COINCIDENCE...

Still resting, toes still black and blue, no idea what's going on under the plastercast until they remove it, please let them remove it, going to Paris in four days hiiiihiiiii. I've become quite attached to the notion that Paris won't take kindly to me with a gammy leg. My ugly NHS crutches will be confiscated at customs; because of my biscuit eating/resting induced poor muscle tone I'll be sent home with a copy of the secret leek soup diet tucked inside my passport. If I do manage to slip through with my crutches people will give me withering looks as I gingerly negotiate the cobblestone courtyard outside where I stay. Someone may even tread on my foot - the worst possible scenario. I don't know why I think this, maybe because I can't remember ever seeing a person in a wheelchair in Paris, or any disabled access - I've always noticed these things of course.

By complete coincidence I discovered the 1930s swimming pool in Paris I was looking for when I still thought I'd be flapping my feet around in no time. Because the film of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly was shown at Cannes I decided to read the book again in anticipation. The author, Jean-Dominique Bauby, recounts a memory of going to the Molitor swimming pool as a young boy and I knew instantly that was it. It looks like it was fantastic, but sadly, was closed down in 1989 and the building is now in a dilapidated state. It's kind of tragic - the pool and the book.
Jean- Dominique Bauby was the editor in chief of French Elle. At the age of 42 he had a massive stroke and went into a coma. When he woke up he was completely paralysed, unable to speak and could only move his left eye. He dictated the entire book by having the alphabet read to him and blinking when it got to the letter he wanted to use. It's a very humorous book actually, as well as sad: a mixture of memoir and daily observations on his condition, the reactions of people around him and the frustrations of being looked upon as a "turnip" when his mind is still fully intact. Another coincidence: when I opened the book again there was a label inside the cover with "Please return to..." and my mother's name written in her handwriting. I can't remember if it was her book and she lent it to someone in hospital, or if it was mine and I lent it to her.

For some reason the book and she popped up at the same time - probably to remind me of Jean-Dominique blinking his way through a chapter or her steadfastly refusing any help when it would have taken someone else 10 seconds to do what it took her an hour to struggle to do.

I'll just think of them when I have to get on the metro with my broken foot and suitcase. Easy.

J'ADORING...

I am an idiot. Seeing bubblegum pink heart shaped sunnies much the same as those on the right, in Tesco's of all places pre-footgate and immediately thinking, "Those are sooo perfect for Gracie!" I snapped them up for a quid. And now? Gracie loved them as I thought but... I keep thinking about them. Can't see them anywhere online...I know they're silly but you can never have too many Lolita-ish novelty dressing up accessories knocking around can you?

New blog love alert: Cherry Blossom Girl I think I might love you. You like all the same things as me: The Little Prince, Bonjour Tristesse, macarons, Au Revoir Simone...Your wardrobe of Zara, H&M, bit of Chloe, bit of APC, too, too many gorge vintage bags - how do you make it all look so . perfect? There are so many good French blogs, I really must try harder to learn the language properly. Somehow it just falls straight out of my brain.

Also: Labels! I've labelled all my Paris posts so you can see them all together under the inventive title of Paris. But! At 30 posts and counting, Blogger appears to only have room for half of them. So it goes back as far as March 2006, then the rest are buried in the archives somewhere. Annoying! Maybe I'll call those ones Ancient Paris. In fact Blogger is behaving very capriciously today. I am going to leave it alone now.

Happy long weekend - or if you're in England, don't forget your brolly...

PLASTERED...

I just joined Love Film and found all the films I could never find in my local video store, which by the way, just went out of business. So far in the queue there's:

Auberge Espagnole
Cleo de 5 a 7 by Agnes Varda - I've been wanting to see this forever, I think it's being re-released.
Dans Paris (reserved - again, good to have a steady flow of Romain)
Play It Again Sam
Darling

Love Film claims to have the largest selection of films in Europe and I think I believe them. My only two quibbles are that there's no classic film section in their search categories, and also that when you reserve a soon to be released film it doesn't give you any indication of when you'll receive it. But how exciting to see all these films and plop, they just come through the letterbox. Anyone have any recommendations? I'm trying to only get films I've never seen, but how are you supposed to know which films I haven't seen? I couldn't think of any more recent ones as I generally see every new release I'm interested in at the cinema. But do give me any recs although, (as you may have gathered) I am incredibly fussy and particular about what I like and do not like. Unless you were going to recommend The Holiday in which case you have no one but yourself to blame.

And why the need for all these dvds? Why am I not going to the cinema this evening to see This Is England? (I know I keep going on about my foot - god knows there are many worse things that people deal with. Really, really I do know and I bless every bit of my otherwise healthy body and yours too.)
I went to the hospital for what I thought was a check up this morning. I thought the doc would say, "Well done, healing nicely" and send me hobbling off again. But I was manhandled into a little room where they encased my foot and half my leg in a plaster cast, and placed a blue velcro "shoe" on my foot. "But I'm going to Paris," I squeaked repeatedly to the plaster loving Nazi doctor. He agreed to let me have it removed before I go thank god, because frankly, apart from anything else the blue smurf shoe is not at all chic.

Lola runs away whenever I go near her with my enormous cumbersome mummified leg and the builders had to carry me up the steps when I came home. Thank goodness they're there really, especially the young handsome one. And sweet too! Bit young for me though. They say it's crucial to the recovery process to have something pretty to look at.

RECHERCHE...

A few days in Paris beckons - I hope to saunter around rather than hobble by then; but a week of "resting" prone on the sofa eating a steady intake of ready meals has done nothing for the old forme. No trying on clothes in those horrible communal changing rooms particular to Paris where women openly stare, not at how the clothes look, but at each others figures, for me then.

Luckily for those in need of exercise, Paris has some nice public swimming pools - the Club Quartier Latin looks lovely - it's only 3.70 euros for a swim and Cathy Horyn went there during fashion week, which somehow reassures me that it must be reasonably hygienic and aesthetically pleasing. But maybe I'm missing out on a better pool. I once read about a public pool in Paris that still had its beautiful art deco interior intact. Ring any bells for anyone?

I also found a place that hires out lovely Dutch bicycles - look! Ding ding! - by the half day, day, weekend, even for three months if you're lucky enough to be in Paris that long.

Or maybe I could just blend in and not eat, smoke loads of cigarettes and drink coffee all day while I'm there.

I'll get in the Paris mood by seeing Dans Paris at the Institut Francais here in London before I go - something about depression, anyway it's got Romain Duris in it so who cares about the plot.

And when I return: To stave off post Paris malaise, Paris Je T'Aime is finally being released in the U.K on June 29th. It's taken so long I thought I'd missed its release and asked for it in my local DVD shop. I stood there for about ten minutes trying to explain to the boy working there that it was directed not by one person but lots of different people, but I couldn't remember who any of them were and he wasn't really getting the whole arrondissement scenario.

TAGGED...

Here be the rules for this meme thing:

Each person tagged gives seven random facts about themselves. Those tagged need to write on their blog seven facts, as well as the rules of the game. You need to tag seven others and list their names on your blog. You have to leave those you plan on tagging a note in their comments so they know that they have been tagged and need to read your blog.
Lottie kindly tagged me so here goes:

1. As an (only) child I was obsessed with the cartoon of 'Inspector Gadget' and used to run round the block as if pursuing baddies with my hair in bunches, talking into my Casio digital watch.

2. I have not worn any bright red clothes for nine years.

3. Every time I think of something random I think I may have already mentioned it in a meme. Am I memed out? I am a bit paranoid about the amount of random info I may have sent out into the blogosphere; and that someone will catch me out and realise there are only 13 or so things I can come up with before I start repeating myself. Oh okay, that's not really one. Um...I have a tattoo. Did I tell you that before?

4. In the mid '80s I won a disco dancing competition on holiday in Bournemouth (what's more random, the competition or the fact that I went to Bournemouth on holiday?) I won a 7" single of a song called Pump It Up and a bag of Walker's Salt and Vinegar crisps.

5. I'm in love with film, I love music, but have a deep and unexplained loathing of plays and musicals. They just make me cringe. Also when people break into song on television I have to hide behind the sofa.

6. It's quite unbelievable that I've kept this blog going for almost two years as usually any kind of routine goes out the window in a matter of days. There is actually nothing else regular and habitual in my life. Perhaps this is the rock that holds me together.

7. I have a collection of accidental collections. Somehow on my travels I always end up purchasing salt and pepper shakers, eggcups, more glassware - to the extent that I keep the surplus in a box under my bed, odd chandelier drops and eye creams. (And obviously bags and shoes but that's completely normal.) I also have a habit of always buying people decorative doorknobs or teapots (hi Mia!) as gifts.

Elizabeth, Julia, Adeleine, Ashley, Catharine, Lauren, Elisabeth - consider your good selves tagged.

MAYBE EITHER A POWERCUT DUE TO A BOLT OF LIGHTNING OR A FLOOD THAT SWEEPS MY LAPTOP AWAY?...

This may turn out to be like when I went on about how great having a fringe was, only to have it trimmed a few days later which left me looking like I was trying to hide my frontal lobotomy scar for the next month.

This may turn out to be like when I said "You have to be careful 'cos you don't want to end up getting pissed and falling over," before doing exactly that which left me unable to walk.

This may be like when I said I was going to see Au Revoir Simone play live yesterday but instead stayed home with my foot up due to above (clue - it wasn't because my fringe wasn't up to their admittedly high standards.)

This may even turn out to be like when I finally got round to buying a bike, and went on about how great it is to pedal (ouch) along, only for it to languish in the hallway because.....I'm sure you can work out the rest.

I may be tempting those cruel gods of internet fate, but I must tell you that I am sitting at home, writing on my laptop, which appears to have been connected successfully to the internet for at least half an hour. Okay, the light is yellow when it should be green and the techie people didn't turn up (of course!) so I have somehow cobbled together a connection.

I shall now stay up all night reading the last two month's archives of my 500 favourite blogs.

Unless The Universe decides not.

YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND BABY...

Edit* Curioser and curioser. Not only has the remote control broken, as well as my internet but we have builders renovating our front steps so they are unusable. I am literally trapped! I also have a lovely new bike and a new lawnmower which are as much use to me as a chocolate teapot. Edit 2¤ I just decided to put my foot up on a three legged stool and it broke.

Okay so I kind of spoiled the surprise and bp you are so spookily right about the shoe though I can't blame it entirely. Alcohol, a man and a wonky floor were also involved. But anyway I'll leave the post as it was when I wrote it, below:


Did you know how much I love to dance? We Pisceans leap at the chance to twirl and shimmy, so what better excuse than the wedding of my dear cous last weekend?

I hastily reconsidered wearing the backless chiffon dress (purchased during the recent heatwave) as the skies opened and the temperature plummeted. Spirits were not dampened however and with the aid of about a hundred golf umbrellas, we all got from the abbey to the marquee in one piece. It was a beautiful and emotional day - the end of one era and the beginning of another as (sniff!) the first of my cousins took her vows.

I ended up wearing an aquamarine chiffon and silk '60s mini shift dress that was my mum's, my fave black Martin Grant boat necked jacket, opaque black tights and one of my two pairs of "comfortable" heels - the black satin vintage Ferragamos picked up for a song at Greenwich market. (My other comfortable heels are the Rupert Sanderson ones with the 55mm heel. Clever old Rupert has essentially discovered the holy grail of heel height. I've been meaning to write a post about it for ages.)

So, back in the marquee I have no idea what music the band was playing or with whom I was dancing, but there was much twirling and spinning, spinning, spinning in the other direction, spinniiii......snap.

Don't worry girls it wasn't the heel of my vintage Ferragamos snapping. That would merely have been a wardrobe malfunction; this was searing, indescribable pain. The snapping noise was the fifth metatarsal and cuboid bones in my foot breaking as I fell off the edge of the dancefloor.

I believe my dance partner, whose identity so far remains a closely guarded secret, sort of stood there swaying (I will discover his identity - I may be physically compromised but a few days of detox and the old noggin will retain its usual powers of deduction.)

After a few minutes of sitting on the floor for a lifetime, somehow The Tallest Man on Earth, elegantly I'm told, scooped up the crumpled leaden weight of moi from the floor and carried it to a little golden chair. My foot was placed on another little golden chair. (Chivalry: apparently not dead as previously suspected.) There was soon a crowd viewing the large egg shaped lump on my foot which was clearly visible through my tights. A procession of rather pissed wedding guests/off duty doctors was summoned to prod and poke the lump in a professional manner. "Dosshish hurr whenna dojish? Canya wiggle yer toes? Nah, yabbe rigghh ish jush twishted."

"Yes it does bloody hurt and no I cannot wiggle my toes. In fact anyone who is not a foot specialist but is a gynaecologist or a dentist or indeed a VET has no business prodding my foot," is what I said to myself in hindsight the next morning. At the time I just glugged silently on a water glass full of straight vodka which I believe I may have requested "for the pain."

And then the water was leaking from my eyes because it really did hurt and I was the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. So my other cousin's boyfriend who is The Go To Guy In All Emergencies was charged with getting me and my foot across a waterlogged paddock, along a potholed lane in the dark, down a couple of cobbled paths, into the house and up three flights of stairs (how I have no idea, the vodka had kicked in by then) to the attic room where I promptly crashed out.

The irony is that at the beginning of the reception when we were all being plied with refills of champagne I kept refusing more; uttering these exact words to someone more sensible than I:

"You have to be careful 'cos the last thing you want to do at a wedding is get pissed and end up falling over."

SNAP...

I have not been around this week because not only do I have no internet connection, I am currently unable to walk to the internet cafe, or anywhere, due to a BROKEN FOOT. So obviously all I can do is lie on the sofa with my leg elevated watching daytime TV, or at least I was until THE REMOTE CONTROL BROKE. Do you think someone's trying to tell me something - like stop procrastinating and write that bloody thing everyone keeps telling you you should and shall write? My lovely neighbour is letting me use her internet for a moment to say I will be back, and soon, with up and running internet and the funny story of how the foot came to snap...

Wanna see a picture of my black toes?

SHINY FRIDAY TIDBITS...

Anyone who's been to my house knows how much I love Ashley G's work. I love my print of Windy Day which hangs in my hallway and is the first thing I see when I open the door; but ever since I saw this I keep thinking, "Hmm, time for another?" every time I pass by. Of course I wouldn't get the same tattoo as someone else, but how about the creature in Little Helper? Or maybe just a brooch with it on for starters?

I discovered that I don't have to move to New York so that I can live in Lyell's Elizabeth Street shop (soooo lovely) because apparently they also have a shop in Paris, very close to where I stay...how very considerate of them.

But driving me crazy: Not being able to find any info on Valentine (Cheung) clothes which wowed me at Barney's (kind of looked like toiles in thick black or white cotton in graphic shapes with quirky detail) except a teeny article in Teen Vogue. Come on, Selfridges, keep up.

Making me laugh: Catherine Tate in French class last night. "Regarde mon visage, regarde mon visage, je ne suis pas bovv-eerred, tu pense que je suis bovv-eerred?"

Book I'd like to erase from my memory so I can read it again: This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes.

Happy Weekend...

SEVEN THINGS TO BE HAPPY ABOUT...

Bon.
Some cheery uppy blossom for youse. It's not all bad you know.

(1) Yesterday I spent a lovely afternoon with the hilariously witty and nice Miss Lauren Lux Lotus at my version of Tiffany's: The Wolseley. Many large pots of tea were quaffed in a leisurely manner and
(2) scones were consumed. And if it wasn't for Lauren I would not have known (because she knows more about what's going on in London after being here for a day than I do -that's how much we need her to move here ASAP)
(3) that my very favourite trio of songstrels from Brooklyn, Au Revoir Simone are playing at the ICA on Saturday!
But I can't go because
(4) I have a Very Important Wedding to attend. Not mine, silly.
So you! You must go, people in London! If you don't know Au Revoir Simone fret not. Listen. And they all have really amazing hair. I'm being serious. Also, anyone who can come up with the lyrics, "You make me wanna measure stars in the backyard, with a calculator and a ruler baby" is worth seeing live.

(5) I will get to see them though because they'll play again at The Luminaire on May 20th, way out of my comfort zone in the faraway land of Kilburn. But I'll go north west for them. I do hope they'll be playing tracks from The Bird of Music which is out here but isn't out in the US as yet. But then maybe it's better if they don't so I won't embarrass myself by getting tipsy and singing along out of tune at the top of my voice.

(6) For dinner tonight I'm thinking another trip to Ping Pong is long overdue. To drown sorrows and replace internet related ridiculous snivelling with yummy pork puffs.

(7) My ticket for the eurostar next month arrived today.

KATE...

Honestly, I just literally stumbled upon it - the Kate Moss stuff that is.
I was doing my usual trick of zooming down the A2 to return stuff at good ol' Bluewater.
Walking into Topshop on the day Kate's range was launched I didn't even expect it to be there, not thinking I was being all clever like with Stella - but there it all was.
They didn't have many of the dresses - the floral one was the only piece I might've bought, but they had everything else. The reaction of shoppers? People were sort of circling the Kate section uncertainly, stopping to prod or lift a particular piece now and then. I couldn't work out if it was because they couldn't believe it was all there - no crazy scenes, hair pulling, changing room quotas or bare rails to be seen; or if they just weren't sure about the collection itself .
A woman stopped to look at the short black dress with cutaway bits at the neck and her husband said it looked like it was made from tent fabric. I bought a studded suede belt, just well, really because it was quite nice and I needed a belt. I didn't see anyone else try on or buy anything. As for everything in this fabric - is she just fucking with us? I haven't read any coverage about the collection so I don't know what the general consensus is, but in Dartford mate I'm tellin ya - they weren't feelin it.

BICYCLE!...

I always see the chicest girls on bicycles. That's my excuse for no longer taking street pics - by the time I've spotted a victim, they're gone in a whirl of heels, flying fabric and hair. And they always have those cool old school bikes, as evidenced by the sterling work of The Sartorialist (who took the pic at right).

He's a bike man for sure.

I do have a very old, very beautiful Triumph that belonged to my mother. She fell off it and cracked her chin open when she was 10 so that means it's well, it's definitely vintage, no - antique. It needs new tyres and it's a little rusty but a little TLC and it'd be fine. Only - and I know this is bonkers because who would want to steal my rusty old bike but if it was pilfered I would be devastated. So, it lives in a shed in Dorset waiting to be lovingly reconditioned.

A London bike requires a slightly different set of criteria. The fact is there's not many places I can cycle to without navigating a huge scary road full of freight lorries. Also, the last time I regularly cycled was on the pavement. Basically I am terrified of falling off and I am not ready to die yet.

I went along to Evans which is frequented by many cycle couriers which I thought must be a good sign. As soon as I walked in I saw my bike. I mean it just was my bike and I knew it. A lovely boy with half blue hair was helping me, and I told him I was going to get some lunch and would be back soon. When I got back there was a girl on my bike. I looked at blue hair boy and said, "There's a girl on my bike." After discovering it would take over a week to get another one, I wandered round the back of the shop smirking to myself. For I knew it was my bike. After about ten minutes the girl left empty handed and blue hair brought the bike over to me. At some point before I took it out for a spin he mentioned another bike called a Pashley Princess which had a basket and was like a real old fashioned ladies bicycle. I was momentarily blindsided by the knowledge that a bike named Princess existed for grown ups. I was torn, but then I took my bike out for a spin along the south bank and loved the way it positively glided glid? glided smoothly over the cobblestones. It also has a tres comfortable cushioned saddle.

So, although the Pashley Princess was charming, I had to remind myself I already have one - a real original one - just like that. I wanted a bike that wasn't desirable to thieves, thus one with a step through - apparently there aren't too many females ready to crack your bike lock open with a car jack out there. I needed to be visible - thus an extremely dorky light coloured helmet with graphics that wouldn't be that bad actually if only they were on a treatment menu at a holistic day spa. All bike helmets are vile. This is why you see all these stylish young things risking life and limb scooting around Paris, New York and London with the breeze running through their hair. I'm telling you, there's a big gap in the market here bike helmet designers. You could save a hip cyclist's life. But for now I had to ask myself; do you want to look cool or do you want to keep your brains inside your skull rather than splattered all over the pavement? There is one helmet that kind of looks like a WW11 military helmet which initially won me over, but I looked like an extra from 'Allo 'Allo wearing it (I was actually wearing a trench coat at the time, just to complete the look.)

So, my new bike is fine. It's fine. It's got two wheels and handlebars, it's not the love of my life like Duckie is but hey, tootling along in the global warming enhanced sunshine feels just dandy.
It's so....pleasant cycling around. Such was my euphoria after my first ride round the neighbourhood that all l I could say was Bicycle! in the manner of a small child presented with an enchanting new toy. This led a friend to ask if I'd been sniffing glue, to which I replied, "Bicycle!"

p.s. I am ignoring the entire Kate Moss Topshop thing, lalalalala, fingers in ears, eyes closed, don't want to know how many fatalities there have been so far, not interested, not worth it...

MAKE. MY. DAY...

Thirty was fun - kind of “I’m a woman now and shall buy expensive face creams and underwear should I so desire.” I actually have trouble getting the words out now. “I’m thirty…….one.” And the worst thing is? I’ll only get older each year. I have not made peace with thirty one. I want my twenties back. I want to get sloshed in the sun and end up at a gay policeman’s house belting out my karaoke rendition of Club Tropicana whilst wearing my friend’s furry slippers. Oh, I did that last weekend.

Anyway, I’ve always looked mature for my age. It’s true there were many positive sides to this. Uninterrupted teenage boozing and clubbing as I was never asked for I.D; a certain cachet to being the one who collected everyone’s dosh and scampered off to the corner shop to purchase 120 B&H, 80 Silk Cut and 70 Marlboro Lights, all in packs of ten to be doled out amongst my lovely school chums. Ah, the heady whiff of childhood. I didn’t really smoke much myself and don’t at all anymore – terribly ageing.

It wasn’t all harmless fun though. When we were up to no good it was me who got an earful, told I should know better and should have set an example to the younger ones, even though I was eight and they were all eleven. But I played on my apparent maturity, even insisting on wearing make up – pearlised pink lipstick and electric blue eyeshadow – the height of sophistication in 1985 I assure you.

Being about a foot taller than everyone else in my formative years meant I could hit a tennis ball no one else could reach. But while my cousins were nicknamed La Plus Belle and La Plus Jolie by our (ridiculously sexy) Belgian tennis coach, I was given the ungracious moniker of La Grande for six consecutive summers. Cheers Philippe.

Somewhere during my twenties I started to dread people guessing my age – why do people always play that game when I’m with friends ten years older than me who apparently look five years younger? Can’t they guess shoe sizes, star signs or how many people you’ve slept with instead?

And though I love the easy low key clothes made by Toast and Margaret Howell, I have to be careful to mix it up so I don’t look mumsy. I have a morbid fear of looking mumsy. I suppose on those rare occasions when I can’t avoid going to the supermarket, what’s to distinguish me from a housewife pushing their trolley round and round. Except that on Sunday my trolley contained a bottle of Campari, a bottle of soda water, some oranges and two fillet steaks.

At the checkout I couldn’t catch what the cashier was asking me.

“No, I’m not collecting those school vouchers and I haven’t got a Clubcard,” I guessed.

She leaned closer, holding up the Campari as she uttered those sweet forgotten words…“You’ll have to show me some I.D; I can’t place your age.”

WALLFLOWER...

I just can't keep away. I have taken up residence at the broken chair in the corner of a friend's living room where I can tap away on a keyboard used mostly by friend's teenage brother who is at "that awkward age".

Oui, I am a creature of habit. I like my laptop, set up where it always is (kind of defeats the object) with my cat on one side, a cup of tea on the other and the comfort of home. I could go elsewhere but...........are you asleep yet? Apparently I have been boring everyone to death with my constant internet breakdown ramblings and blow by blow account of my soon to be ex ISP's crappy service. Sorrreeee.

So. What I really wanted to say is that I am old. I went to a gig last night - half the London fashion crowd was there; you couldn't move for people from I.D, Tank and Pop magazines jostling to take pictures of the band. I had my first real life sighting of a Christopher Kane dress and also pondered upon what kind of lifestyle one would have that would lend itself to going out midweek wearing a cat ear alice band, a stretchy lycra op art mini dress and huge Vivienne Westwood platforms. And how one would carry that off whilst still looking gorgeous, comfortable and relaxed.
I also pondered on how easy it is to lose perspective as I suddenly felt like a giant elephant being a UK size 10 amongst a horde of very very skinny, glossy, young and pretty fashionistas.

Sigh. The kids these days. I have passed that point and I am no longer one of them.
I can only observe.

LET'S TALK ABOUT TALKTALK...

Oh joy. I've had no internet access for over a week now and let's just say I am climbing the walls.
I am now in a charming little internet cafe where they charge you a pound to use their crappy computers with keyboards that have no letters printed on the keys - who knew I could touch type?

I was lured by a great package internet/phone deal and stupid, stupid girl that I am I believed their lies. It was no problem at all, it would all be a smoooth transition madam (they talk like that), don't worry about a thing.

Banging.head.against.wall.repeatedly.

I really wish I'd upgraded to the package that includes a week at a Swiss sanitorium (sanitarium?) by a lake where I could lie looking at the view wrapped in a blanket. Only then might I recover from spending three or so hours a day, every day speaking to to various technical people at a call centre in India who sound like they're speaking from the bottom of a well. And who start to panic if you ask them anything that's not in their pre-prepared script. I just love the way each person I speak to contradicts exactly what the previous person told me.

Breathe.

Also fabulous is that my call display no longer works, my phone line is fuzzy and when I'm on it my voice apparently cuts out every few seconds.

*Weeping*

I want my innernets back.
I miss you all...

MATH(S)...

It's finally reached that point. I bought ingredients to make cupcakes at Sainsbury's and actually gasped at the price as I handed over my card. £27. Twenty seven pounds for some butter, eggs, flour and sugar. A similar thing had happened in Ikea when they didn't have the shelves I wanted in stock so I just picked up a few random useful things on my way round, like spatulas.
It came to over £70.

And then of course having just been in New York you can't help, when confronted with the £27 for cupcake ingredients which you then have to actually go and make yourself, think: that's nearly $60...I could have flown some in from Magnolia Bakery for that price.

I know I am often wittering on about this difference in pricing when I go to Paris and I'm hardly an economics whizz, but today, I have figures!

In New York I had the lovely experience of careening round the Barney's beauty department grabbing anything that took my fancy. When it was all totted up the bill was less than a traipse around Boots to get some boring essentials.

A small sample of transatlantic beauty swag:

Kiehls' Olive Oil Hairpak - US price: $25, UK price: £23

Kiehl's Abyssine Eye Cream - US price: $30, UK price: £27

Kiehl's French Rosewater - US price: $13, UK price:£13

Chantecaille Future Skin- US price: $65, UK price: £49 - that is ridiculous, who has that kind of money?

I know, the pound is too high, and twenty five dollars to an American is the same to them as twenty five pounds to us. But is it really? (BB feel free to impart wisdom.) Kiehl's stuff basically reflects the exchange rate exactly so I'm thinking they're not exactly ripping us off on purpose. I have emailed them to ask what the deal is but I haven't heard back. But Chantecaille? Naughty. I was talking to a make up artist who said that it's cheaper for her to fly to New York for the weekend and re-stock her kit with Nars etc than it is for her to buy supplies in London.

So then how do British beauty companies whose prices are just as high justify that? They don't have to import the stuff, are they just keeping prices artificially high? I am determined to get to the bottom of this because British girls deserve to buy nice things without "skinting theirselves" as my car mechanic would say.

So there, I am living in a country where we're constantly stocking up on luxuries we can't afford here when we travel, then coming home and paying luxury prices for bog standard basics. No wonder American women look so well groomed compared to us.
So next time you see a typical British woman with patchy skin, parched hair and ragged nails take pity. She just hasn't been out of the country for a while.

I, on the other hand will be all moisturised and sparkly for the next month at least, or until the Kiehl's magic runs out.

And then we get onto the Marc Jacobs syndrome. I don't want to kick the poor guy when he's down (get well soon Marc!) but in London (like everywhere) everyone clamours for all things Marc. It is very exclusive and very, very expensive, like £800 for a mainline (oops, bad pun) bag.
MJ is basically, like all the beauty products I now have lined up in my bathroom from Barney's, out of most people in London's reach. And yet, it sells out, again and again. Compare that with New York where in both Barney's and Saks there were rails of MJ sale racks and the actual stores (the Bleecker Street ones) were just plain weird to girls used to it all being displayed beautifully. Racks stuffed messily with merchandise, then the accessories shop we thought was selling fakes at first, with big buckets full of Marc Jacobs mirror compacts for $10 each. "Why didn't you get me one?" you're thinking. Because they were all scratched and most of the clasps didn't work - all they needed was a Made in Taiwan sticker.

So there's the other side of the coin.

I was once having a conversation with a woman in Paris about why the shoes by a British designer I was buying from her were less expensive there than they were in London from the designer's own shop. She said that if the price wasn't high enough, London girls wouldn't buy it.
I told her she was mad (at least in my head I did, I probably just gave her a funny look).
I would love to think that I like things for the piece and not the label every time but when confronted with Marc Jacobs piled high and sold cheap in every style and size, honestly?
It was all confusing and jumbled and its allure was instantly lost to me.

NEW INTAKE...

Since I have nada for you, here are the blogs that have been keeping me going lately, on top of the insane amount I already read daily. See I haven't even added them to my links yet. Poor neglected blog. Sorry blog, love you. Back before you know it.

3191

Simply Photo and Simply Breakfast by the super talented, makes anything look beautiful Jen.

Hygge House

Le Train Fantome

The adorable Fifi (nee Miff)

Windowsill

Sew Green (shiny new!) A collaboration featuring many of my favourite blogettes.

Happy clicking - actually adding all those links took just as long as it would have done to write a post but I am testa vuota I'm afraid. And please don't tell me about any of your current favourite reads, I cannot cope with any more. I will have to hire people to read them for me.

Oh, go on then.

CAN WE TALK ABOUT MY HAIR NOW?...

There was a pop song in Italy years ago by some guy with long hair whose name I just cannot remember, which was titled "I Miei Capelli Sono Bellissimi" (My hair is beautiful) - I swear, even though Google doesn't remember either. It was a ballad about his own hair, a serenade if you will. Someone help me out here, who was that guy? Long curly hair if I remember. That song tells you everything you need to know about the Italian male psyche in just the title. The thought of writing a whole long winded post about my own barnet made me feel a bit well, like the guy who sings about how great his hair is. But, after reading the hair stories of Bluepoppy and Gracia, neither of whom came off sounding at all like the Italian guy I found myself going, "Me too, I have a hair story!" But I still just might come off sounding like hair guy.

So, first of all I didn't mention that I had my hair cut at London salon du jour Taylor Taylor.
The interior has been done beautifully - sort of shabby grandeur; all oriental wallpaper and high ceilings. Frankly, I could've done without the birds in the big cage which look very lovely but for the bird poop all over the floor, "Oops I dropped my comb right in it, never mind I'll just carry on without washing it" scenario I witnessed when I was waiting for my stylist. After that I went all Health and Safety and found myself scanning the corners of the gold tiled hair washing chamber for signs of lax hygiene. As a friend later observed, "Too cool to clean."
That's my only complaint, might as well get it out of the way first. So, I had my hair trimmed a bit and just made a teensy change from having the universal sideswept fringe I've sported for about three years to a blunt fringe. To me it was a teensy change, although my hair, not used to being asked to fall straight decided to boiing up at a 45% angle for the rest of the day, which looked quite hilarious and meant I had to wear a woolly hat whilst eating in a restaurant.

But since I got the new fringe something strange has happened. Everyone keeps commenting on "my new hair." And men look at me. A lot. Especially in Paris. Was I channelling a young Jane Birkin? Francoise Hardy? I wish. The French appreciate being well groomed and now I suppose instead of having just hair I have a hairstyle. Maybe my forehead was displeasing them before? Anyway it's a long time since I've been flirted with, smiled at, given the once over as much as I have since cutting my fringe.

The BUT is that because I must pay more attention to my fringeal area; combing, keeping it straight etc I have noticed something alarming. White hairs, sprouting from my head, nestled amongst the brunette. Not just one or two either. I had one or two before, which I snipped out from time to time, not wanting to pull them out in case a forest of white grew in their place.
But these new ones, my nail scissors cannot keep up with their seemingly daily invasion. So what shall I do, accept gracefully that at the age of 30 I am going, not prematurely grey, but white and "make it work for me", or make an appointment with a colourist?

THE BEDOUIN NAVAL TRIBAL PIRATE LAYERING SCARFY DRESS SCARVES COLLECTION...

Sometimes you've just got to put all the references in a Balenciaga bag, shake it vigorously and see what falls out.

I like it.

Doesn't it remind you a teensy bit of something beginning with M.J though?

more images: Chris Moore/Getty

p.s. If you didn't get to see the Balenciaga exhibition in Paris, the Online Book on their website has loads of fun stuff: Video footage used in the exhibition, from the 1960 show to a photo shoot with Charlotte Gainsbourg for her album.

YOUNG LONDON BAND HAVE TALENT AND A VAN...

Said six piece band supported Babyshambles at The Dublin Castle recently and stole the show, had more supporters and got far better reviews.

iD and Wig magazine love them.

Record company execs are twitching with excitement, waving contracts.

Paris fashion week next week.

Lots of parties.

Band invited to perform at various fashion week parties.

Do you want to know what they sound like?

I believe them to be very good.

They're The Medicine Show. If you see them in Paris please say hello and buy them a beer.
You will feel pleasantly smug in a few months when everyone's raving about them.

(Yes, I have known the bass player since he was born. But that doesn't mean I'm biased.)

WHO JUST LEARNT HOW TO USE THE SCANNER?...

A couple of pages from what is generally known as my Paris Crapbook.

BONJOUR...

Can we just pretend I came back from Paris yesterday and not over a week ago? Thanks.

So, it seems so long ago now! All I really did was eat and buy stationery. And beauty products from the pharmacy obviously. Oh, and this A.P.C. cardigan. By the way, all the stuff you want from A.P.C. that's sold out online, that you breezily thought, "I'll just buy it in Paris," is also sold out in all the shops in Paris. So don't you go breathlessly trekking from rue Madame to rue Vieille du Temple in search of that elusive short sleeved tunic or dress 'cos you ain't getting it. Unless you pre order it online which I have now done. That was a public service announcement. I like my cardi though.

The eating out consisted only of Moroccan: Le 404 - food just as delicious as you'd expect, music deafening. Chez Omar - food so so, service bizarrely lascivious. At one point I thought I must have forgotten to put clothes on. But friendly nonetheless.
And American food featured heavily: Don't ask me why, I don't know. But I tell you what, Joe Allen is really cosy and Breakfast in America does fantastic pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. So not much smelly cheese. I think I ate a couple of croissants but the real treat came, as always, at the Red Kids market (Le Marche des Enfants Rouges) at the end of the street where I stay. Before anyone who lives in Paris comments to say anything like, "God that place is so popular now, it used to be much better when no one knew about it, it's so busy you can hardly move etc etc..." I will pre empt them with the following response. The Red Kids has got more popular but it's pleasantly bustling. Apart from the fact that it's about a tenth of the size of Borough market, the obvious London market to compare it to, it is actually possible at the Red Kids to get a seat, have a coffee and buy some produce as opposed to queueing up for 45 minutes in the rain to get a coffee and being wedged in a sea of people who are incrementally shuffling forward at a snails pace in order to be able to see what kind of produce the stall you're standing in front of sells, as at Borough.
So, as you may have worked out I kinda like the Red Kids market. I think it may be my favourite place in all Pareee. From my journal after I'd been there:

"At that moment I was in love with Paris again; with people who chatted to you at the crepe stand, with the boy on the Portuguese stand who remembered that I like the pasteis de nata but they'd sold out and when he saw me again said, "Oh, so you got a crepe in the end," before telling me to come before 11am to be sure they had the little custard tarts. I was in love with the coffee at L'Estaminet which instantly vaporized my hangover, with the little bunch of white fleurs d'ail and amazed that you could buy five potted hyacinths for five euros. I flicked through all the old photos at the photographie place and felt life was charmed."

The next day my journal entry begins: "This is fucking pants." I had been waiting for an onion soup to arrive at Le Flore for 35 minutes and when it eventually came, the cheese had congealed into a soggy brain like lump, rendering the soup inedible. But then the man sitting next to me helped me on with my coat so that almost cancelled out the bad soup.

That's the thing about Paris, you can't afford to be complacent.

PARISIANS DO IT BETTER...

Happy (belated) Valentine's Day!

Chocolate from Jadis & Gourmande.
Patiences and red marzipan hearts from La Grande Epicerie.
Pomegranate seed heart thingy from Pain de Sucre.

IS THAT?...IT IS!...

You know when you're having your daily Sartorialist fix and you see someone you know? And you kind of go "oh, there's so and so! Hi!" And then there's a teensy bit of envy that they've been snapped by him when they've probably never heard of him and you've been obsessively checking his site DAILY forever but anyway; nice shoes babe! It's only in the natural scheme of things that even if you went to New York and hung around Mercer Street looking chic for eight hours every day, you would never bump into Sart.

Anyway.

Remember that cool old lady I stalked in Paris last year?

{my photo ©}

Did you ever wonder what she might wear in the winter season?

I mean, honestly it's just too, too much! I love her. She may be my favourite person ever.
Go and look here right this instant!

Note that in the pic I took above her outfit is all fabric with a leopard print, but in the Sartorialist one her whole outfit is actual (faux it looks like) fur. So do you think she has an entire wardrobe of leopard with matching accessories in different weights for each season? Same shoes as well.

I'll be in Paris at the weekend and I fully intend to pound the streets of the 1st arrondissement until I spy her again. I will charm her somehow in broken French with the promise of hot chocolate and cake at Angelina. Actually when I saw her the first time she was drinking a beer so maybe I will lure her with the promise of booze. Then I will ask her if she lives in a leopardskin lined apartment a la Vreeland? Does her butler wear leopardskin? Kitchen appliances? Quite apart from any leopardskin related questions, and I don't think I have ever before written leopardskin as one word quite so many times in quick succession, I will ask her about her life. What stories she must have to tell.

HEY MISTER POSTMAN...

As you know I don't shop anymore. Nope. Conscious consumerism all the way. I just order things. What? No, that's not the same thing at all. With lovely people sending lovely things as well, it could give one cause to listen out for the doorbell in anticipation, (actually it's a buzzer that goes "aaack" in a rather startling 1950s manner, the noise of which once killed a bird Lola caught and who(m?) I was nursing until the RSPB arrived. They arrived and rang the bell. Little bird died of fright.)

Where was I? Oh yes the postman. So nowadays instead of answering the intercom and hearing "Read yer gas meter love" or " We is here to speak about Jesus", I often hear "Delivery for you."

And such goodness arrives. In the past month or so I have received - some from me to me, some from lovely people to me:

Dogwood postcards from Jen.
The totally compelling Supermodel by David Breskin from Lauren.
A Dolly Pendant from Kyo Hashimoto.
Fuel for my not-so-secret-anymore Marthadom from C.
I am waiting on a scarf and a boring but cheap top from the Toast sale.
Also the November issue of Poplife magazine which never turned up.
And my delivery of flickr moo cards.

Oops, also plopping throught the letterbox were The Beautiful Fall from Amazon,
Au Revoir Simone's CD,
er, a magnetic stamp kit,
and a eurostar ticket.

I am blessed by the magic of the internet.

I THINK I HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM...

Even more cuteness from Alber!

THE WORDS OF OTHERS...

Achey brain syndrome means I have few words of my own for you. But! Due to insomnia induced voracious pre recycling re-reading and tearing out pages of old U.S Vogues, I give you (from November 1999) the words of David Bailey, talking about the swinging '60s. Hooray.

On working with Diana Vreeland:
Once, I handed her a set of pictures I'd worked incredibly hard on, and she looked at them and said, "Bailey, these pictures are wonderful, divine!" And I said, "Great." Then she said, "But darling I can't use them." I said, "Why not? You just said they were wonderful, divine!" And she said "Look at the lips, Bailey.
There's no languor in the lips."

And here's a different slant on the Chanel couture show last week, from Jean Touitou - our saviour of clothes you lust after, then actually buy and wear.

TOAST...

Do you live in the city but daydream of herding sheep in a Welsh valley dressed in casual, beautifully made, slightly bohemian style? Do you like Toast? And not just the kind I had this morning with peanut butter and sliced banana? Good, then get over to the Toast (online) archive sale as quick as you can. They are crazy I tell you. Up to 85% off lots of things - I really hope this doesn't mean they're going out of business. The sale actually started a couple of days ago which I would have known if I had opened any of this week's post before today, and things are selling out fast. The winter '06 collection is also on 85% off so be quick! I don't want to point out anything specific because it'll probably be gone by the time you look at it.
Toast are not in the habit of producing in one season, out the next collections or doing anything that could be called wacky or unwearable. So the pieces on sale with the biggest discounts look to me just like the ones that were a little too expensive for most people's budgets at full price. Well obviously, but sometimes you pick something up by Toast and it's insanely expensive, probably because it was made by hand by a tribeswoman in the desert from tufts of goat hair collected from tree branches, or by the only person left in Andalucia who has had the craft of making riding boots handed down through the generations and they didn't have any children, and now they're ninety four and their hands are seizing up. Which is all very lovely.

I give you the riding boots reduced from £225 to £79 but, er don't even look at them unless you have size 42 feet because they're all sold out. And if you do have size 42 feet I'm very happy for you. No really, congratulations, enjoy MY boots.

NOBODY LIKES KARL...

First of all: It's SNOWIIIINNNNNGGGG!

Secondly, because I am at home I have all the time in the world to get on with the unpacking of boxes from the family home that seem to be wedged all around me wherever I sit and try to ignore them. The best way of ignoring them is in fact to bury one's head in a book and read like there's no tomorrow.

Which is what I just did with The Beautiful Fall. I hadn't even heard of this book until Susie mentioned it. (Read her review, it's comprehensive and balanced - much more so than what I have to say about it!) I was intrigued by Karl Lagerfeld taking the author to court because the book claims he's a tad older than he says he is. Oh and he exaggerated a teensy bit about his grand, actually pretty ordinary middle class upbringing. He lost the case and less than 50 copies of the book have been sold in France anyway. It probably would have sunk without trace if it weren't for Karl trying to get it banned and therefore doing the best PR job ever on it by drawing attention to the existence of the book. We'll get back to Karl in a minute.

The Beautiful Fall traces the world of Yves Saint Laurent, Karl Lagerfeld, their respective cliques and supposed bitter rivalry, focusing mainly on the decadent world of Paris fashion in the 1970s.

From the very start of the book I felt that I was being manipulated to think a certain way; as if the author had reached her conclusion and every paragraph was drawing you in to making the same one. That was something that drove me crazy throughout the first two thirds of the book. We are supposed to think that Yves is the tortured genius createur, surrounded by people desperate for a crumb of his love; Karl is the gun for hire styliste whose coterie make fun of him behind his back, though he pays all the bills. Maybe it's true, or maybe it was in the '70s when YSL was at the height of his creative powers and KL was freelancing all over the place and hadn't yet made the house of Chanel his own. We can't really know, since although the book is backed up by notes detailing the research, neither Karl or Yves were interviewed. The story is told through the recollections of an assortment of friends, acquaintances and hangers on, some of whose memories of the drug and booze fuelled '70s must be a tad unreliable.

Although at times I was thinking, 'Why am I even reading this, do I care at all about some guy who used to be KL's number one 'boy'?,' I found I couldn't put the bloody thing down. I wouldn't say it was an enjoyable or comfortable read and perhaps not even that interesting unless you happen to be one of the people who were hanging around the Paris fashion scene in the '70s. In evoking that period, and the casual cruelty of a peer group where surface and appearance are everything, it drew attention to the more unpleasant side of fashion, one that I try hard to avoid.
It's probably why I pounced so lovingly upon that article about Alber Elbaz, who is seemingly cut from a different and much kinder cloth.

At first I was surprised that KL's great creative friendship with Anna Piaggi was glossed over, she was mentioned only a couple of times and not in any great detail, but perhaps it was to keep the negative emphasis on KL.
By contrast YSL's close friend and muse Loulou de la Falaise (whose recollections I could listen to all day long) is quoted throughout the book as is YSL's partner Pierre Berge. Pierre doesn't exactly come up smelling of roses either, but apparently he has no problem with the book. It also details Yves' many breakdowns and mental problems, but they are dealt with in a sympathetic way, whilst Karl is absolutely not. I can see why he would be angry or feel hurt by the way he is portrayed but really, it's not so bad Karl. After all, Gabrielle Chanel herself went to great lengths to reinvent herself, obliterating her humble, illegitimate past. Now that is a juicy story. But do we even mind about that. She may have reinvented her life story, but she also reinvented the way women dressed.

Perhaps Karl's best response to The Beautiful Fall would have been simply to zip it and let this do the talking.

WORTH IT...

1. Having the holy grail Del Forte jeans which stretched by four inches around the waist after one wash tailored to your exact measurements, removing the "incontinence pants" look and making your bum look about ten times more pert than it usually does. How they do that?

2. Purchasing the lusted after Kyo Hashimoto Dolly Pendant direct from the maker a) for 60% less than the U.K retail price, b) because it was super lovely and mutually beneficial to deal with them and c) gives one a reason to get excited about the impending arrival of the postman.

3. Seeing the most glamtastic seven foot tall transvestite in Selfridges with licorice stick thin legs, patent platforms, ridiculously coiffed hair, lashings of lipgloss and an electric blue cocoon coat. Sticking around a few more seconds to see his face and realising it was Tranny, I mean Trinny Woodall.

NOT NARNIA...

As careful (slightly compulsively so) as I am, my favourite clothes always get destroyed. I feel like saying "yes, I already got the lesson, I understand, karma gods or whoever". It's the only way I can explain it. I have a pair of shoes I love, someone spills red wine on them; I wear my new Miu Miu trousers to a party, my boyfriend at the time decides it would be hilarious to push me into a hedge (true, I swear) and they're ripped to pieces. (Along with my dignity and relationship obviously.) I fork out to get my beloved Marni bag specialist cleaned, it gets destroyed. And now: I no longer have the archive of clothes and shoes I had been storing for over ten years, mostly stuff designers gave me in lieu of payment in the days when I'd happily answer the phone/pick up pins/mail show invitations in return for bus fare and an outfit from the new collection. It was, I thought, my pension fund. Or if I ever felt like completing the 53 life steps necessary to end up having daughters I could pass some of it on to them. Hey, I could even give it to a museum, I thought grandly.

I opened what used to be my wardrobe at what used to be my parents' house and started to take things out. Where exactly they were going to live from now on I wasn't sure yet, but I'd been told. Nothing of mine could remain. Unlike the wardrobe in Narnia it did not smell of mothballs. Upon further investigation it became apparent that the door of the room and wardrobe had been closed, as well as the windows and the heating switched off. For five years. That environment provides the perfect growing conditions for MOULD.
Every piece of clothing and all the shoes were covered inside and out with white, furry mould. Strangely it wiped off most of the clothes leaving only a faint mark that will hopefully come out with dry cleaning. All the shoes, I'll say that again, ALL THE SHOES had to be thrown in the dustbin. Mould loves leather; especially Prada apparently.

I ended up with about twenty pieces saved and a dry cleaning bill for sixty quid. I still don't know where these pieces will live, but since I don't collect stamps, or porcelain figurines, or African masks I will store them somewhere ventilated until I have a non shoebox sized (the irony!) flat with a spare room where they can live. At the moment my living room looks like I just moved in again and I'm in the process of throwing out more stuff from here, actually stuff I like and wanted to keep, to make room for the stuff from there, which I never imagined I would be expected to house at this stage of my life. Like my mother's wedding dress and/or every single thing related to either me, my mother or my mother's side of the family. I know you're thinking STORAGE FACILITY but people have offered to help, and it's amazing who rallies round when they see you need it.

SOME SNIPPETS FOR LANVIN LOVERS FROM THE CUTE CUDDLY GUY WHO CREATES DEVASTATINGLY CHIC CLOTHES...

"Thank God I don't have to look like a model to promote my work, because that would be a catastrophe. Nobody would buy anything!"

"I think the fact that I never feel perfect and I never feel beautiful and I never feel skinny makes me search for lightness and beauty, because these are what I feel I am missing."

"If I wasn't a designer I would love to be a doctor. That is my fantasy, my dream. A doctor will give you a tablet if you have a headache and I will give you a dress and we both make you feel good."

"By changing your name, you might change your life and by taking that letter out, (t at the end of Albert) my life did change."

"I have things I have worn again and again, but over the years, I alter them, I make them longer, shorter, I change the armhole, I change the shoulder. One of my biggest fears is arriving to the airport and checking in my suitcase because I never know if I will get it back."

"I think this is a fascinating time in design. Vintage is over. This is going to be a very important moment in fashion because we cannot just reproduce.......Instead we have to think. We have to start inventing again."

From Observer Woman, 'How I Get Dressed', 14 January 2007. Read the entire interview here.
image

DID I MISS SOMETHING?...

So this week in London every female under the age of 35 is apparently wearing, only and exclusively:

baggy short shorts over leggings/tights,
the flat '80s boots everyone's been wearing for three years,
a peacoat,
shaggy long hair.

What happened? Did I miss the time Kate Moss wore exactly this? Why is everyone dressed the same? Did everyone get caught out by those leggings that are really just footless tights so when you wear them with a short dress or skirt everyone else (who may or may not also be wearing them) gets an occasional eyeful of your knickers or lack thereof. Did the Britney Spears photos strike so much fear into the hearts of young women everywhere that they're just being really cautious and protective of that area now and double layering?

Am most perplexed. Please advise.

NOT BUYING IT...

Yesterday I saw a little girl in the supermarket standing in front of a display of plastic sparkly kids jewellery. She was transfixed, had that hungry look on her face, oblivious to anyone or anything else. I must admit I had a look at a sequinned headband myself, but I put it back!

I've been clearing out stuff, mostly clothes, for months now and still I'm taking bin bags to the charity shop at least once a week. I look at some of my possessions and think "is this really mine?" I can't be bothered with the hassle of ebay anymore, it brings me more to be rid of something I don't need or love than waiting for a bit of cash from it. Then the wrapping, the posting, ugh just get it out. I'd rather give it away. Since I visited the Oxfam depot a couple of months ago and saw teams of people sifting through donations, 70% of which were unsuitable to be sold because they were damaged or dirty, I'm also making use of my local textiles recycling bank.

Reading this post over at Keri Smith brings a bit of clarity. There are great links in that post too, although I'm not sure I'd go to the extreme of not buying anything new at all like The Compactors. Used pillowcases? Ick.

HI, TRAVEL, CAKE...

Well that was a bit of an unexpected blog holiday wasn't it.

No excuse really, only that my attention has been on a couple of other projects.
The year began with no firm plans or resolutions then ping! Somehow I now have four trips away in the next two months or so to look forward to. And not just to Paris, either - although I will be visiting my beloved soon. I will say more when it's all definite but I'm very excited to be getting out and about in the big wide world again.

Ooh, just gotta ease back into this whole writing posts lark slowly.....I feel like I have stabilisers on.
Cake and tea will help.

...

{my photo ©}

Happy New Year everybody. Thank you for being a big part of making 2006 a good year, and for all your lovely comments/emails.

Joyeuses fetes et a l'annee prochaine!

Note to self: must learn me speak French more pretty next year...

WELL, PUT ANOTHER JUMPER ON THEN...

Love yarn. Love the idea of knitting. I have in my possession a collection of thirty to fifty sets of knitting needles (I haven't ever been bored enough to count them) and other knitting accoutrements: stitch counter doo dads and bits and bobs whose precise use I'm not sure of. All passed down to me by The Grannies.

Another reason I love all things wool and cashmere may be that I grew up living in an old, draughty house where there was a strict rule about the thermostat being kept under 15 degrees and heating was something you used between November and January, whatever the weather.

So having always needed to "put another jumper on" I do love knitwear, which I even studied at one point. It was more the industrial machine type of knitting using (eugh) acrylic yarns with which we made mostly hideous test samples. I only ever completed one piece of clothing: a metallic silver camisole which I still have. We also had a ferociously scary knitting teacher, the type who thought she should have been a famous knitwear designer - come to think of it it's a wonder I don't break out in hives at the thought of yarn, with all this past trauma - but I'll get to the point in a minute.

I have this idea that I'll go to Loop, I'll go to Weardowney, but then I keep reading about how trendy knitting is now and it puts me off. I want to re-learn because it's a precious part of my past that's lost. It's not just for the sake of a passing fad. I wish I still knew someone who could guide me through it again, but um, they're all dead so I think I'll have to bite the bullet and pay for those classes.

When I went to Cockpit Arts the studio that fascinated me the most and induced a pang of wanting to pull up a chair and stay, was that of knitwear designer Jennifer Lang. Her sculptural pieces hung limp on a rail (you have to see them on a body to fully appreciate them) with alarming price tags and the Stella McCartney s/s 07 show (in which I can see no knitwear!) played on a big screen. Jennifer sat in a chair in the corner, calmly knitting away with knitting needles the size of snooker cues and thick, chunky yarn, as her studio swarmed with important fashiony looking Japanese people who all had Marc Jacobs bags. One of them even contained a miniature pooch whose head protruded from the bag which I found impressive and memorable for some reason.

But the person whose incredible work I really wanted to shout out about is knitwear genius Sandra Backlund from Sweden. Just look at those pieces! Power knitting fit for a warrior queen. Wow. Remember her name, I know we'll be hearing a lot more of it.