The Divorcée dares to dream

On grief

2011-02-01T21:53:00.002Z

I tend not, really, to think back to that day when I made plasticine figures for people that I didn't know, in an attempt to turn irretrievable darkness into a smile or a lingering acknowledgment.

I was 3 and had successfully evaded the boy at number 7 who on our horseshoe-shaped road, had threatened to eat me alive as I got lost on my way home.

I was 3 and I had bold plans. I was 3 and nothing could touch me.

And so death, when it came, wreaked such damage that it dismantled all of our lives for a while. Scattered us to the wind. Fighting our way through the customs, we were noticeably smaller, diminished, as if the parts of us we hadn't checked in had been dispersed and remained skulking in a lost-luggage office, unclaimed.

I don't recall much about the subsequent year, apart from the insurmountable sorrow that I did not understand and the memories of that one night and early wintery morning. And of the Doctor whose name I forget now and who ordinarily was awful but on that day, was as sweet as grief would allow.

I remember him of course. Fleetingly, and in daydreams I remember him better. I remember angels wearing denim who endeavoured to shoot the breeze. Ruminating over the time and the hour and the vagaries of life. I remember those who spoke to me gently and firmly, later, of my imagination.

But when I think of him I remember wings against the window, plasticine figures. And I see him around corners, in places I'd forgotten I knew, smiling in puddles and larking elated, witnessing the wind. I remember another brother, older and bolder. One who drummed, a magician conducting the melody and who scratched out his teenaged will on a wall in spray paint, when he was just a boy. Who spoke in a such a way that life won't ever quite deliver all that it promises to offer.

The gap they leave aches persistent; a dull tooth that I shall never get around to checking for fear of losing them to a filling.

I remember those that I lost too soon, but sometimes I cannot place them. They remain drifting a little left of the horizon, lingering and dictating my living hours, when I ought to be dancing more, fearing less and shrugging off the inevitable. Putting hours to bed.

But at night when sleep should hold and claim me without thinking, I dream mostly of falling teeth and wake to a morning little changed, despite my years.

A Christmas Duel

2010-12-02T20:33:00.003Z

I found this last year and amidst the endlessly repeated Christmas songs found it a welcome novelty. Warning: profanities abound.

Postcards from New York

2010-11-27T19:15:00.015Z

I was due to be in New York this Thanksgiving weekend but things don't always have a way of working out the way you planned. Here, instead, is a small selection of the gorgeous photos taken by the hugely talented FB on his recent trip: my best friend and collaborator (co-conspirator).

Now and again

2010-11-26T20:27:00.018Z

And you were burning

almost, alight and on fire

and I think I loved you more

then, than ever before

and so raw edges have a way

of unravelling the careful

stripping it threadbare to skeins

of passionless twisting

and we, caught beneath the blue light

of tangled sheets, frigid with

unspoken fragments of past lives

and other lovers

mutely move to wall await

instructions, breathe softly.

And calmly forget, swathed in silent sadness

to reach over, now and again

In the company of silence

2010-11-09T18:49:00.020Z

It is, of course, a well acknowledged truth as we scratch through the hours, the days and the years that we begin to seek solace in quieter times. During the painfully enforced years of teenage study, I wouldn't contemplate my revision hours without the loop of the record player crackling forth whatever song I believed spoke to me and me mostly. If it drowned out the omnipresent kitchen hum of Radio 4, then so much the better. Coupled with the confusing Sunday Quaker meetings, I lurched in the other direction. To live without music invoked horror, to live without noise was unthinkable.

My quest for quiet began with my daughter. I won't be the first parent who knows that there is little quite like the seconds of silence that succeed the settling, amidst the limbo hours. It is in these snatched moments, slightly before we acknowledge the day's defeats, that we may embrace both the triumph of impending sleep and potential of all that is to come. These shards of the dazzling are what lead us on, make us want to get up again.

The nights of broken sleep have long passed and yet I see the symphony in silence with increased regularity. Just as I acknowledge the beauty in the wilderness I always loathed, I see the beauty in the error of my ways. I can no longer sit down and work to a backdrop of noise, as the tangential thoughts that are my close companions neglect to drop by and the words falter. This is clearly not an unwelcome evolution. It isn't as if someone has hit a definitive mute button to a world I want to indulge in, and I appreciate that I can still make this choice. I acknowledge those that can't.

But I also remain surprised at the silence I reach for, given my skill at eking out the chaos in my former lives. Is this the stage marker grabbed on the slalom descent to aged behaviour? Or is it just a nod to someone who, at last, recognises her own consciousness, greets it as a friend? Are my Quaker roots coming back for a timely visit? I propose a step back into the company of silence to consider. And you?

A large part of the inspiration for this post was taken from the great quotes on Miss Whistle's infinitely wise and informed blog.

À Deriva (Adrift)

2010-11-09T15:40:00.013Z

I am undecided about Vincent Cassel, he has the look of an ex-boyfriend with whom things ended rather badly. (In all honesty, things didn't start out desperately well and the middle bit of the relationship was perhaps the worst part of all, but I digress). There is much about this trailer that strikes a chord; the dreamlike cinematography, the protagonist coming-of-age in the 80s, the beautiful location. The underlying tragedy of a failed relationship possibly, and the irreversible repercussions. Or perhaps it's just the sight of some sun as the UK is buffeted by interminable squally showers and the roads are slick with puddles and leaves. Directed by Heitor Dhalia.

The glittering

2010-10-19T10:13:00.026+01:00

Beneath

the panoply of the bandstand

summer burns still

slanting long fingers that reach

from the ramparts and

hoodwink the season

Poseidon, lugubrious

idles time forgetful

whilst diamonds from dew, a spider

spins the glittering

binds and lulls the current

Subdued by the sun

the clouds furrow brow, submit to

late vermillion.

The sea shifts to autumn

boats float less often

Fantastic Mr Fox

2010-10-05T22:24:00.023+01:00

Is this fantastic? Too early in the new season to tell possibly, I for one am conflicted.

P.S. It's available from topshop.co.uk. But hurry, never for long.

Miracles

2010-10-05T21:55:00.004+01:00

Tomorrow, you'll be gone

and the morning will be damp

with cigarettes and grief.

I will fix the coffee,

feed the cat and open the door

letting out yesterday's air into

another day and

a miracle if ever I

saw one.

Sydney in red shoes

2010-09-24T17:08:00.007+01:00

By some fortuitous trick of Zeus, (it's the only explanation, that the Gods are the conspiratorial puppet masters of this most unusual turn of events) I am heading to Oz. Much like Dorothy I shall inevitably resort to clicking my heels a few times along the way, amidst fearful whisperings to (my imaginary) Toto (gin). I am not a happy flyer. The thought of 24 hours aloft makes my insides seize and has me googling Valium (joking, possibly). My pathological distrust of change is mundanely textbook and the tailspin that the act of booking a holiday sends me into would be almost comical if it wasn't so tragic. But gift horses and mouths and faith and leaps et cetera. See you on the other side. Particularly you, my most loyal reader in the South of France.

Étoile Isabel Marant knit

2010-09-23T08:57:00.016+01:00

In the stampede to buy anything Marant this knit has been hugely popular due to it being a strongly reproduced picture from the runway/ad campaign. Black and beige stripes in mohair wouldn't immediately have sold it to me on paper but it is very wearable and not eye-wateringly expensive. Back in stock at Net-A-Porter from October.

Picture from Isabel Marant A/W 2010 campaign.

Words and pictures

2010-09-23T07:46:00.001+01:00

FB and I have been collaborating on a project that we have preliminarily entitled 'words and pictures'. Possibly it may lead to other things and a website! In the interim though, here is a sample which doesn't quite do FB's amazing artistic skills justice.

Ambition is critical (On dreams pt 2)

2010-09-21T14:50:00.035+01:00

As Dylan Thomas would have it. I mentioned in my last post that I have recently rediscovered it, the ambition that was lost for a long period of time. During my childhood and up until my early teens I had it in spades. A little too much. I knew that I was going to be either a writer or an actress. I filled exercise books with stories and poems, put on plays at Christmas in which I naturally gave myself the starring role, with more than a little ta-da! of the Shirley Temples.

I took it upon myself to scratch out letter after letter with ideas for new 'magazine style'(?) TV shows to the BBC and as a result got offered an audition for one of the only such programmes available to kids back then. I was overjoyed but then subsequently so horrified at seeing myself in the first episode, that vanity prevented me from watching any more. I hastily shelved any further thoughts of an acting career and concentrated on writing. Many obscure poems ensued. The lower school at my comprehensive got to enjoy a whole 2 issues of my school magazine, complete with badly drawn Athena-esque front cover and suitabably pretentious title.

And then boys happened and hormones happened and I won't be able to iterate to my daughter enough just how much there is to rue in succumbing to the wrong desires and kicking your own best interests in the shin.

I didn't much enjoy school. (When recently asked to recall a memorable experience about a teacher, the one that immediately sprang to mind was that of the chap who prowled about jangling a huge set of keys, looking like the caretaker he wasn't whilst smoking fags and allegedly sleeping with 5th years.)

It was the late 80s so it wasn't entirely the teachers' fault that we were less than enthusiastic. The lack of resources meant we were fighting over 1 tatty Tricolore textbook between 3. The idea of trying to ignite an amoeba sized spark of educational passion in kids who'd rather be puffing on chippers outside the Happy Shopper must have seemed less likely than a Labour government.

To be fair to myself I didn't completely abandon all brain cells. When GCSE coursework deadlines sprung out from behind the bike sheds and presented themselves to my astonished classmates I became a factory line of English Language folder content. I like to hope I did so with a little more variation than Moonpig.com, but after a particularly long week at the desk, one of my essays for friend A came back with a red 'see me!' scribbled across the top. He didn't though, so I never knew for sure.

I drifted through the subsequent years under a cloud of brassy Sun-In'ed hair and dewberry, hyper aware of wearing the right clothes and saying, or rather, not saying the right things. Image became everything, ambition seemed terribly bourgeois. Aggressively moody I could go for days without uttering a word to my family, slipping off into the night with a scrawled note and a vague promise of return. I lost all sense of what I wanted to do or who I wanted to become, exacerbated by the damage I was unleashing on my personal life. It is bleakly unsettling to think of all we can undo in the pursuit of love. I stopped writing and went to University to do a subject I knew I could pass.

Writer friend B once quoted her own (slightly drunken pub philosopher's) version of Voltaire's 'don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good' when I was giving, with the self-pitying luxury of the pub bore, my 'it's all been done before' reasons for abandoning writing.

I wince at the memory. By a cruel trick of genetics, B found out in her late teens that she would steadily lose her sight. She was born partially deaf. By the time she was 21 she had a sought after job in the media and then, during her mid twenties she became a writer. A brilliant one, despite once being told she couldn't. She didn't sit on her arse wondering if she had it in her, she got on with it and made it happen. It seems a trifle fucking misplaced of me to have had the nerve to whinge over not having the nerve to write.

We've all a tale to tell about misspent youth, opportunities wasted, regrets we profess not to have. I may never be good and I most certainly won't be perfect but crumbs, to quote another B-ism 'it's not a bloody dress rehearsal' and I'll do my best to remember that. Especially when languishing in some crap existential crisis over things we have the power to fix with those who should happily slap you out of it. I sound cross I realise. Well, hell, it's a great deal better than false apathy.

On dreams

2010-07-28T09:10:00.008+01:00

This is where yet again you get to read all about my absence from here. I'm sure you can barely contain your indifference. I know I can't and I suspect we're all sharing a dreary sense of déjà vu. So I'll keep it brief. But first let us discuss how I have thus far failed in my attempt at the meme mash-up. I tried, I really tried and back in May when I was mid-way through the draft (of which there are a fair few clogging up the blog, far more than actual posts. Which I'm sure we could all read a great deal into, if we could be bothered) shoulders shaking at my own hilarity I was sure it would be finished in no time. We are now at the end of July and re-reading it makes me question my mental state, not to mention my ego. Had I been drinking whilst writing it? Quite possibly.

So, it's a work in progress that I have every intention of actually posting, but in the meantime I wanted to get back to the blog before I cast it away forever. Which I have been on the verge of, but think I would come to regret, doing.

It would be lovely to say that my absence is down to the fact that I have been away on holiday, or working on something unbelievably exciting that I can't quite share with you yet. This is true in my head, but not, sadly in real life. I have been dreaming of boutique hotels in Corsica, with sheets of impossibly high thread count and beachfront views. The closest I have come however is camping on a lilo with a slow-puncture and an urgent dawn sprint to the shower block. Which has its charms of course, markedly different from those of la Corse and only dimly recognisable as you're garroting yourself on a guy-rope but charms nonetheless.

I have been dreaming of brilliance too. Possibly this is what has mentally barred me from posting, my conspicuous lack of. To be fair I don't think anyone really dreams of mediocrity, wakes up one day and aspires to be average. Clearly I'm not the first person to rediscover their ambition and be overwhelmed with the sense that perhaps they ought not to have spent all their time pratting about at school, rejecting calls to 'read around the subject' (my parents will be exchanging smugly knowing looks about now).

So, I have decided to go back to school. Make up for lost ambition. Learn some things that might be pertinent and hopefully inch closer to the dream. For there is one of course, it's just taken me a while to notice.

Vintage at Goodwood

2010-07-24T21:42:00.003+01:00

Let's be honest, there isn't any real need to give a reason as to why I've decided to post this cover, I can pretty much let Sandie sing for herself. But she will be playing at the upcoming Vintage at Goodwood festival organised by designer Wayne Hemingway and it's a given that this first timer on the festival scene looks to cater to all fashion/music/culture addicts out there. Not to be missed. Way to go Wayne.

Brilliance

2010-07-24T14:53:00.002+01:00

It's brilliant he says, but of course this

isn't so. It's as flawed as tomorrow

coming from today.

And even if it were, we'd still

have tomorrow to cope with in all

its imperfections.

The post in which today is finally over

2010-05-28T17:56:00.008+01:00

Today is the long prepared-for day that is finally over. I didn't lash it up completely but I fear I may not have been as successful as I could have been. S'OK though, I've not been reduced to a husk of my former (oh-so *glorious*) self, I'm still standing, despite the pretty definitive feeling that I didn't quite cut the mustard (what exactly is that supposed to mean? I've googled it, I'm none the wiser. Although minutes wasted attempting to fathom are quite substantial).

But, the upshot (nearly typo'd upshit- quite fitting really) of this day being done is that I can finally return to adequately attending to the blog taggings that I have neglected recently. This was not my intention- I remain, as always, hugely honoured that any poor soul who ventures across this blog actually returns and tags me. Especially the massively talented Lewis William whose loss from these shores we lament and also the wonderful Chic Mama, who remains articulate and inspirational, in spite of such adversity. If you don't already know them- CHECK OUT THEIR BLOGS!

As I have been so shoddy in responding in a time-appropriate manner (to the point where my English patented cringe-gland has gone into overtime) I've decided that the best way to redress the balance is to amalgamate the two tags.... That's to say- the 'What's in your bag' from Chic Mama and the 'What a difference 5 years can make' tag from Lewis William. Admittedly we could find ourselves with the somewhat uninspiring tag of;

'What's lurking in your 5 year old bag?'.

I anticipate a confusing mash-up with piss-poor compensatory photographic stimulus. But at least I am back in the game. Hold tight folks!

How old is too old?

2010-05-16T17:32:00.012+01:00

It's my birthday this week. Which makes me a Taurean and in a fashion typical of my sign I've spent a considerable part of my protracted absence from here navel gazing. Mainly about life directions, career change and other spiffily simple questions. I have also spent time alternating between slack-jawed despondency and aneurysm-inducing hysteria as a result of a rumoured general election.

But back to the birthday. As of now, I have decided that there shall be no further celebrations. No more getting older. I shall remain 35 forever. I am not particularly concerned about the aging process but neither am I overly joyous at the idea that I am now, officially middle aged and stuck with a niggling sense of 'they think it's all over, it is now' with nothing much to show for it. And it got me pondering over just how old is too old?

To expound upon my topic, I have recently started wearing my hair in a side ponytail/bun/plait, stealing directly from the Alexander Wang runway look for S/S '10. NOT I hasten to add, a high ponytail, as quite frankly that looks ridiculous at any age and brings back images of Michaela Strachan bouncing about on the Wide Awake Club. Which then obviously leads on, somewhat unfortunately, to memories of Timmy Mallett and there isn't much more one really needs to add to that.

But I'm not convinced I'm quite pulling it off. And with regards to the underwear as outerwear look, well, it's all well and good when doing something spectacular for charity such as the Moonwalkers did last night but rocking up to the Gloom Cupboard daring to bare is not something I think anyone would look forward to enduring. But part of me wants to slip into this trend and it's not being too decrepit to pull it off that's stopping me (more a question of decency really).

I recall my mother saying once that long hair past the age of 30 shouldn't really allowed and yet here I am with longer hair than I've had for at least 10 years and miraculously people are still talking to me. One of my favourite blogs, Motherhood: The Final Frontier wrote a wonderful post about dressing appropriately here. Like MTFF I have tried to dress in an appropriate fashion for school gates and leisure centre trips and have failed almost unilaterally in my endeavours.

When I was in France I did it as a way of controlling the only thing I felt I could in my life. I bopped up to the school gates in the middle of my rural prison all dressed up but with no place to go. Now I am required to dress smartly and I loathe it. I have decided that on leaving I will ceremonially burn my Sportmax work skirt. And throw back my head and howl. Or not, probably. But you get my point.

Contrarily dependable at being out of sync, I think that this can sometimes be an advantage. Other times it just makes you seem like a slightly mental masochist- but the point, the vague point admittedly, is that like the old favourite 'When I am old I shall wear purple' poem, there is no too old. It's more about doing what it takes to keep you sane and laughing, moving forward one stiletto'd school run at at time. Personally I'm more about the trainers these days, but at least I'm consistent in my inconsistency.

Dreams of summer

2010-03-18T10:00:00.000Z

The Room and the Street- Vikram Seth

2010-03-17T08:55:00.002Z

After a few short bars

You stop and look at me.

The last of our few hours

Is over. I am free.

Free now to leave this room,

Its broken chords, its light,

Its scent of lilac bloom,

And be elsewhere tonight.

You wrestle for reserve

And its keen dignity.

Now is the time to serve

Eviction upon me.

'I will not see you out.

I hope you understand.'

Only your mouth speaks doubt

I take you chordless hand.

I see my younger grief

Accusing with your eyes.

I cannot give relief

Nor can you give me lies.

But do not say I've wrecked

Your peace and caused you pain.

I've done that, I suspect,

But won't do so again.

You see me to the street.

The cars slosh past. It's true

That I may have light feet.

I'm not in love with you.

And yet with half my heart

I wish I were- that we,

Knowing that we must part,

Could share this equally.

Great city, harsh and tall,

In the cold throes of spring-

Numb and distract us all

That love may lose its sting.

A cab. You take my hand,

Then stand and frown awhile.

At my express demand

You undertake to smile.

Taken from All You Who Sleep Tonight published by Faber & Faber and available to buy here

A tale about clogs

2010-03-15T11:10:00.011Z

Illustrations and header design by the lovely Alexis @ BrightonStyleMemos. With huge thanks.

How do I feel about the return of clogs and who amongst you really cares? Not many I'll wager, but do pay attention at the back it's simply not cricket to imply I'm here purely for my own amusement.

In the early 90s when we were 18, BF and I set forth on a road trip. My (deranged? resigned? past caring?) parents allowed us to borrow their trusty chariot, an ancient Austin Maestro that categorically rebuffed any attempt to place it in first and thus demanded considerably more biting-point proficiency than our clogged shod feet would allow.

However desperate times called for desperate measures and in our own (marginally less suicidal, hugely shitter car) take on Thelma and Louise, BF was getting me away from love-rat #2 and across the sea where it took us as far as Brittany before she cut through the snot and snivelling to announce;

"Look, I am NOT letting that pr*ck ruin MY holiday" and that was that.

Accompanied by the tinnitus whine of the AM car radio we wildly misjudged the acceleration throttle of the Maestro on the odd occasion we overtook a tractor, finally abandoning any future attempt somewhere around Bordeaux after an inadvertent game of chicken ended up in a shallow storm ditch. Recovering the power of speech a few hours later we arrived at our destination to learn that our 'sabots' were a perplexing choice of footwear unless you worked on a farm.

"Mais qu'est-ce que ça donne?" loosely translated as "What exactly do they bring to the party?"

Chipped ankle bones and huge discomfort largely but we stubbornly stood our ground.

We were used to a Channel's worth of sartorial differences between the French and the English, BF is half French and we had both spent many a summer feeling like the fashion clown cousin to our BC-BG relations. (There remains, of course, differences between each country's fashion look du jour but they don't seem as glaringly conspicuous as in the days before the internet and growth of global fashion chains).

But I digress. Together with a large group of friends we had been invited to a local nightclub for 'une soirée mousse'. Neither BF nor I had the faintest idea what one of these was and no amount of gesticulating and explanation enabled us to get our heads around what they were telling us. What exactly was this mousse? Like the club being transformed into one huge bubble bath? For fun? Encore plus bizarre. Despite several helpful hints at correct attire (a bikini, righto) we skipped off none the wiser, me in white jeans (early 90s remember) freshly dyed hair and suede clogs. No idea about BF, visual memory not that precise bar that she too was in clogs.

On the dot of hugely drunk o'clock the foam poured in. And kept coming. Dragged onto the dance floor and under the foam the hair dye ran in brown rivers down my back and onto my jeans. I lost BF and scrabbled around ineffectually, tripping over random bodies trapped beneath the bubbles, becoming increasingly panic stricken until finally I managed to locate her as she surfaced momentarily.

My enduring memory of that night was BF, struggling for air as she took a deep breath and screamed across the 'mousse' filled dance floor, before once again disappearing head first into the depths;

"Clog! I've lost my bloody clog!"

One clog down and with my feet covered in considerably more dye than my hair, we wisely bid adieu to our clogs and the soirée there and then.

This time around I am pretty certain that I shall be giving the trend a swerve but if tempted there are plenty of styles to choose from, just mind how you go.

Just Kids

2010-02-19T10:19:00.031Z

Photo of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe by Norman Seeff, 1969

I am a huge fan of a library. Who isn't? But it hasn't always been this way. As a child I preferred new books, something about their promise and being the one to crack the spine. My first Saturday job was in an independent bookshop with wooden panelling, dusty nooks and floor to ceiling shelves, bowing slightly under the weight of all the paperbacks.

Latterly this has changed, partly owing to an attempt at economising, partly because I don't seem to be able to read as much as I used to and partly because the building housing the books where we live is architecturally pretty spectacular and thus adds quite a lot to the whole experience.

Unfortunately, so local rumour has it, all the allotted budget went into creating this paean to the written word and sadly didn't extend to filling the shelves with enough books or, crucially, any that might be worth reading. Something of an oversight for a library.

To be fair, they do have the odd book that you may actually choose to read (as opposed to those you pick in a bout of wishful thinking only to have them languish untouched under coffee cups on your bedside table, accruing a small fortune in overdue library fees) but as I discovered when I tried to borrow the Patti Smith book about her relationship with both the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe and with New York, there is an inordinately long waiting list for anything popular. I imagine I shall be of an age to be lingering with intent over the Joanna Trollope's and Maeve Binchy's by the time my turn finally comes, as opposed to reading about rock 'n' roll love in a bohemian haze at the Chelsea Hotel.

'Just Kids' is published by HarperCollins and available to buy here.

In preparation for LFW

2010-02-18T19:21:00.014Z

So, the inkwell has run dry of late, of which I am more than aware. I think I subscribe to the theory that it's better to post nothing than post about nothing (lesson learned) and in truth I've been more than happy to remove myself and observe. The fashion world and blogging community have been fairly inflamed, justifiably, with the terrible, terrible news about Lee McQueen and the buzz about social media, it's 'rightful place' and assumed beef with the print fashion industry.

There has also been the unveiling of one of the blogging community's deities, LLG and in the wake of such events it has seemed somewhat presumptuous to add my flimsy voice to the caterwaul.

I am still, at this juncture unsure of what's to become of this blog but am preparing myself for the schlep to LFW. Something I am very excited about, bien sûr, but also an event that I am approaching with some trepidation regarding viable ensembles (amongst other things). As I scroll through my mental rolladex of possible get-ups, I recall my last venture into the arena when coming face-to-face with Mr Sartorialist himself. I watched with interest his intense and precise scanning of the scrum before a show. It reminded me of a bird of prey eyeing up his potential quarry- brilliant, swift, unflinching and finely honed. With this in mind, I'm pretty sure I'll aim to blend as I think I'd rather watch than be watched.

Currently top of the list for comfort and fashion are the above, paired with this;

A little tame and matchy-matchy perhaps, but I still have a night and a day to decide.

And apologies for hasty, thus ghastly pics. The Sartorialist I ain't.

Vanessa et Lou

2010-02-16T21:20:00.003Z

Gotta love a Gainsbourg

2010-01-27T19:38:00.008Z

In January of 1991 I found myself living in a flat beneath the headmistress of the international school I was attending in France. Alone, but not quite. I shared my living space with a French-Canadian and an American girl, a gloomy subterranean existence that wasn't aided by the sewage problems we faced and the fact that the headmistress was a tyrant.

Living way beyond the last jetty's of 'les quais' toward the deserted, dark and forgotten end of the city, my American flatmate warned against talking too loudly in English in case 'ils te sautent dessus'. Unless they jump on you. The 'they' she was referring to were the North Africans in the neighbourhood.

It was 1991 and it was also the Gulf War.

I chose to pay neither her nor the headmistress much attention. I bristled at their implications and ignorance. Instead I aligned myself with the French-Canadian, a good 7 years older than I. So worldly wise.

At around midnight, come Saturday night, I would wriggle through the basement window and out into the frigid winter air, wandering through the deserted streets smoking whatever cigarettes I could lay my hands on until finally I reached my destination. La boîte de nuit. It was here that I recall first hearing the infamous 'Je t'aime, moi non plus' featuring Serge and Jane.

I was in France on March the 2nd when Serge Gainsbourg finally called his hard-living life a day. I was in France, aged 16 when they declared their days of mourning for him.

'La France est en deuil' read the headlines. And I, too young to know much about this legend, not quite cold in the ground, roamed around the streets after lessons, wondered what 'deuil' meant and caught the bus to the ice-skating rink. Quietly swishing around the 'patinoire' I didn't quite understand the gravity of the situation. To me, he was a drunken guy who was rude on TV to Whitney Houston. (This I understood because it was in English).

Since then I've amended my limited knowledge. I know a little more about Serge, about Jane Birkin and their daughter Charlotte. She and her sister Lou Doillon are reminiscent of many of the women I wished I looked like and whose style I'd try to emulate back in my rather solitary, lost-in-France 20's.

This week the new Charlotte Gainsbourg album, IRM, in which she collaborates with Beck was released. Not desperately easy, on first listen, bar the obviously radio friendly tunes. But less complex with each play and quite spectacular in it's lyrical imagery.

The title refers to her brush with illness several years ago, the French acronym for MRI- the scanner which she was subjected to and which she insisted upon when she came face to face with her own mortality.

I think back to her father's death, back through the years when I was 16. She was not/is not much older than I, barely 2 years? I cannot imagine how she has coped confronting his loss in the face of such a public claiming of his legacy. There are shadows of him and also of her mother's unique vocal delivery in her measured (perfect) and unmistakably French English. It is accomplished and leaves the requisite spaces free for you to fill as you choose.

Available to download and to buy from 25th January.

Shoes, glorious shoes

2010-01-26T19:43:00.013Z

So I have been laid low again and feeling really quite grotty. It's been a day of sleeping and intermittent interwebbing. But these lovely looking shoes as seen at www.caroline.feber.se (she has been recommended in the Observer's cool blog list of 2010) flagged to me in turn by Mrs F, are from the upcoming Topshop collections. The whole lookbook is pretty exciting and something to have me dreaming of spring. (There's even a whisper of 'the perfect jogger bottom' which I was adamant I wouldn't consider outside of these 4 walls, oh fickle fashion slave that I am).

(Photo courtesy of www.caroline.feber.se)

The art of prevaricating

2010-01-21T09:30:00.014Z

I think I've become slightly nervous of this blog, slightly phobic. I have been intending to sit in front of the laptop long enough to be able to respond to a tag from one of my most revered blogging contemporaries, the wonderful Helena Halme for some time now. To zero effect.

Instead I have been circling it in a predatory fashion until, pouncing, I scrabble to sign in and eek out a few lines in response to this huge honour before I change my mind. Again, to zero effect.

I write this blog anonymously, yet EMS managed to successfully track me down via Google when I let slip my acronym for him. It would be beyond stoopid of me to think that I am completely invisible but it was quite the jolt to realise that I was, am, actually out there. It made me question if I really wanted to do this and I'm pretty good at talking myself out of things.

Double-0 rubbish at your service, most definitely shaken and quite substantially stirred.

But I digress, using shocking metaphors and clichés, in an attempt YET AGAIN to avoid actually seeing this post through.

There are a few valid reasons why I haven't taken up the meme (see above) but not least of which the world events that make me feel it a particularly inopportune time to ramble through another 'self-obsessed' (I saw bloggers referred to as such in a daily broadsheet and it consumed me for awhile...) entry. But it's dismissive and trite to write off a whole community and what it can do for the greater good and for each other. I wanted more than anything to respectfully respond, to Helena and to the dozen or so other people who have taken the time to read my posts.

I am hugely touched to be mentioned by Helena, as not only does she possess a truly lovely, hypnotic style (coupled with addictive subject matter that makes her blog a must-read) but she was also one of the first people to leave a comment on here back in the early, murky days of my starting this (to quote Virginia Woolf on her diary) 'capacious holdall where one flings a mass of odds and ends, without looking them through'.

(Please let me take a moment here to strongly impress upon you that in no way am I comparing myself to VW, I'm mentally fatigued just from the implication. Only that I share a propensity to chuck whatever I feel into the diary/blog pot without too much thought to structure/ sense/direction. It's axiomatic to note what I don't share with her).

Helena was also tagged as someone to follow in 2010 by two stellar bloggers whom I enjoy and respect; LibertyLondonGirl and Mrs Trefusis. Their blogs are true greats that, among a fistful of others, were responsible for inspiring me. Back when I naively decided, in a fit of desperation, to foist myself on the blogosphere without due thought to the ripples and repercussions of this decision.

I am in awe of all of the people on my blogroll, so much so that I am often thwarted in my attempts to write because of how much I admire the stories on theirs. It is for this reason, plus the fact that I am so tardy in responding to the tag, that I am not going to tag anyone else. I feel it might be the blog equivalent of serving up Christmas pudding at this time of the year. Everybody's had a gut full and might prefer to stab you with a pudding fork.

So, in my usual 'haven't read around the subject but let's breeze on through' fashion, I am going to attempt to state a few things about myself (I think this is the correct way to respond to a meme). Am I right in thinking it should be 10? I'm sure you'll thank me for just the 5.

1) I have different coloured eyes. (On an anonymous blog this might appear akin to unmasking Zorro. I think on the whole though, not. Deluded as I am on some fronts, my audience and therefore the attendant interest is minimal).

About the odd eyes; I have lost count of the times people have mentioned David Bowie, or asked whether I'd forgotten to insert a contact lens. I find my eyes extremely disconcerting- luckily I get to largely ignore them as I'm not required to look at me that much.

2) Aged 10 I went to live in France with my cousins. I attended an international school. I went voluntarily, pressed for it in fact, but right up until the last days of my stay, was dreadfully homesick. As soon as I touched down in England, I longed for France. This has remained the recurring pattern of my life- unhappy where I am, right up until I'm living in the 'somewhere else' and vice versa. Still wondering if I'll one day call anywhere home.

3) I have an absolute belief in acupuncture. My first encounter was aged 16, after a long year of misdiagnoses and disinterest. Within a week, acupuncture had resolved what the traditionalists could not. I urge you to explore further.

4) When I was around 8, I looked up at the 'Desiderata' poster of the poem hanging in our kitchen all yellowed and dog-eared, hanging as it did above the stove, and asked of my mum;

"What does 'placidly' mean?". She duly explained, to which I responded

"Why is that hanging there?"

"To remind me, to be placid, to keep calm" she replied

"Well, it hasn't worked out so far has it?" came my response.

I think this could well have set the tone for our relationship from there on in. We are only just recovering. Sorry Mum.

5) I love poetry, all sorts, it was what got me into writing back when I was 10. I don't share the fear of it that many do. No, largely it brings me peace and grounding. In a revealing (the point, I geddit) and self-conscious way I actually prefer the French poets- Apollinaire, Baudelaire, Prévert. In the times when I can't seem to lend my mind to prose, only these will do.

What a difference a day makes

2010-01-05T20:30:00.007Z

At around dark o'clock this morning, Daughter came and sat down next to me with her bowl of cereal in our favourite winter spot, on the bench leaning against the radiator.

"Mum, do you think you can make me a promise?" but she didn't quite meet my eye, unsure but determined.

And I replied;

"If I can, I surely will"

"Can you promise not to hide how you feel to me, even if you want to? Because, it's just, that maybe I might be feeling bad too and I might want to share it with you...."

And with that I nodded and promised and reassured my little bird, wondering, desperately, how I might help her hop to the top of her tree when there was so much of our lives that had come undone in the last 24 hours.

Rewind to yesterday morning.

The first day back to school, for me and for Daughter. This morning, however, she had an appointment for an ultrasound for something completely unrelated to what they eventually suspect she may have. Somewhere, back through the years, I realise I have been dimly fearful of this moment and how one day our paths might cross.

We have been referred to a specialist, we are in good hands, it may not be as bad as all that, we must stay positive. The placatory banalities swoop through my head and into the words of others, tumbling around the room with empty comfort. It is not, however, what you would wish for and I am bewildered with worry and the knowledge that things will not quite be the same again.

How easy to be seduced by one fine day, a perfect moment suspended forever in a nostalgic cocoon and think that things may finally be on the turn. How one day you can resolve to be better, happier, proactive, chilled out, work out, kinder, laugh more, listen more, cry more, think more, think less. Exhaust the lists and decide on nothing! And the next, be left reeling from the arbitrary cruelness of life.

I used to think of myself as spiritual, albeit in a vague non-committal, as yet undefined-by-religion kind of a way. Now I think that my version of spiritual will be much more about the random acts of kindness and less of the pondering. More of the 'Guess how much I love you's?!' and less about the room tidying.

Before Christmas I wondered where this blog was going. What was, amongst all the thickly packed words, the point? It seems, as it has a recurring habit of doing, life has chosen this for me and thus perversely, posts may well be choosing themselves.

To borrow from Vikram Seth's first line from 'Lion Grove, Suzhou' taken from 'All you who sleep tonight'

'Like life, there is a plan, but little sense'.

Or perhaps there is little sense, or plan, to life. At this juncture, the jury is out.

Café Gitane, nyc

2010-01-03T20:34:00.017Z

When we walked into the small but perfectly attired café Gitane on the corner of Mott and Prince for brunch and saw two guys animatedly chatting and drinking champagne (from glasses such as the ones favoured by my Grandmother, with a curved saucer that chimed) I knew that the day and start to the new decade would be one that would be as close to perfection as it could get.

We had gone on the recommendation from BF's boyfriend, the Swiss Gourmet and true to his title he and they did not disappoint. In the old days a bistro of this ilk would have been dense with cigarette smoke, curling in low question marks over the heads of it's clientele.

A fashionable, understated and undeniably arty clientele at that. Had I been forewarned I may have obsessed over my ensemble a little longer but pffft, trop tard and pointless. I was warm and indescribably happy. I also developed an infatuation with cropped Hunter wellies and snoods. Not something I ever thought would happen. Hmmm.

The food was exactly right. I, who the astute of you may have gathered (!) am not desperately given over to excitement, sat there beaming and scoffing and just being grateful for the day, my surroundings, BF and for 2010. Mid way through our order it occurred to me that I ought to have taken photos, but half eaten orange blossom waffles and scant few crumbs of chilli avocado toast would have made them serious contenders for the accolade of crappest photo of the blog (up there with this pitiful luxury flapjack pic). Note to self; resolve to do better (as far as I'm prepared to venture down the resolution road well travelled).

It was a suitably dazzling way to welcome in the new decade. Even now, skin dessicated beyond repair and jet-lagged to within a whisker of hysteria nothing can diminish the halcyon glow.

Long may it last. Happy New Year.

This much I know; by way of the random gobbler

2009-12-18T08:03:00.002Z

I am contemplatively hunched over my keyboard munching my way through a jar of pickled silverskin onions, secure in the absolute knowledge that a) I have nothing of note or particular interest to say but that b) there isn't much calorific content to a silverskin.

I have been gently nudged on several occasions this week as to when I might get around to the latest post. I have generally snarled (via text- can you snarl via text? How does that work do you suppose?) the stock response of

"When I've got something to frigging say! Which is not looking imminent! I have already told you I am pointless moron!".

Invariably followed by hurling myself onto my bed and wailing snottily into the child-worn bedspread in show of narcissistic self-indulgence (mentally at least, in reality I am too removed to actually bother).

I despise myself for being such a chump. I wonder where I am taking this blog, whether it has legs. I skim back through the archive and wince at the ineptitude of the posts. My mind is an empty vortex of random wisps of nothing coherent. I amaze myself at how little I am connected to the real world. The thoughts in my head don't seem to equate to much beyond the motions of eat (although on perma diet so adept at portion deprivation) sleep (fitful, appear to be morphing into my insomniac grandmother, 3 years gone but keenly missed) work (I posted about this here so I don't really think I ought to bore you on this subject again).

Life is supposed to be what happens between posts, except that this appears to consist of fistfuls of Celebrations in bed with morning cup of tea, scrawping at the occasional foodstuff in Gloom cupboard in half-arsed stab at avoidance, swiftly followed by lashings of paté and cheese as succumb to appetite and red wine back at Chateau Divorce. My life has the dreary inevitability of Groundhog Day, minus the Hollywood glamour and I don't seem to have the energy or mental agility to heave my way out of it. Inside I am the cliché of Munch's 'The Scream', stuck on a perpetual merry-go-round of fear, skewered and barbecued by my shitness.

Season's Greetings from possibly the most depressing blog you'll try and avoid in the future!

In a spectacularly lacklustre and overdue attempt at cheer I am going to list the random gobbler's (that would be me and my 'fowl' fondness for pecking at food) Christmas things to be grateful for (in way of 12 days of Christmas, but reduced to 7 as have dawdled for too long over this post and have lost track of countdown) largely as NB to self to snap the fuck out of it.

On the 7th day of Christmas the random gobbler was grateful for:

Despite apocalyptic-esque news flashes warning against the shortage of Christmas trees, I have gone forth and purchased a reasonably sized tree from local florist at the not-quite-as debilitating price I was fearing. It is bent at a strange angle, is molting profusely and appears to be poisonous. Plus the festive adornment I have accumulated over the years has made it resemble set reject from Xanadu, all disco dizziness and dated sparkle. But a tree at least!

On the 6th day she was grateful for:

Long overdue and (predictably) last minute trip to passport office to renew obvious necessity for New Year's Eve trip to New York. BF has come through and given me something to kick the last decade into a rarely referenced dark corner for once and for all.

Day 5: Mu-ulled WINE. Enough said.

Day 4: 'Where the wild things are'- visit pencilled in with tissues at the ready, wept profusely at 2 minute trailer so not hopeful of ability to resist feature length version. Just loving the omnipresent pull to melancholy.

On the 3rd day of Christmas: Matches deliver my sale 'bargains' and I am briefly comforted by yet more shoes to negotiate residual black ice patches.

Day 2- what Christmas Eve already?!

Dear FC,

Please ensure all love and infinite happiness for Daughter, who is without fail the most inspirational person I have the good fortune to know and what's more, this is all her own work.

If you could find your way to the odd grand or ten, world peace and an agreement at Copenhagen, that would be brilliant too.

Thanking you muchly,

Love and a sherry for the road,

The Divorcée

And lastly, on the 1st day of Christmas....

Over and out interweb and truly, may all your Christmases be bright (-er than here)....

Here's to the new decade

xxx

The Grinch that (nearly) stole Christmas

2009-12-07T18:20:00.022Z

And so to December, the most wonderful time of the year. Reputedly. Despite my best efforts it has not escaped my notice that the festivities are nearly upon us, in defiance of this feeling as extraneous as 'The Frog Chorus' being released as a contender for Christmas number 1 back in 1984.

The weather, the general malaise and the uncertainty that seem to be loitering like a particularly tenacious migraine has ensured that this year finds me desperately seeking the end of the decade.

Last Friday FB and I went forth to purchase our respective trees. Trundling to the garden centre I nearly keeled over at the almost 50% hike in prices since last year. FB left with a small, yet perfectly-formed version whilst I left with a tin of dusty travel sweets, not having the sufficient funds to impart on a small, yet perfectly-formed tree, clearly spun of liquid gold, mined by 16 legged magic worker-ants to be located solely in the outer reaches of the furthest solar system.

You see? From here on in I shall be referred to as the CG or Christmas Grinch. I have yet to steal Christmas but I am Thinking About It.

This may have something to do with the unavoidable fact that I am worried about Daughter. Watching her stoically and determinedly choosing presents for her father and his new family (including her step-siblings) despite a continued silence on his part has left me weeping into my Christmas biscuit mix.

Which brings me around to my original point of posting- I cannot conjur away the bad bits from the past, or pain-proof the future. I can worry about it unceasingly, certes, but what good will that do us really?

I can waste time wondering if, but more usefully I could spend it creating new memories, traditions and rituals.

I found this recipe last year, in the Independent and it was, quite frankly, the loveliest (and simplest) Christmas biscuit recipe I'd come across. It has since been moved into the recipe book and will become part of my new (thus far, somewhat mercurial) rituals of Christmas. The added bonus of hanging them as decorations on the unbought tree speaks for itself.

Although introduced by the inimitable Mark Hix, the recipe is, in fact via Xanthe Milton, aka The Cookie Girl.

Christmas spice biscuits

By Mark Hix

PHOTOGRAPHS BY JASON LOWE

Christmas spice biscuits

Makes about 40

360g plain flour

1tsp bicarbonate of soda

1tsp ground ginger

2tsp cinnamon

120g unsalted butter, softened

180g light Muscadavo sugar

1 egg (at room temperature) beaten

4tbsp golden syrup

For the icing

2 egg whites

300-400g icing sugar

¼-tsp red food colouring

Silver balls to decorate

Preheat the oven to 175C/gas mark 4. Sift the plain flour on to a sheet of greaseproof paper with the bicarbonate of soda and cinnamon. Cream the butter and sugar in a bowl with a wooden spoon for 4-5 minutes until fluffy. Slowly add the egg until well mixed then add the golden syrup. Fold in the flour mixture; mix to a smooth dough.

Dust a work surface with flour then dust your rolling pin with flour. Roll out the mixture to about 1cm thickness and cut out using a 4cm round cutter; keep putting the off-cuts back into a ball to re-roll so you get more biscuits out of it (sprinkle with water if it dries out).

Bake in the oven for 8-10 minutes; while still soft, make a hole near the edge of the biscuits with a skewer to allow you to thread a ribbon through them; cool. Now make the icing: mix the egg whites with enough icing sugar to make a firm but pipe-able icing. Divide the mixture in two then stir in the red colour paste to achieve the desirable colour. Spoon the icing into two separate piping bags, and decorate the cooled biscuits with stars, hearts and any other patterns that take your fancy. Allow to dry before threading with ribbon and hanging on the tree.

Cliché-sur-Mer

2009-12-03T16:17:00.025Z

In the summer of 1990 I spent my 16th year on the Atlantic coast of France in the shadow of the largest sand dune I had ever seen.

My frighteningly confident french correspondante was working in the bar on a campsite for the summer and I shared a tent with her in the area alloted to the workers. It was my first holiday without my parents and I felt both incredibly grown-up and anxiously naive. I spoke infrequently so as to appear aloof and interesting, as opposed to just bad at french. My talent for mimicry meant my accent made up for my lack of vocabulary. I shrugged vaguely if someone asked me something I didn't understand. I chain-smoked Lucky Strike's. I drank whisky filled with spoons of heated sugar, a drink they called a Chihuahua. I (belatedly) discovered Supertramp and The Eagles.

Skin taut from the sun and salt, my hair stiff with sand, I hitch-hiked back from the beach. Sure in the knowledge that I was doing something illicit and dangerous, I stayed out in clubs all night dancing to Tainted Love and went swimming in the sea in the tenebrous pre-dawn light.

I desperately wanted to fit in. I could hear the older girls with different men each night. These men who all seemed to so exotically superior to the boys back home and I wished I could speak the same language. I wished my clothes were different, my hair blonder, my thighs thinner. Wracked with self-doubt, I wished I was someone else.

Arnaud caught my eye, or perhaps it was he who singled me out. It was hard to tell. He was older, 21, from Brittany and like a younger, better-looking version of Depardieu before the due ravages of le bon viveur took their toll. He was visiting his friend Cécile, one of the older girls I would hear at night. Strangely he seemed to like me.

We drove the 15km up the coastal road through the pine forest and danced to Les Rita Mitsouko's 'C'est comme ça' in a nightclub on the beach. He caught me when I tripped and fell on the dance floor. He asked me, one eyebrow raised in lazy self-assurance, if all English men were bowler hat wearing redheads.

La correspondante eyed me suspiciously from across the mirrored club and shook her head critically. Half a year older than me gave her the maturity edge and she exercised it wherever possible. Making her way through the crowd she leaned into my ear and shouted 'Mais, tu sais ma belle, il s'en fou de toi' and blew smoke over my shoulder, looking at Arnaud who was surveying us from the bar. She worked her way over to him and said something. I stood and watched, the outsider fervently wishing for her way in.

On the day that he left, Arnaud leaned back against his ancient car, clutched my hand and made me promise to write to him. Handing over an illegible scrawl of an address he looked me up and down and said 'Je t'aime, tu sais?'.

I sat on the low wall that was the entrance to the campsite and watched for a long time after he'd gone.

Back in England my brother, who worked the Saturday shift in the Tobacco Kabin sold me Lucky Strike's. In the unforgiving gloom of the English high street they didn't taste the same, no matter how hard I inhaled. When I played Supertramp, everyone ridiculed the kitsch keyboards and high pitched wailing.

Of course, I never heard from Arnaud again, even after I'd sent him a cut-price Zippo purchased from the Tobacco Kabin as a birthday gift.

But that summer had sowed the seed and come the following January I had managed to find my way back to the Atlantic coast, an English girl abroad. Alone, but for her constitutional melancholy, hope, naivety and, bien sûr, her faithful pack of Lucky's.

Seeing red

2009-11-25T15:40:00.011Z

Aged 14, Best Friend and I discovered the allure of red lipstick. Unfortunately we didn't exactly pare back the rest of the make up and were to be found sporting alongside panda eyes, courtesy of Rimmel kohl and it's tendency to smudge. We thought we looked chic and grown up. We Did Not, judging from recently unearthed photos. We looked provocative, like lambs dressed for the slaughter and I would kill Daughter first before letting her out 'dressed like that!'. Brazen hypocrite that I am.

I like to think we've learnt a thing or two since then (but wouldn't necessarily put money on it).

I kind of subscribe to 'less is more' the older I get, my face looks haggard when trowelling on the slap so tend to aim for nude eyes (I'm not advocating mascara-free here, steady on, I'm no masochist. Just avoidance of panda eyes) should I dare to make the statement of the rouge rouge à lèvres.

As an aside, I think mebbe note to my younger self should be, 'less is more at any stage of your life, Dear'.

Anyway, Mrs F takes the credit here as she was the one who first introduced me to the perfect red. I say introduced, but in all honesty I didn't give her a lot of choice after accosting her in the street one day, demanding to know the name and make of her lippy. As it turned out it was 'Russian Red' by Mac, a creamy matte shade that doesn't bleed as easily as some other more expensive brands I've tried. Especially not when worn with a lip-liner.

Obviously I haven't gone forth and done a mori poll to see if one shade suits all, (Mrs F and I are blonde) but we've both received complimentary comments (in the main, but we shan't go there) and a friend at work who has red hair tried it and it works for her too. If all else fails, generally people are so transfixed by the colour that everything else blurs insignificantly into the background, so to top it off, it's just so forgiving....

Deetour

2009-11-25T09:06:00.005Z

I wanted to post this just because. No real reason, other than I completely fell in love with it when I heard it on the radio a few weeks back. I duly waited for them to name the artist, but they didn't, so I SHAZAM'D it. And it worked by Jove!

Specs, the final frontier

2009-11-24T19:18:00.016Z

In accordance with my previous post and dear FB's decree, more dreaming. So here goes...

I am considering purchasing a new pair of spectacles. Vanity has, up until now, ensured that I have paid considerable amounts per month, to a high street chain, guaranteeing sufficient deliveries of contact lenses to avoid donning my pair of antiquated specs. And therefore my subsequent embarrassment.

To be clear, I have no issue with glasses, just how I look in them. As I mentioned, it's vanity driven, undoubtedly.

That said, fashion devotee that I am, I've succumbed to the well-placed campaign for the 'Prism' collection by Anna Laub as seen on Garance's website and purchasable here at net-a-porter.com. To be freed of the daily eye-stabbing, for at least a few months (one would hope for more, given the price), in order to sport a sophisticated pair of bins that let me state my intentions, fashion-wise, as opposed to them dictating theirs is a rare treat indeed.

OK, yep, for the uninitiated and possibly for those in the know, I may be met with hoots of derision at my blind (!) devotion but hey, Best Friend bumped into old work colleague and make-up supremo Alex Box yesterday and she was wearing a pair of outsize specs, SO! Shameless name-dropping aside; what more does one need? Deirdre Barlow, eat your heart out.

FB decree's it so

2009-11-23T22:28:00.005Z

OK people, it's late, it's a Monday and we've all had that to deal with.

Bref, les enfants, Fag-Bangle has read and said that the blog is rather gloomy. Needs to be less of the fuming, more about dreaming- as the title suggests.

He is right of course, so a small post to say onwards, upwards and courage pour la suite.

Big bisous and tomorrow is another post xx

You don't bring me flowers

2009-11-19T19:01:00.003Z

There are some times when things are just shit all over.

There are times when you feel as though you've been fed through the shit mangle.

If I were a particularly superstitious person I may blame the prophetic number of lone magpie (is that the correct terminology? F*cked if I care right now) that have been merrily swooping into my line of vision of late. Taunting me with their cocked head, dead-eyed, harbinger of doom inevitability.

There are also times when you wonder what karmic crap you may have accumulated in a past life- or, for that matter, in this.

I am too weary to blog in detail about what has been a most horrid few days, the like of which not experienced since the Year of the Custody Battle, when I had to contend with all manner of vile surprises on a weekly basis.

So, light on the facts but suffice it to say, these involved;

Police cars: quivering wreck in the back of.

Financial crises: turning an otherwise clever person into a long-legged bird renowned for it's propensity to stuff it's head in the sand.

Points on a license: (mine) because of the stupid stupid stupid actions of aforementioned bird.

Possibly one should be wary of the blog as confessional, as it can come back to bite you in the ass. However, right now, I am PAST CARING. Besides, only a few folk I know (and not many I don't) read my mutterings and feel have been suitably oblique and vague as to have avoided causing lasting upset.

Unlike my week's experiences which have left me flailing about in murky waters and have most definitely caused lasting upset.

When one might feel deserved of grand sweeping gestures of apology/atonement, sadly, there have been none. I'm not sure if I start sounding the death knell or keep hoping for flowers.

Friday night

2009-11-13T15:31:00.013Z

I am going to post only this and in no particular order;

Point 1) Daughter has lost her 4th, YES 4TH coat of the school year (barely 2 months in for the non-parents among you).

Point 2) It is howling a ferocious gale outside, a threatened storm of biblical proportions is lying off the coast of the UK and the thermostat has chosen this moment to go to the great pile of useless household appliances in the sky.

Point 3) Ratpack has been for his millionth interview this month and is not overly jubilant about the outcome.

Point 4) Younger sister is due to come and babysit in order for us to 'step-out', like, on a proper date. Ratpack has just informed me that his friend Monkey is down on a stag-do and perhaps we could join them. And I could be 'the mascot'.

Point 5) I imagine this will consist of all manner of things I've no intention of even contemplating, let alone bearing witness to.

Point 6) I am not even sure that RP was joking re. point 4.

Point 7) Received a letter home about the non-fatal stabbing of a pupil by another pupil at Daughter's school. Ahh, at least it was non-fatal.

That's all folks.

In pursuit of the perfect jogger bottom

2009-11-12T18:23:00.006Z

Ok, the title may be a bit of an oxymoron, granted. But actually, my fashion brain-worm has been gradually and insidiously growing in strength regarding tracksuit bottoms. And then, lo, what do I see in this month's British Vogue, but a whole piece dedicated to their status as current fashion must-have.

The fashion radar has been bleeping relentlessly in my head and I have decided to go forth in search of a pair that somehow miraculously doesn't transform me into a leisure centre employee or long-term benefits recipient.

No easy task with the clutch of fairly mundane high street shops that currently occupy the retail space in this town.

I have tried, on several occasions, to achieve an insouciant yet achingly fashion forward look with the joggers in American Apparel these past few months. Every time has ended in me staring aghast at my reflection as the strangely coiffed assistants largely ignore the chump in the corner that is middle-aged me. No matter, I jauntily/optimistically intend to give it another go. Because on previous visits I was just having a 'bad fashion day' and my thighs have shrunk despite the kilograms having crept up.

Post search update:

This is an utterly pointless quest- I have trawled about hither and thither looking for the aforementioned item and all I can say is this- tracksuit bottoms shall remain resolutely off my radar. On a day when I was not feeling on particularly sparkling form having woken at 5.30 a.m. with 'the fear' about last night (another blog post beckons) and thus consumed 2 (!) jammy doughnuts for the much needed sugar rush to get me through work, it's the fashion slave's equivalent of the search for the holy grail. An urban myth that results in lost hours dedicated to the pursuit of the impossible.

I shall just have to find something else to sport with the Surface to Air multi-buckle wedges which are lovely and deserved of a trouser other than jeans or the ubiquitous webbed-crotch harems. Just not a tracksuit trouser, clearly.

Post post update : Ratpack has just questioned my judgement in that lounge wear and this particular fashion shoe may never have made happy bedfellows. I fear he may be right.

Armistice

2009-11-11T08:00:00.005Z

For some time now, Daughter has not heard from her father. He ceased maintenance payments years ago and after a long, protracted and largely unnecessary court battle it seems that he has decided to sever contact completely, despite overtures from Daughter herself.

From a purely personal and selfish point of view it would be not be an untruth to say that I am relieved that neither the spectre of him, nor that of his new family haunts us as it once did.

But from the objective view of the professional I am not, I mourn the loss for Daughter and also, for him.

In light of the hour, the day and the month, the sobering reality of all those who have suffered far more than the futile bickerings of parents who no longer see eye-to-eye looms large.

I think of those who no longer have the option to argue over a son or daughter, family member or friend. Left only with the immeasurable grief and memories, that can be of little comfort in the face of such senseless tragedy.

The wars fought, the fallen, those who have yet to fall and the monumental debt we owe them cling to my thoughts. The poppies a flash of unflinching colour in an otherwise stark landscape of loss. The clock will mark the minutes and time will go on regardless.

And I, the consummate professional that I am not, shall endeavour to keep a door open. There is little sense or satisfaction, in doing otherwise.

Sisterhood

2009-11-09T16:47:00.011Z

Daughter is railing against her 'monobrow' after comments from schoolfriends. I am failing to convince her from reacting to it even though (because) I unintentionally plucked mine into extinction. This should of course work in my favour, but I'm not allowing for the contrary nature of a tween brandishing a pair of tweezers.

Plus she is recounting the latest installment of 'the steps at school'. It is like a real life version of Gossip Girl minus the designer outfits. It is awful and renders me momentarily mute with sadness. Why can girls be so mean? My own school days aren't so distant that I don't recall the same dreaded falling's in, falling's out, best friend lists and furtively vicious whisperings.

So it was with cheer that I read about the solidarity that increasing numbers of women are discovering online from the burgeoning blogging community, in India Knight's piece in last week's Sunday Times. The wonderful Mrs Trefusis also wrote about the inspiration to be drawn from the internet in a recent fantastic post on her eponymous blog.

I am new to this world, but I am deeply heartened by this turn of events. Encouraged enough to hope that something more profound is afoot- it is surely high time.

A friend authored the SEAL (social and emotional aspects of learning) educational aid books designed initially for implementation within Primary schools. My mother is credited with helping her, as together they shared a precipitative belief in the necessity of teaching emotional literacy to young children. It has been met with phenomenal success, becoming an everyday reference aid for the modern classroom.

They are hoping to mirror this level of success within the Secondary sector, despite the different challenges that this age group will present.

It gives me hope that it may infiltrate it's way into the conscience of the Mean Girls before too much damage is done, thus opening them up to the endless potential of kindness and the regenerative gift of sisterhood.

Mini post- 'Bad Emu'

2009-11-03T18:09:00.027Z

Pifflingly poor mini-post:

EMS remarked upon seeing photos of me in my feather 'cape' that I looked like a bad emu. I have decided that, on balance, there is no need for me to share in my outfit malfunction and thus have relegated all photographic evidence to the 'Annals of Shame, pt 1'. Apologies to all of you who were 'waiting with baited breath' for the proof of my Halloween shenanigans.

Outfit fail/ Work win: The Gloom Cupboard is usually deserved of it's title, but yesterday we got a (litre bottle!) handout of Tanqueray. No matter that it's been kicking about for a few years in a dusty cupboard (luckily it's aging better than this particular consumer) it has resoundingly succeeded in obliterating my job despair and self-pity. For one night only at least. There's every chance that, come tomorrow, you'll find me in a corner muttering darkly about Mother's Ruin.

Epic career fail

2009-11-01T13:56:00.019Z

I'm not really enjoying my job. It's not the job's fault, it never pretended to be anything other than it was, but two years in a position you never meant to be more than a stop-gap can test a person's dedication.

Perhaps I should elaborate. I spent most of my twenties and early thirties living in France, in the south, but not the chic side. Although the village I lived in had breathtaking views, pigs vastly outnumbered humans and the unemployment rate in the region was way above the national average. This was a place people went to retire and quaff away their pensions, not launch fabulously successful careers. A career graveyard, in short.

Plus I had a small child to raise. Whilst all my friends were striking out after University, juggling jobs with social lives that appeared to consist of occasionally crossing the path of a minor celebrity, I sat in a semi-derelict house with no central heating. Largely feeling sorry for myself.

To compensate I wore the most incongruous of my shoes, grimly tripping about the countryside in kitten heels to the justifiable mirth of the ex-pats and confusion des agriculteurs.

When Daughter was 4, I got a job running the office of an estate agency in the nearest big town. It was an hour and a half's round trip and the wages barely covered my petrol money. This, coupled with the excruciating sexual innuendoes of a colleague, excusable apparently by my anglo-saxon misinterpretation of his latin lyricism, made my position swiftly untenable.

I developed an interest in interior design, which is not surprising given the derelict house needed considerable amounts of TLC. I got quite rabid about it and even did the odd bit of paid work. I started to wear the occasional sensible (terrain appropriate) shoe. People sniggered less.

The interest peaked, then waned around 3 years ago and frankly there wasn't the money in it. I retain a detached interest but the passion has most definitely left the building. I could barely muster the enthusiasm required when eminently more successful (EMS) brother rang to tell me about his new Eames lounge chair and ottoman.

In the end, I gave up and decided to move back 2 years ago. Since then I've been offered a place on a Law conversion course, borne out of the ensuing hideousness that found me engaging the services of not one but 3 separate lawyers. The last one, an impossibly glamourous Parisienne who helped me breathe again inspired me enough to apply. If I can rummage together the necessary cash perhaps this time next year I shall (finally) be embarking on a career trajectory.

In lieu of the French fashion editorship that I've been hankering after but which unfathomably hasn't been forthcoming, this seems like something a Divorcée might dare to dream about.

Halloween

2009-10-31T11:14:00.013Z

When I was a child Halloween had sad connotations, we would visit the cemetery to mark my brother's birthday on the 30th and really, England didn't get too excited about it then. We didn't have pumpkins as we could never find them- we were stuck with swedes which, not being a desperately soft or malleable vegetable caused hours of frustration and freezing fingers (not sure why we hollowed them outside but we did).

How things have moved on on the hollowing front- I have been seriously impressed by the wonderful creations you can make from a simple pumpkin and the odd gourd as posted by India Knight at http://moby.to/jdy50h. Not only that there are links to recipes you can make with the leftovers on her brilliant website www.indiaknight.posterous.com. I cannot tell you how these little carvings of creativity lift my spirits and make me smile.

I am a sucker for festivities and never need an excuse to dress up, so this year I shall be sporting my slightly macabre feather cape (I'm not sure this adequately covers what it is but I am at a loss as to how else to describe it) which definitely has more than a touch of the Elizabethan ruff about it when the wind gets up. It is appropriately witchy (not to mention faintly ridiculous). Although I am pretty certain I am too old for the newly purchased gothic Mac eye makeup, I am stubbornly clinging to my theme and will not be deterred, even if the kohl bleeds out into the crows feet.

With 'Werewolves of London' howling down the iPod I shall be hopping on my broomstick and heading to the capital for a night with the wonderful K. Freed from offspring for the evening the intention is to paint the town fake-blood red. However, I am not sure how the feathers will withstand the drizzle or how I will withstand the absurdly vertiginous heels. I stumble in flats so am not overly optimistic.

(Edited) pictures to follow.

This time of year

2009-10-28T16:13:00.014Z

My 'garden' is awash with autumnal mist and decaying flowers. A metaphor for my life if ever there was one! Pretentious navel-gazing aside, there is a strange juxtaposition to this time of year for me: melancholy spars with beauty at every corner, I am hopeful and despondent in equal measure.

In a school year, it's a time of new beginnings but in the calendar year we are hurtling towards the wastelands of winter. Hmmm, what's a terminal nostalgic to do but peer into the middle distance and chin-scratch about it online for all the world to see?

Daughter is in the first term of secondary school, smashing boundaries and marking milestones in the way of a toddler left, right and centre. These include taking the bus 3 miles to school and back on her own, going to town with friends and shutting herself resolutely away in her room away from (boring old git) prying eyes. Oh, and lest I forget, a daily request for permission to swear (denied).

She too is on the cusp, lessening her grip on childhood whilst simultaneously edging irrevocably towards teenage. The rolling eyes and mutinous mutterings are a daily occurrence, but the hugs and declarations of love are still there, albeit becoming more spartan with each day.

Which means, inevitably, that I too should be coming of age although aged 35 I still have yet to work out what I want to be when I grow up. Every September I enroll in exercise classes and vow to make this year the year in which I turn my life around. Every year, I am face-down and defeated come Christmas.

In what many may legitimately claim to be a spectacular show of self-indulgence I have hidden for far too long behind the excuses. And although I know that 35 years is 35 years by anyone's reckoning I can't help but feel astonished at how little I have accomplished in terms of what I wished for when I was Daughter's age. I am running out of them though, the excuses I mean.

Before I sink into total despondency and you lose the will to read on, I should try and reel this post back to it's original intention. There is much to learn from Daughter and her intrepid enthusiasm. There is also much to be grateful for, despite life's illogical glancing blows.

I'm not trying to be remotely profound, I'm furiously deleting, adding and cringing whilst writing this post. I do know however, that despite my best efforts to the contrary I am still here, if only treading water.

It's no longer really justifiable to cower behind the events of the past (but you can file them away in a dusty corner under 'lessons learnt') and it's about time I moved on and I know it. I could do worse than learn the odd thing from the splendour in seasons and their inevitability.

Oh, and rest assured, this year am working within my limitations and have decided on a DVD of Yogilates as opposed to signing up for cripplingly expensive/humiliating course of 12 lessons that I will never complete. You see how I have progressed!

I really like this coat. As does my best friend.

2009-10-26T17:53:00.010Z

Ok, I have not written anything for awhile now and I realise that this is Not Good Enough. It seems that I may have lost my way in the mundane meanderings of my every day life. In doing so, I lost out on a competition I won, as it never occurred to me that anyone would even happen across my blog let alone bother to post a comment.

Gnash gnash.

So, to get me back into the saddle as it were, I am going to post about something jolly trivial but which I happen to like very much. My latest Topshop purchase (curse the teenage assistant who deftly talked me into a store card when I am very definitely old enough to know better), the Isabel Marant knock-off print coat. I liked it so much I told my best friend. Who then promptly went out and bought it along with the ankle boots I'd purchased that were clearly also inspired by La Marant.

I would post a picture, but as I am utterly incompetent I have missed the Topshop boat and thus have no visual aid to stimulate. Bugger. However, if, unlike me, you are proactive you can dash to the stores and pick these up before they go forever. The boots have pinprick studs and the coat is an animal print of some kind that may or may not be leopard. You have been told.

Sheesh raining again

2009-10-08T18:16:00.014+01:00

Day 4 : In which I waffle vacuously about yesterday.

What I did : lay in bed, texting back and forth with fellow sickly J aka (self-named) 'Fag Bangle' about' The September Issue' and wonky eyes. Made him promise to let on if one of my eyes decides to cut loose and strike out in a different direction.

What I ate : far too much ruddy 'luxury' flapjack.

What I drank : Ratpack went and purchased some whisky (usually yuck) for hot toddy's.

What I learnt : Lucozade and whisky do not a nice drink make.

What I read : The blogs ; LLG, Mrs T, Belgian Waffle, Garance, India Knight,

The papers : The Independent, Guardian, Times online and, ahem ...... the Daily Mail. Sorry about that last one, but the showbiz section is annoyingly good and it's always wise to keep one step ahead of your enemies. The book : The Elegance of the Hedgehog, only the French do existential angst this well in a 12 year old.

What I decided : trip to London to organise- a date is made for Fag Bangle's upcoming birthday celebrations at either Claridge's/The Wolseley/Polpo. Fag Bangle has decided (in light of 'The September Issue') that a) he wants to get a life and b) a wardrobe to accessorise this so a trip to Paris is also in offing. Provided some of the wretched shoes actually sell on eBay .... come on people, never mind the prevaricating- £130 for an as-new pair of Louboutin's is sale of the century.

What nearly tipped me over the edge : Barely a month into Daughter's first term at secondary school and already we are 3 coats down. Plus I received a text informing me that she had failed to do her homework. Even though we asked repeatedly if she had any. Cue much gnashing of teeth and fretting as to whether she'll ever get any GCSE's. Distressingly, it becomes apparent that I have turned into my mother.

What I put in my virtual shopping basket : The red suede Balmain buckle boots or failing that, the YSL mid-calf Imperiale boots (see above). As this is fantasy shopping why not have both and why stop there? Ah, relief, clearly I am retaining some of my own ('immoral', 'vulgar') traits after all.

What I am waiting for : How much time have you got? I'll start with FB's copies of 'The September Issue' and the dear old Queen Mum's biog. Tinkety tonk old fruits and mine's a Gin and Dubonnet.

National Poetry Day

2009-10-08T10:56:00.009+01:00

Choices

Shuffling a deck of cards in preparation for a game

I may never win- I lack the concentration you see,

Do not possess the will you'll see-

I dream of places where my spirit resides, watching

As I did, it slip through the storm drain

And away to slick the puddles, inky reflections of a disfigured

Life more ordinary than I care to admit.

Dealing the shuffled cards out around the table

I inhabit the silences, the pause between breath, the commas at the

End of a sentence and the prelude to a full stop. My body is stubborn

But my thoughts flit like splinters from a felled tree

Occasionally nicking the skin of another and causing

Momentary pain. One of life's communicators

I have failed at this, more than I care to admit.

Studying the faces, eyes averted, cards tight, the game

Is On and I laugh at the profanities spilling forth

Like talismans, guarding the gates of defeat. My own

stalks the thoughts in my head, moment to moment

Hour upon hour, one day to the next, the ticking relentless,

as inevitable as tomorrow. Mid game, I look to lose

Less troubled by this than I care to admit.

Fearful of failure, back down the years, cards dealt out the future

And life strung a necklace of little sorrows, clicking like pearls

Dulled with age, yet omnipotent still. For pearls mean

Tears and I taught myself well. The hand dealt, the will spent,

I discovered new tricks, found my poker face and learnt fast

That disguise in this deception, designed for my protection

Has left me more wounded than I care to admit.

Starve a fever, feed a cold

2009-10-07T12:37:00.025+01:00

Day 2 of the illness (almost certainly 'swine flu- the second coming') and I am adrift in my bed surrounded by tissues, Lucozade and the latest Vogue (more of which later).

My eye is perpetually leaking, as is my nose and I have scuppered my daily calorific intake by scoffing a chunk of 'luxury' flapjack this morning. The 'luxury' is clearly in the eating, as it contains horrifying levels of fat and sugar. It is only marginally redeemed by the pumpkin seeds and paltry attempts at fruit content.

Ratpack is asking what I want for lunch and I realise that I have consumed most of what I vaguely allow myself a day in one possessed swoop. When I mention this he looks annoyed but resigned and points out the old adage and the idiocy of calorie counting when your body is a battlefield.

Fair point, but the afore-mentioned Vogue is keeping a beady eye on me. At this juncture I should take the time to articulate my love/hate relationship with British Vogue. Mostly, I love it, (although admittedly not as much as I love the French version under the irreproachable guidance of Carine Roitfeld) but it can also plunge me into the deepest of despairs, should it plop onto the doormat at a certain low ebb in the month.

This is due, largely, to my intense aversion to 'society events' (rooted in middle-class jealousy undoubtedly) coupled with the pages and pages of people being supremely more successful and talented than me, in everything they do. My own personal 'mirror mirror on the wall, who is the crappest of them all?' if you like.

It seems superfluous to mention how thin everyone is, not to mention dully predictable. Isn't everyone so thin though? And this isn't restricted to the models either, as my trip to LFW confirmed. Not even my newly purchased über-heels could elongate my stumps to the flamingo sticks nervously picking their way over the cobbles of Somerset House (cobbles- whose oversight was that?).

This is the essence of my fat/thin dilemma. My mental battlefield if you will. It is an absolute necessity to be responsible with regards to eating for Daughter's sake. At 11 she is on the cusp of a potentially devastating assault on her emotional well-being without chucking anorexia into the mix. Yet I cannot deny that the quest for/obsession with being thin is all pervasive and indelibly imprinted onto my psyche.

To make even a stab at tackling this hot potato (pardon the food analogy) would be to vastly over-stretch my limited brainpower and imply an intelligence I do not have. Plus, this post is turning epic.

On that note then, a picture of the luxury flapjack to bring things back to banality.

P.S Unconvinced of the 'cleaning-products-as-outfits' this month. Isn't it all a bit insultingly calculated and hollow? About as sincere as William Hague in a baseball cap?

Sorry this picture is awful, I'll edit it when I can be bothered.

Delusional thoughts of grandeur

2009-10-06T16:12:00.001+01:00

So I am slumped in bed, prostrate with ferocious head cold, pecking at the keyboard whilst waiting for the narcotics to navigate their way through the foggy ramblings of my mind and work their pharmaceutical sorcery. Ta-da! Alacazam! Abracadabra! Pif paf poof and as if by magic..... I shall create the most seminal post ever! Probably.

Bafflingly, the multitude of glittering ideas that stalked me during the hours of 1 and 3 last night as I heavy breathed (snorted- is it swine flu?) and got tangled in the sheets, have evaporated with the sallow light of a soggy grey morning.

Whilst hallucinating one's way to brilliance is probably not achieved via over-the-counter cold and flu capsules, self-delusion can be easily accomplished with a high temperature, a fitful few lost hours in the dead of night and the occasional flash of daring. Dreams here I come.

Garance Doré

2009-10-04T19:06:00.007+01:00

As Paris Fashion Week draws to a close, the culmination of the Spring/Summer '10 shows, I am drawn to a fistful of blogs fiercely dedicated to the art of fashion. A couple really shine for me and one of my favourites is by illustrator and photographer Garance Doré. Her fabulous photographs are inspirational in their simplicity and choice of subject. Her approach makes for reassuringly down-to-earth fashion posts. Her warmth radiates from the page and her unaffected enthusiasm makes you feel like you want her for your friend. Which all comes across as fairly gushy and teenage of me, revealing slightly more than is strictly acceptable in the glacial world of fashion. Eh beh, tant pis.

During fashion's turn in London, I was fortunate enough to attend Garance's collaborative pop-up show (owing to a combination of wile and confidence from friend and cohort, Mrs F) at the Gap store in Kingly Street.

She was taller than I expected, more smiley than I ever thought fashion folk knew how to be and had the most fabulous pair of vertiginous heels I had ever seen. Natch.

Too self-conscious to actually do anything normal such as talk to her, I admired her wonderful illustrations, pretended not to covet other people's shoes, eavesdropped on some pretentious waffle and listened attentively to snippets of relevance. In short, I loved every minute of it.

As we left, Mrs F had the presence of mind and good manners (that had momentarily deserted me as I stood there, squinting at the floor whilst attempting to adopt the nonchalance of the invited) to thank Garance for the show. Her slightly perplexed expression meant one of two things, she didn't understand the english or she'd rumbled us for gate-crashing. Either way, we had a fabulous time. Merci Garance, I salute you.

Inauspicious beginnings

2009-10-04T15:17:00.002+01:00

So, for my inaugural post I find my mind curiously blank, not a desperately auspicious start for a virgin blogger. 'Bag', my wonderful writer friend who I wondered around Bloomsbury with yesterday had some forthright advice;

Pop yourself in front of your laptop with some cheap plonk, your ￡2.99 bottle, (not sure where she's been shopping for wine, but commiseration's to her taste buds) and get drunk!”.

Then, noticing Daughter's ears wagging; “Not drunk, that would be awful (knowing look to me) but squiffy, tipsy and so on. Not ONE of the pieces I wrote for the column did I write sober. Frees you of inhibitions. Lubrication for your art.”

Bag (so called for her penchant for Lucite handbags, not because she is one) is a person whose opinion I value above many others. She is supremely lovely, clever and original, and very very funny.

That said I am still in the clutches of an apocalyptic hangover brought on by a rare night out and an ill advisedly youthful approach to quaffing back the Berrytini's. The thought of alcohol of any kind has me clutching at my dressing gown and shuddering back under the covers. Superfluous cups of tea, instant noodles and stone cold baths are about the level of my capabilities today. Oh and apparently my first blog post.

Stick with me dear readers, the inane droning can only improve!