note, tonight a friend and I decided to try Inamo, the computerised Oriental Fusion restaurant. The ordering screen was on the table itself, and allowed diners to order food and drink at their own pace as well as a host of other options including "ChefCam" - a live camera to see the kitchen action, games and onward journey cab ordering. The entire evening was vastly entertaining and the food wasn't bad either. I went for the black cod - usually not my thing, but it came recommended by a friend, and it didn't disappoint. The restaurant would be a perfect date outing, with plenty to talk about if the conversation is less than sparkling. And with ambiance controls on the table, the light can be as flattering as the night requires. On a slightly less sophisticated note, the Hummingbird cupcake cafe is right across the street so if you fancy a post-dinner treat it's open till 8. I highly recommend the Rocky Road Cup. Just don't eat it all at once.
On another note, tonight a friend and I decided to try Inamo, the computerised Oriental Fusion restaurant. The ordering screen was on the table itself, and allowed diners to order food and drink at their own pace as well as a host of other options including "ChefCam" - a live camera to see the kitchen action, games and onward journey cab ordering. The entire evening was vastly entertaining and the food wasn't bad either. I went for the black cod - usually not my thing, but it came recommended by a friend, and it didn't disappoint. The restaurant would be a perfect date outing, with plenty to talk about if the conversation is less than sparkling. And with ambiance controls on the table, the light can be as flattering as the night requires. On a slightly less sophisticated note, the Hummingbird cupcake cafe is right across the street so if you fancy a post-dinner treat it's open till 8. I highly recommend the Rocky Road Cup. Just don't eat it all at once.
Sunday 28 February 2010
LFW Super-Amazing iPhone Photos
Seriously, I should take up photography on a professional basis. No really.
My Fashionable Life
On Tuesday I received a call from the beautiful Miss Hofit Golan, socialite extraordinaire and Fashion TV presenter. She was covering the Liberty 10 Corso Como launch event with her crew and invited Yours Truly to hop on board the party train. So off I went (another fashion mate in tow - one can never be too prepared for the awkward moments). We managed to bluff our way into another very sophisticated soiree on the 4th floor, full of ironic photography, beautiful people and more importantly free wine before realising the fashion party we were destined for was, in fact, three floors below. After a minor guestlist moment on the door, we were in and attacking the canapes. After some schmoozing with Hofit and her fashionista friends we headed for the central table to check out the collaboration collection. Liberty hooked up with the famous Milan-based concept store 10 Corso Como to produce a range of silk scarves, swimwear, shirts, ties, purses and bags. The line is sure to be snapped up by Liberty print devotees, especially the adorable bikini which strikes just the right balance between Pucci and paisley.
As we were browsing, people watching and generally milling around waiting for our photograph to be taken (it is one of the few sad joys of my existence that I'm still thrilled every time I get mistaken for a celebrity/someone vaguely important), I glanced to my left. Anna Wintour. No seriously people, Anna bloody Wintour. Now lads, I nearly wet myself with the sheer excitement of it all. Mouth agape, I was literally clawing at my friends sleeve trying to alert her, with all the powers of speech of a newborn child. Possibly the most influential woman in the Western world, bar Oprah (don't worry, you're still my number one), was standing right next to me for crying out loud. The camera crews buzzed around the far side of the table snapping and whirring, all desperate to get a shot of the real star of the night. That's how my dream came true. Let's not forget that I was beside her at this point. So that means that someone, somewhere has a photo with me and Anna side by side, looking like the bestest of best friends, laughing girlishly over our champagne flutes. Well not quite, I'll obviously have my mouth hanging open and she'll be staring in the opposite direction, but you get my drift.
Well ladies, I was on a high for the rest of the evening. I could barely contain myself on the train home. I obviously had a very loud phone conversation with my friend about this in front of the other late night commuters even though I doubt any of the financial suited-and-Aldo-booted types had the foggiest who I was wittering on about. I skipped home, burst through the door and dived into the story of my evening for my fashion-industry flatmates. For some curious reason, no one seemed quite as excited as I was. Just my personal heroine then? Anna love, you made my Fashion Week.
As we were browsing, people watching and generally milling around waiting for our photograph to be taken (it is one of the few sad joys of my existence that I'm still thrilled every time I get mistaken for a celebrity/someone vaguely important), I glanced to my left. Anna Wintour. No seriously people, Anna bloody Wintour. Now lads, I nearly wet myself with the sheer excitement of it all. Mouth agape, I was literally clawing at my friends sleeve trying to alert her, with all the powers of speech of a newborn child. Possibly the most influential woman in the Western world, bar Oprah (don't worry, you're still my number one), was standing right next to me for crying out loud. The camera crews buzzed around the far side of the table snapping and whirring, all desperate to get a shot of the real star of the night. That's how my dream came true. Let's not forget that I was beside her at this point. So that means that someone, somewhere has a photo with me and Anna side by side, looking like the bestest of best friends, laughing girlishly over our champagne flutes. Well not quite, I'll obviously have my mouth hanging open and she'll be staring in the opposite direction, but you get my drift.
Well ladies, I was on a high for the rest of the evening. I could barely contain myself on the train home. I obviously had a very loud phone conversation with my friend about this in front of the other late night commuters even though I doubt any of the financial suited-and-Aldo-booted types had the foggiest who I was wittering on about. I skipped home, burst through the door and dived into the story of my evening for my fashion-industry flatmates. For some curious reason, no one seemed quite as excited as I was. Just my personal heroine then? Anna love, you made my Fashion Week.
Friday 26 February 2010
LFW: The Parties
It would appear that the parties of London Fashion Week amount to a bit of a mixed bag (Birkin obviously). I was invited to the Osman aftershow party in Luxx on New Burlington Street in Mayfair on Monday night. I had two tickets. I also managed to bag a super-scarce ELLE Style Awards afterparty ticket. Only one. This posed a problem. Memories of being the only English speaker at a party full of Parisians at my last magazine came back to haunt me - awkward hanging around the edges with a glass of champers didn't really do it for me. I checked around my fashion friends, Nope, not a single one was lucky enough to get an ELLE ticket.
After a long day of weighing up the options - honestly, this was the most important decision I've had to make in quite some time - my gorgeous plus one and I chose to give the ELLE party doormen a whirl. Now, she's a buyer and a very pretty girl to boot so I reckoned there was a chance she could work her magic on the doormen. Our taxi pulled up outside the Great Queen Street address where we were confronted by a queue of fashionistas tusseling for a space inside. We opted to save ourselves the embarrassment of a refusal and hop on over to Osman instead. Once inside, the mood was clear. It was populated by a gaggle of those edgy student types. The ones who look eternally awkward yet think they are teetering on the brink of fashion-fabulousness. All bizarre prints, funny little hats and deeply unflattering shoe choices. It was upsetting to say the least. Curiously, no one we spoke to had actually attended the show. How odd.
At least there was free alcohol. Or so we thought. Approaching the bar we ordered some glasses of white wine. Not possible. Rose? Champagne? Vodka Tonic? No no no. We only have beer. And they called it a fashion party. The "alternative" (read: achingly hip) band started up soon after. We left.
More on the glorious LFW party scene tomorrow...
After a long day of weighing up the options - honestly, this was the most important decision I've had to make in quite some time - my gorgeous plus one and I chose to give the ELLE party doormen a whirl. Now, she's a buyer and a very pretty girl to boot so I reckoned there was a chance she could work her magic on the doormen. Our taxi pulled up outside the Great Queen Street address where we were confronted by a queue of fashionistas tusseling for a space inside. We opted to save ourselves the embarrassment of a refusal and hop on over to Osman instead. Once inside, the mood was clear. It was populated by a gaggle of those edgy student types. The ones who look eternally awkward yet think they are teetering on the brink of fashion-fabulousness. All bizarre prints, funny little hats and deeply unflattering shoe choices. It was upsetting to say the least. Curiously, no one we spoke to had actually attended the show. How odd.
At least there was free alcohol. Or so we thought. Approaching the bar we ordered some glasses of white wine. Not possible. Rose? Champagne? Vodka Tonic? No no no. We only have beer. And they called it a fashion party. The "alternative" (read: achingly hip) band started up soon after. We left.
More on the glorious LFW party scene tomorrow...
Wednesday 24 February 2010
London Fashion Week: Osman AW10
A thoroughly damp and dreary Monday morning acted as the backdrop to the AW10 Osman show held at Somerset House earlier this week. Despite the rain, hordes turned out to see the young designer's collection, resulting in some badly organised seating queues and less-than-elegant shoving.
Organisation aside, the show got off to an excellent (albeit unusual) start with four models parading down the catwalk simultaneously. Draped navy jersey dresses - hinting at Diane von Furstenburg - clung in all the right places and made a powerful statement. Covetable indeed. The problem lay in fact that, aside from some statement hot pink folder bags carried under the arm and some chic grey Sermoneta gloves, these first four dresses were by far the high point of the entire collection.
A few dashing fur cocoon coats charmed the audience, alongside a few full-length jersey creations in a variety of patterns however for the most part things hit a bum note. Vivid pink and blue in bold 80s prints conjured up images of Saved by The Bell - which, dear readers, isn't always a good thing. Some questionable shapes in the form of wide leg pants and Arabian inspired shirts were on show which made this writer question the whereabouts of a solid theme for the collection. Structured pink dresses with wide bell hems (harking back to the structure of Osman's previous seasons) were accompanied by what can only be described as Amish-style wide brimmed hats. The result was slightly confused, a point which can let down even the best designers - fashion editors love a clear theme (it makes for a nice headline). No doubt the draped and ruched dresses will be clear winners as easy pieces for winter chic but I don't predict any of the later looks making waves in commercial fashion circles. Next time Osman, stick to what you do best and a true star may be born.
Organisation aside, the show got off to an excellent (albeit unusual) start with four models parading down the catwalk simultaneously. Draped navy jersey dresses - hinting at Diane von Furstenburg - clung in all the right places and made a powerful statement. Covetable indeed. The problem lay in fact that, aside from some statement hot pink folder bags carried under the arm and some chic grey Sermoneta gloves, these first four dresses were by far the high point of the entire collection.
A few dashing fur cocoon coats charmed the audience, alongside a few full-length jersey creations in a variety of patterns however for the most part things hit a bum note. Vivid pink and blue in bold 80s prints conjured up images of Saved by The Bell - which, dear readers, isn't always a good thing. Some questionable shapes in the form of wide leg pants and Arabian inspired shirts were on show which made this writer question the whereabouts of a solid theme for the collection. Structured pink dresses with wide bell hems (harking back to the structure of Osman's previous seasons) were accompanied by what can only be described as Amish-style wide brimmed hats. The result was slightly confused, a point which can let down even the best designers - fashion editors love a clear theme (it makes for a nice headline). No doubt the draped and ruched dresses will be clear winners as easy pieces for winter chic but I don't predict any of the later looks making waves in commercial fashion circles. Next time Osman, stick to what you do best and a true star may be born.
Sunday 21 February 2010
Busy busy busy!
Hello there,
This week has been quite the blur what with the Brits and the kick off of London Fashion Week. The city is buzzing with so-hip-it-hurts fashiony types which always makes for good entertainment at the very least.
I'm not quite cool enough to be invited to the actual Brit Awards ceremony, however I was at the afterparty in Altitude 360 hosted by none other than Mean Girls star Lindsay Lohan. The screening party in the Millbank Cinema had a carnival theme complete with candyfloss and popcorn stalls, stilt walkers, burlesque dancers and (slightly bizarrely) some dwarves. The champagne flowed as the beautiful people watched Cheryl belt out her hit "Fight for this Love" on the big screen - possibly the most eagerly awaited act of the evening. Once the clock struck ten everyone headed upstairs to The River Room, a futuristic white space with panoramic views of the city. Lindsay showed up looking quite the movie star - I had been expecting a bit of a hot mess if truth be told - and encouraged us all to dig deep for the evening's auction in aid of the Haiti disaster. Cameras flashed, people danced and lots of money was raised for a good cause leaving guests heading home with a satisfied smile (helped in part by the parting goodie bags - full bottles of Chase vodka, oh my!)and a sore head the next day.
On Friday I went to The Savoy to see Legally Blonde (a classic inspiration for my life), starring the still-fit early Noughties hearthrob Duncan from Blue. He didn't disappoint. And neither did the musical. Amy Lennox was standing in for an ill Sheridan Smith but honestly I can't see how the leading lady could have done a better job than her understudy. It was Amy's first time playing the role and as Sheridan had only bowed out hours before the cast hadn't had a chance to do a full run through. Despite this, it was fantastic, the songs were upbeat and the jokes kept coming. The dance routines were choreographed so well and with a fine attention to detail. No corners have been cut in this production and I thoroughly recommend going to see it whether you are a musical fan or not!
On a slightly arty note, I spent Saturday at the National Portrait Gallery. I went to see the Irving Penn exhibition, a collection of the renowned photographers portraits capturing a host of famous faces ranging from Salvadore Dali to Nicole Kidman. His personal development as a portrait photographer was evident - the images from the 1940's lacked some of the intimacy and depth shown in the shots from latter years. The strength of the images lay in how he captured the character and spirit of his models in a headshot - from the sheer glamour of Grace Kelly through to the childlike naughtiness of Audrey Hepburn. After viewing the Penn collection we took a wander through the Twiggy exhibition, documenting the life of the iconic model ranging from her awkward teen years through to the present day. The woman looks better now than she ever did. Seriously. I stumbled across an interesting Francis Bacon and a Warhol as well as the infamous 2009 portrait of William and Harry Windsor, with Will's head looking slightly more "thatched" than it does in paparazzi shots...
This week has been quite the blur what with the Brits and the kick off of London Fashion Week. The city is buzzing with so-hip-it-hurts fashiony types which always makes for good entertainment at the very least.
I'm not quite cool enough to be invited to the actual Brit Awards ceremony, however I was at the afterparty in Altitude 360 hosted by none other than Mean Girls star Lindsay Lohan. The screening party in the Millbank Cinema had a carnival theme complete with candyfloss and popcorn stalls, stilt walkers, burlesque dancers and (slightly bizarrely) some dwarves. The champagne flowed as the beautiful people watched Cheryl belt out her hit "Fight for this Love" on the big screen - possibly the most eagerly awaited act of the evening. Once the clock struck ten everyone headed upstairs to The River Room, a futuristic white space with panoramic views of the city. Lindsay showed up looking quite the movie star - I had been expecting a bit of a hot mess if truth be told - and encouraged us all to dig deep for the evening's auction in aid of the Haiti disaster. Cameras flashed, people danced and lots of money was raised for a good cause leaving guests heading home with a satisfied smile (helped in part by the parting goodie bags - full bottles of Chase vodka, oh my!)and a sore head the next day.
On Friday I went to The Savoy to see Legally Blonde (a classic inspiration for my life), starring the still-fit early Noughties hearthrob Duncan from Blue. He didn't disappoint. And neither did the musical. Amy Lennox was standing in for an ill Sheridan Smith but honestly I can't see how the leading lady could have done a better job than her understudy. It was Amy's first time playing the role and as Sheridan had only bowed out hours before the cast hadn't had a chance to do a full run through. Despite this, it was fantastic, the songs were upbeat and the jokes kept coming. The dance routines were choreographed so well and with a fine attention to detail. No corners have been cut in this production and I thoroughly recommend going to see it whether you are a musical fan or not!
On a slightly arty note, I spent Saturday at the National Portrait Gallery. I went to see the Irving Penn exhibition, a collection of the renowned photographers portraits capturing a host of famous faces ranging from Salvadore Dali to Nicole Kidman. His personal development as a portrait photographer was evident - the images from the 1940's lacked some of the intimacy and depth shown in the shots from latter years. The strength of the images lay in how he captured the character and spirit of his models in a headshot - from the sheer glamour of Grace Kelly through to the childlike naughtiness of Audrey Hepburn. After viewing the Penn collection we took a wander through the Twiggy exhibition, documenting the life of the iconic model ranging from her awkward teen years through to the present day. The woman looks better now than she ever did. Seriously. I stumbled across an interesting Francis Bacon and a Warhol as well as the infamous 2009 portrait of William and Harry Windsor, with Will's head looking slightly more "thatched" than it does in paparazzi shots...
Wednesday 10 February 2010
Oh, and one more thing...
Clogs. Just don't do it.
I don't care if Alexa looked hot on the cover of Vogue, Alexa looks hot all the time. We humans don't. And certainly not when our foot is encased in a giant upturned leather/wood hybrid shell which weighs about the same as a small child. So not a good look.
I don't care if Alexa looked hot on the cover of Vogue, Alexa looks hot all the time. We humans don't. And certainly not when our foot is encased in a giant upturned leather/wood hybrid shell which weighs about the same as a small child. So not a good look.
Tuesday 9 February 2010
Sexy Sportswear
It's upsetting to say the least.
The rise of the tracksuit pant for SS10, under the clever guise of "sportswear luxe" (ladies don't be fooled, a pair of jogging bottoms shall always scream one thing to me - the woman who has spent less time at the gym and more at the local greasy spoon) is creating a storm in fashion town. Hailed as a chic and comfortable alternative to the Noughties obsession with the skinny jean and latterly the "jegging" (a truly vile word if I ever saw one), this time around the trackie bottom is to be paired with skyscraper heels and a tailored top. That's right, these pants certainly aren't for lounging in front of Jeremy Kyle. In silk, satin and the ever reliable grey jersey, they must be worn tight and tapered at the ankle.
But enough of the blurb. The truth is, approximately 10% of the women who try to carry off this trend will get it right. Mainly because the women who will embrace this style will be the ladies who embraced tracksuit bottoms in their fully fledged Sporty Spice form back '98. Contrary to popular belief, this time around, they won't be hiding a multitude of sins. Rather the opposite in fact. Real women i urge you, steer clear!
The rise of the tracksuit pant for SS10, under the clever guise of "sportswear luxe" (ladies don't be fooled, a pair of jogging bottoms shall always scream one thing to me - the woman who has spent less time at the gym and more at the local greasy spoon) is creating a storm in fashion town. Hailed as a chic and comfortable alternative to the Noughties obsession with the skinny jean and latterly the "jegging" (a truly vile word if I ever saw one), this time around the trackie bottom is to be paired with skyscraper heels and a tailored top. That's right, these pants certainly aren't for lounging in front of Jeremy Kyle. In silk, satin and the ever reliable grey jersey, they must be worn tight and tapered at the ankle.
But enough of the blurb. The truth is, approximately 10% of the women who try to carry off this trend will get it right. Mainly because the women who will embrace this style will be the ladies who embraced tracksuit bottoms in their fully fledged Sporty Spice form back '98. Contrary to popular belief, this time around, they won't be hiding a multitude of sins. Rather the opposite in fact. Real women i urge you, steer clear!
Thursday 14 January 2010
SJP at Halston Heritage - But Why?
More news from the germ-ridden depths of my sick bed...
Sex and the City star Sarah Jessica Parker is to consult for Halston Heritage, a more affordable sister line to the sleek 70's fashion house. Word on the street suggests that a role as demanding as Creative Director could be bestowed upon the actress, renowned for her innate sense of style and quirky fashionista image.
I have one major problem with this news.
It's not that SJP is at all clueless in terms of style (she does wear clothes well, due in part to the fact that she is tremendously thin, which always helps), we have all seen paparazzi shots of her looking every inch the fashion icon. It's that time and time again she is lauded as being every woman's style crush, when in fact the lady you are after should be Patricia Field. The costume designer and stylist created the looks for Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada, Ugly Betty and Confessions of a Shopaholic. No small feat then. Only the most influential fashion based programming of the Noughties.
Before Sex and the City, had anyone heard the words "style" and "Sarah Jessica Parker" mentioned in the same sentence? Didn't think so.
Sex and the City star Sarah Jessica Parker is to consult for Halston Heritage, a more affordable sister line to the sleek 70's fashion house. Word on the street suggests that a role as demanding as Creative Director could be bestowed upon the actress, renowned for her innate sense of style and quirky fashionista image.
I have one major problem with this news.
It's not that SJP is at all clueless in terms of style (she does wear clothes well, due in part to the fact that she is tremendously thin, which always helps), we have all seen paparazzi shots of her looking every inch the fashion icon. It's that time and time again she is lauded as being every woman's style crush, when in fact the lady you are after should be Patricia Field. The costume designer and stylist created the looks for Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada, Ugly Betty and Confessions of a Shopaholic. No small feat then. Only the most influential fashion based programming of the Noughties.
Before Sex and the City, had anyone heard the words "style" and "Sarah Jessica Parker" mentioned in the same sentence? Didn't think so.
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Notes from my sick bed
All this dastardly weather has turned my immune system upside down, so today I'm essentially lying in repose on my bed surrounded by soggy tissues, packets of Sudafed and a lukewarm hot water bottle. C'est chic. I did however toy with the idea of dragging myself to work today before I realised it had snowed overnight, making my commute a chilly and quite frankly stupid journey for an ill person. During my toying, I had showered, blow dried and put on my makeup (what if a gorgeous Jehovah's Witness arrives at my door during my day in bed, I don't want standards slipping) when it hit me. You really know something is a wonder product when it means that even the most sickly pallor can be transformed into a healthy glow. I have three words. Nars Orgasm Blush. I'm now the image of a hale and hearty, rosy-cheeked milkmaid despite the fact that I've been up puking all night and haven't eaten for 48 hours. Ah, the wonders of cosmetics...
Also, Santa brought me the Shu Uemura eyelash curler (a veritable must for every makeup artist known to man), and the results are sensational. I honestly cannot fathom how it works so well without the application of heat. And just to clarify - I'm really not one of those people who thinks that every product they buy is amazing. I'm frequently disappointed. Not pointing any fingers...Clarins Beauty Flash Balm, ahem...
Also, I've been on the lookout for a vintage style silk scarf for quite some time now to fit in with the "urban traveller" look I'm channelling at the moment (this phase is mainly courtesy of my recent trip to the Middle East, the materials there were stunning). I scoured all the obvious places - vintage section at Oxford Street Topshop, Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, second hand boutiques but to no avail. Then on my way down Regent Street I spied the perfect model in (of all places) Banana Republic! Seriously, some of the accessories in the soccer mom store were actually pretty hot. And with sale prices, they could even be justified despite the huge mark up from the dollar. So fly my pretties, fly to Regent Street and stock up while you can...
Also, Santa brought me the Shu Uemura eyelash curler (a veritable must for every makeup artist known to man), and the results are sensational. I honestly cannot fathom how it works so well without the application of heat. And just to clarify - I'm really not one of those people who thinks that every product they buy is amazing. I'm frequently disappointed. Not pointing any fingers...Clarins Beauty Flash Balm, ahem...
Also, I've been on the lookout for a vintage style silk scarf for quite some time now to fit in with the "urban traveller" look I'm channelling at the moment (this phase is mainly courtesy of my recent trip to the Middle East, the materials there were stunning). I scoured all the obvious places - vintage section at Oxford Street Topshop, Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, second hand boutiques but to no avail. Then on my way down Regent Street I spied the perfect model in (of all places) Banana Republic! Seriously, some of the accessories in the soccer mom store were actually pretty hot. And with sale prices, they could even be justified despite the huge mark up from the dollar. So fly my pretties, fly to Regent Street and stock up while you can...
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