I LEFT MY HEART THERE SOMEWHERE...

OK, I did it, I did it, like I promised. I stayed in London for the whole of July and will not be using my passport the whole of August. So I'm due some kind of compensation, obviously.

I just booked a ticket to go to Italy, my first love, for a few days next month. Paris, my second love and Spain (sneakily encroaching) have dominated for the past few years now, so I'm long due a return to the country I called home a decade ago. I'm very excited to visit this very talented friend in Venice, then a quick jaunt to my former home in Florence to see this very talented friend...

The reason for going back is simply to catch up with friends, drink wine, eat ravioli, watch the world go by, drink coffee, catch up with friends...

In fact, thinking about it, I met more interesting people during one year in Italy than I have in my entire life. It was a steady stream of artists and anthropologists, philosophers and philanthropists; writers, photographers, students, fashion royalty, poets, wine makers and art historians. I mostly remember those who were acquaintances like characters in a film: The taxi driver who'd come from an old Florentine family and had a part in Room with a View, the guy who was a jockey in the Palio, a friend of a friend who lived in Argentina and rolled up the rug in the living room at cocktail time to teach us how to tango. No idea who that was now, but just the thought that I once had a cocktail time rather tickles me.

Top Venice tip: Harry's Dolci. Oh, so, quiet and preferable to sharing Harry's Bar with all the other tourists writing postcards telling their friends that they're in Harry's Bar having a bellini. And hello, it's dessert.
Don't tell everyone!

DON'T YOU JUST LOVE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS...

Oh, coincidence, luck, synchronicity, whatever. Love it.

In my unrelenting quest to read more books than I've had hot dinners, I kept being attracted to the cover of Throw Like a Girl glinting at me in Lauren's sidebar.
I admit, it was the hair at first. I didn't mention the book to her because I knew, the love, she'd probably send me a copy if I asked, but I didn't want to be a freeloading book ho.

So I was getting along fine with David Sedaris when I received my prize of the A Fine Frenzy C.D. that I won (I won! I won!) from Lauren's competition. But the package also contained.....the book! She psychic lady. And hello, if David Sedaris himself isn't right there on the cover, saying:

"If there are Jean Thompson characters, they're us, and never have we been so articulate and worthy of compassion."

I read it over the weekend at the beach - the perfectly formed short stories were the perfectly formed beach companion. I always get "stuck" in a good book, so if I can finish a story before having to interact with other humans at dinner, say, that's a good thing and avoids questions like, "Why are you moping around?" and "Jesus, I said pass the salt, why are you so spaced out?" when all I can think of is what's going to happen next in my book. The title story in Throw Like a Girl, which is the last one, almost broke my heart with its tale of a disjointed friendship. And I think what David (above) means - if I may be so presumptuous, is that the characters in her stories may live in suburbia, or have seemingly ordinary, even mundane lives; but their choices and actions are brave, sometimes misguided and fuelled by complex desires and needs they may not even be aware of. Amongst all this Jean Thompson manages to weave in major issues like the invasion of Iraq as she creates a vision of how life is in America.

In my competition entry I had gone on about the glasses they drink wine out of in Spain, really short half height tumblers - of course I couldn't find them anywhere here. Until I found them yesterday at Zara Home for 50p each. FIFTY PENCE.

All I needed then was a magazine to read when I got home. My eyes glazed over as I scanned the thousands of titles in Borders and nothing appealed. They've stopped stocking both Blueprint and Bust for some reason, so I left empty handed and it was too late to go to Franks. When I got home there was a package on my doorstep. The lovely Sheila had sent me a copy of Bust, with Chloe Sevigny on the cover and a review of, yes, Throw Like a Girl inside.

It's all connected, see...

THIS BLOG NEEDS A HAIRCUT...

An overhaul of this blog's design is long overdue...Today, with the added handicap of a hangover I shall attempt to move my old template into "new improved" layout mode (Blogger's new template thingy). I may lose some bits and bobs on the way and it might all look a bit odd for a while...

BURN, BURN, BURN, YASS, YASS, YASS...

I re-read On the Road recently and - unlike the author of this (very good) article in yesterday's Observer, found it more thrilling than the first reading in my teens.

I hadn't even been anywhere much in my teens except suburban greater London, Belgium and family holidays to Greece, so it's not surprising I loved the book more the second time around. It's by no means perfect but I still felt the crackling, magnetic energy.

As I read it again I couldn't help wondering why a film hadn't been made of it. It could really be dangerous territory in the wrong hands, but with the right minds it could be amazing. Could no one do it justice? Almost instantly my prayers were answered:

Fifty years on, the book is being turned into a Hollywood film, scripted by Roman Coppola, son of Francis Ford, and directed by Walter Salles who made The Motorcyle Diaries, the story of Che Guevara's road trip across South America. Kirsten Dunst will star as Carolyn Cassady.

Speaking of whom: Women of the Beat Generation and Girls Who Wore Black.
Easy to forget with such strong male figures like Neal Cassady that the women were on the road too, not left at home in the kitchen.

Neal/Dean was clearly a bit nuts and not a man you'd ever want your daughter to get involved with; while Jack/Sal being the more sensitive type was a much better bet. And yet, and yet...I realised with a slight feeling of unease, that in the imaginary world where I inhabit the book, Neal/Dean would have been able to get me in 7581 kinds of trouble and Jack/Sal would have been the sweet platonic friend. So I guess it's a good thing I wasn't there but, sigh, you know, that's a disturbing revelation to have.

image

*EDIT* Francis Ford Coppola has owned the film rights to On the Road since 1968. He will executive produce and the book is being adapted by Jose Riviera and Walter Salles, not Roman who had written a previous screenplay of it. Billy Crudup will play either Sal or Dean and *shudder* the name Colin Farrell has been whispered. No, please, no!

OFF!...

I'm off to the seaside for the weekend (to a place where woolly socks and a fleece are advisable and a bikini is wishful thinking. So don't feel jealous - it's only England.)

DO entertain yourselves with these links while I'm gone...

I don't know why but this song keeps popping into my head...

I prefer The Shins sound playing on the street in Montmartre on Blogotheque...

I love these by lilacmoon on flickr...

If you are feeling bored you should go to the cinema and watch this. If when you have peeled your whitened knuckles from the cinema seat and gone home you are still bored, I would advise reading this, (especially the first story) or this unless you have been recently bereaved. Well, that was supposed to be all happy and sparky, how did I end with bereaved?

Okay, one more. I like wiksten-made. She makes things that I would make if I wasn't so lazy.

TWO YEARS, AND STILL NOT ONE CUP OF TEA...

Hello. Today is the second anniversary of Lola Is Beauty. I've never even had a job that lasted two years so this, I think, is a milestone worth mentioning.

It's funny, because for one, the title Lola Is Beauty makes no sense to anyone but Lola and I, is grammatically incorrect and really, anyone looking here would think this is a blog about my cat, Lola, or that I was called Lola and was interested in beauty products or something.

Well, Lola is beauty is just one of those phrases that came into usage around here due to the fact that Lola is not just A beauty, she is not just beautiful: She IS beauty. So there. And of course in the official language of Cat this statement makes perfect sense. I used to say it to her all the time, though now the phrase has entirely different connotations and I type it about twenty times a day. I now say different things to her in cat language and there is absolutely no way I am going to relay those phrases to you here.

And then there's the tagline. It should probably read, "This is not really a cat blog" or, "I like clothes and Paris". It's true though, she has not even mastered the simple act of paw to kettle switch, paw to kettle switch. I tell her and she just looks up at me and goes "Mi". And then I feed her. Today she has special anniversary Sheba which, in her excitement at not having to munch her usual diet food she has just gobbled down in one go and will possibly now be sick. I heard a burp.

Anyway most blogs have funny names and you've still managed to find it haven't you? Oh, I wasn't going to make it that easy by calling it something obviously to do with style or fashion or anything (hehe good one, if I can only make it sound like I did this on purpose instead of just randomly naming it when I first started and didn't have any idea that people might ever read it.)

The one thing that's changed in the last two years is Mademoiselle Lola herself. I don't think I've mentioned the whole rescue home trauma, get the violins out sob story of how I came to have her, but when I started this blog she was a borderline psychotic, completely neurotic cantankerous tyrant who could turn from cute to murderous in about quarter of a second. Now she has mellowed, she's just my little furry companion, following me round everywhere purring. No one believes me, her reputation precedes her but she hasn't scratched or bitten anyone for about a year.

So there, I wrote a cat post. Phew, breathe, don't be embarrassed. Hey - I'm allowed to, it's our birthday. (Disclaimer: our house does not smell of cat pee and I do speak to other people besides my cat.)

We are very happy to still be here in our little corner of blogland and hope you'll continue to enjoy reading - for as long as Lola can be bothered to dictate the posts.

If you'll excuse us now we have some butterflies to chase and some sunny patches in the grass to stretch out in.

DEAR GRAZIA MAGAZINE...

You have copy editors, fact checkers and interns galore, yes? You are paid to produce a magazine which is apparently Britain's No.1 glossy and which retails at £1.80.

I have held my tongue all this time, not wanting to come across as a fact/spelling Nazi. I mean, I'm not so perfect - I don't even use spellcheck when I'm bashing out the ol' blog posts and my grammar is based upon what sounds right.

I do, however, know that the name of the fashion designer you're dropping in Grazia is Isabel Marant, not Isabella Marant.

I also know, as most people with even the vaguest interest in fashion would, that Anna Piaggi is not an Italian fashion designer but has worked for Italian Vogue for many years as creative consultant, creating the Doppie Pagine she is famous for.

Lastly, iconic photographer Herb Ritts did not spell his surname "Ritz" which is how you repeatedly spelled it in a double page spread about an exhibition devoted to him after his death.

All I want from you Grazia, is to be able to eat a Kitkat and drink a cup of tea whilst flicking through your pages - without wanting to circle all the mistakes in red pen and post the torn out pages to you.

That's all. Can you manage that?
Thanks, just needed to get that off my chest.

P.S. Laura Craik and Paul Flynn, this does not include you. You are both geniuses.

VIVE LA REVOLUTION...

EDIT* RE: the gorgeous shoes which were used in the A/W 07 show, which I and others loved; news from Phillip Lim is not hopeful. They say: "Our shoes were a collaboration with the UK shoe designer Nicholas Kirkwood. Our specific shoes were runway only, and aren't for sale." Aah, Nicholas Kirkwood. That makes sense - all his shoes are like lil works of art/engineering. But still, can't have those exact ones. Poo.
...

Thank you Amy Larocca for this piece on Phillip Lim in New York Magazine.

As far as I'm concerned, Phillip Lim has completely usurped Marc Jacobs in the role of He Who Plugs Into The Psyche Of Women Who Love Fashion And Designs The Clothes They Were Just About To Dream Of.

In the article, the provenance of the 3.1 is explained as the age of both Lim and his business partner Wen Zhou when they started the label just two years ago. Auspicious. 31 also happens to be my age, so, really I should just buy the entire winter collection, or at least as much of it as I can get my hands on. (Yes, my thoughts have turned to winter - I give up on the hope of summer ever appearing.)

How is it that I want every single look, exactly the way it's styled in the lookbook? (Bloody flash player - click on "womens" at the bottom left, then fall p.1 and fall p.2)
Wouldn't change a thing to wear it myself. That has never happened to me before. I'm obsessed with the shoes and I can't.find.out.who.made.them. Anyone know?

My favourite quote from the article is when Phillip says: “I would direct my mother when she made my clothes,” he says. He liked khakis and denim work shirts, everything simple and clean. “I look at pictures of myself when I was 5 years old and I think that, yes, that is exactly what I like.”

A man with that kind of vision is a man you can trust to design Birkenstocks, (well Tatami/same thing) unlike someone whose name rhymes with Snidey Gloom.

And with a brand spanking new store in New York's Soho (and apparently scouting store locations in London) and another CFDA/Vogue nomination, I think we can safely say that auspicious 3.1 is doing its work.

IS IT JUST ME WHO MISSED THIS?...

When I went to Cannes a couple of years ago I sat on the beach and watched paparazzi patrolling up and down (they didn't spot me as I was incognito - the old Posh Spice disguise always works). It cost something like 20 euros to have a plate of frites delivered to your sunlounger by a handsome waiter. I took the ubiquitous photo of the facade of the Carlton Hotel which actually includes other people taking a photo of the Carlton Hotel - and generally walked along La Croisette feeling a bit shortchanged. Not that I expected to see Gregory Peck emerging from the sea and jumping into a convertible with Grace Kelly or anything. I would have been just as disappointed if I'd seen Puffy or Diddy or whatever his name is today.

Born in the wrong era...sigh.

If only I'd just watched Riviera Cocktail. It's a funny little film, since it's full of stills photos, taken by Edward Quinn, who basically hung around on the Cote d'Azur subtly charming all the major stars of the silver screen of the '50s and '60s into being photographed by him. It all sounds so civilised: in the days when stars were able to function without an entourage of agents, PRs, stylists, make up artists and handlers, that he was able to pop up to Sofia Loren's room at the Carlton, tap on the door, introduce himself and ask her if she fancied doing a few pictures. And she said yes. Can you imagine anything like that happening today? His name actually didn't immediately ring a bell at first but his pictures are certainly iconic.

Love this one of Kim Novak.

It's testament to Edward "Ted" Quinn's subtle charm and integrity that he was able to have such unrestricted access to people and as a result, his pictures look almost like snapshots of friends, at dinner, laughing, dancing, being themselves. They are comfortable with him being around with a camera. He also took the only photos that exist of Grace Kelly meeting Prince Rainier for the first time. Quinn also became close to Pablo Picasso and took all those famous pictures of him at work in his studio and at home.

Grace Kelly - I've obviously got a thing about sunglasses indoors.

The film is a very personal one and at times, a little odd; mostly due to the jazz band that kind of jams along to the pictures as they're shown. Edward Quinn was a musician before he was a photographer so I don't know if they were guys he knew or what, but I didn't quite get that. The music was great, but to have the band actually discussing the photos? Odd.

Anyway, what was lovely was Gret Quinn, Edward's widow who had spent most of her life sorting and archiving his work. She talked about how he started photographing pin-ups on the beach, how he approached people and got to know them. When he first photographed Brigitte Bardot she was very young, an ingenue and more than happy that he wanted to shoot her. A young Audrey Hepburn was ecstatic as she was finding it hard to get press interest at the time.

It's these little bits of info that make Riviera Cocktail such a gem and makes me wonder why it seems to have quietly been released last year and I just chanced upon it, as with the name of Edward Quinn - I wonder why, judging by this amazing body of work, his name isn't instantly recognisable (maybe just to me)?

The film was made after he died, although there was some footage of an earlier interview with him, where he seemed quite lovely. The kind of honourable chap who sadly, like the era he captured is pretty much extinct.

Photos are all (c) Edward Quinn from the Edward Quinn archive.

ODE TO JEAN...

Further to my previous post:

Oh, Mr. Touitou,
What would I do without you,

Just when I was contemplating,
A mad return to dating,

Just so that I could nick,
The trousers off some prick,

Your new catalogue dropped on my mat,
And saved me from all that,

I don't need to raid the bespoke,
Wardrobe of some bloke,

And really anyway,
If he dressed that well he'd be gay,

But you've come along and saved me,
From the need to flirt,
With the perfect alpaca trousers and pinstriped shirt,

So thanks to you A.P.C,
Once again I'm free,

From dirty socks and farting in bed,
I'll just stay home with my cat instead.

{The winter collection is online now for your clicky fingered enjoyment}

DRESS LIKE THE BOYS...

At the moment, all I want to wear is a thin white cotton mens' shirt, sleeves rolled up, roughly tucked into mannish trousers, no jewellery, no make up except polished fingers and toes (back into rouge noir). I'd wear my old petrol blue Prada Oxfords on my feet but I somehow managed to separate the uppers from the soles (my shoe guy assures me they'll be fine) - Although the look I'm veering towards owes a lot to the photos of people during the Depression by Walker Evans, I don't actually want to look that much like a poverty stricken depression era farmer. By way of the strange osmosis that often happens, recent posts from both The Sartorialist and Jen at Simply Photo are on the influence of the FSA photo project that documented those years.

Maybe it's the lack of summer here, the way that a cheery dress just doesn't feel right when the sky is uniformly grey, the sun never shines, it drizzles intermittently and can't decide whether it's cold or unpleasantly humid. I just feel like wearing the very perfect stripped back basic of everything. So I've adopted this kind of androgynous uniform, not that I've really noticed anyone else doing a similar thing. It's a jumble of references, but I know what it isn't: It's not Annie Hall and it's not really as glamorous as Katharine Hepburn. I'm reliving the Helmut Lang years in a way, and god do I wish I'd bought more H.L. back in the day (as in actually designed by him) when I had the chance, but alas, not the bank balance.

Maybe it's not something that would appeal if you worked in an office where business dress is compulsory, (thank you, thank you, thank you, much gratitude, oh, thank you Universe that I don't work in an office) to then spend the weekend wearing what is basically what most men wear to work. I believe that without a good manicure, perfume and carrying a smallish bag (not the enormous Anna Corinna tote I usually lug around) this style could be almost indistinguishable from that of a male office worker. I was quite enjoying the slouchy crumpledness of it all, then looked around at about 5pm last Friday to see a load of blokes standing outside the pub holding pints (outside is the new inside since the smoking ban) dressed pretty much the same as me. My concept of slouchy crumpledness was hastily re-defined and refined.

So, since I'm not in much of a shopping mood - there may be a forthcoming post about the merits of different brands of mannish trousers - I've decided the only thing to do is get a boyfriend so I can nick his clothes. Only he'd have to have a lot of Comme des Garcons shirts/Raf Simons trousers for me to steal. And how is such a boy going to be interested in a girl wearing no make up, and deliberately asexual clothing on a Saturday night? I'll let you know.

*EDIT: Later that evening...Ahem, in the course of walking down the street from my flat to the off-licence dressed in this way I received an, "Allo....gorgeous." Then after exiting the offy with a bottle of wine - from across the street outside the pub I heard, "You shoulda come in 'ere, I woulda bought you a drink."

Walking back up the street a VW camper van passed by and emitted a huge wolf whistle which I swear was made by some kind of siren rigged up to it, which is really rather sad.

However, it is unlikely that either of these charming young mens' wardrobes would be of much use to me but, hey, the androgyny thing seems to be a hit with the fellas.

I'm just sayin'.

Or maybe it's the humidity making them crazed.

{Image 1 from old Italian Vogue, image 2 from old Paris Vogue.}

POP ON OVER AND SAY HI...

I'm hanging out over at the stylish abode of Miss Lauren today. We're sitting in virtual deckchairs on her balcony, slurping frozen margaritas and painting our toenails hot pink.

In between talking about boys, I told her all about my recent trip to Madrid.

How often do you get a prize for going on holiday?

THANK YOU LAUREN!

THE CONTAGIOUS ENNUI...

Oh, you were so right about the ennui. Even though I dozed off countless times during Les Amants Reguliers I still have a major hair crush on Clotilde Hesme and an unexplained hankering to wear a rumpled white shirt at all times. And that Louis Garrel is quite fit too.

I am, as noted the other week when I attended the opera, both shallow and entirely unrefined. At the opera my seat had been made for a Victorian child and was WAY, WAY, up in the balcony thingy whatever you call it, where I had my first experience of vertigo.

I did not know how I was going to make it through to the interval, whereupon I would be able to collect another exhorbitant (£6.75) glass of below average wine, drink it in the dullsville corporate carpeted surroundings of the ENO and retain the will to live. I thought opera was supposed to be glamorous. My not knowing how I was going to make it through had nothing to do with the seat or the wine, it was because the opera was so, so BORING and it was impossible to find a comfortable sleeping position in those tiny seats. I have been to the opera twice before - once in Italy - and fell asleep both times. There, I am a philistine. I can't say which opera I went to see this time because I know someone who was in it, hence my being there to see the tiny little speck that was apparently she flounce across the stage for 3.2 seconds going, "aaahhohoholalalalahahahahaaaaa". At the end the man next to us started clapping like a circus seal and bellowing "Bravo! Bravo!" at which point my companion and I could not take it any more, burst into giggles, bypassed the stage door luvvie fest and went to the pub.

(Of course all this "Oh, but the opera was simply hideous" business was before the bomb scare agogo game we like to play when attempting to travel anywhere in London at the moment. Get on any form of transportation and see if you ever arrive at your chosen destination. Saturday night we were feeling all hardcore. It was pissing with rain, freezing cold, there was a small chance of being blown up, but still we attempted to Carry On As Normal and Go Out. We were forced back by police with news of An Incident which of course was probably someone leaving their McDonalds wrapper on the tube platform or something. Seriously, thank you police, good job and all that, has to be done. A wild card yesterday was the addition of giant hailstones and freak flooding right in the middle of rush hour. So this is how I end up at home watching black and white modern French films that are a response to other modern European films that are both in homage to the atmosphere of the student demonstrations of 1968 Paris and have the same lead actor. And that I only wanted to watch in the first place because I liked Clotilde Hesme's hair on the cover of the DVD.)

I know I said I was taking a break but I'm bored and it's raining.

CE SOIR...

I'm going to watch this tonight and stay away from the computer for a couple of days. Apologies for the last 3 lacklustre filler posts below, I think I need a little break in the real world. Oh - I just had one in a beautiful hot country. Back when fully recharged. X X X

HOW COULD I NOT KNOW?...

I really need to start paying more attention to what's going on here in London, instead of moaning about it all the time.

There was an *intimate* White Stripes gig at the Rivoli Ballroom, erm, about a ten minute walk from my house a couple of weeks ago. And funnily enough, no I didn't find out about it beforehand. Youtube is no consolation.

WISHING FOR...

For any Lyell lovers in Paris:

WAITING FOR...

...these Tsumori Chisato dresses to be reduced by 50%, preferably 70% in the summer sales. Eyes peeled, elbows sharpened, overdraft facility extended, go.

image source

AN IRRETRIEVABLE FLAW...

I was flicking through my French dictionary last night, as one might when one has just returned from France and has no idea when they might next go. Why does it always open on the page where the first word I see is redhibitoire? Always. According to my dictionary which I've had since GCSE French days, the translation of this is irretrievable flaw - the internet would beg to differ. One of my irretrievable flaws (who has ever used that phrase in English I'd like to know) may be that I never use the dictionary; another might be the frequent times I enter a restaurant alone in Paris and ask for a table for just myself, careful to construct an entire sentence, when in English I would probably just say "one" or even "table for one". "Une table pour une personne!" Why do I not say this?
According to good old Collins Gem, the phrase I have been using actually means:

I am lonely.

Hello. I am lonely. Yes, for lunch. Thank you.

Oh.My.God.

Well you know what? Nobody ever came over to keep me company in all that time, but they do always ask if I want an aperatif. Booze: my trusty companion.

As far as I can tell, "je suis seule" could also be construed as "I am alone". So, after the waiter does that wincing head turning thing and I have to repeat myself loudly - carefully enunciating each syllable and rolling my eyes, I might as well be saying, "It is I, Michelle of ze resistance. I am alone. Listen very carefully I shall say zis only once."

Help me.

It's still not as bad as when my Italian friend thought the English word for ashtray was hamster.

TRAGIC...

If anyone ever asked me what I would absolutely never, ever be seen dead wearing I always said shorts or dungarees.

I can see that shorts could look good if you have amazing legs. When shorts are continually proposed/rammed down the consumer's throat for two summers running I have no problem with the people who look good in them, known as models, wearing them occasionally. Dungarees I find heinous without exception.

People with legs like mine should never ever wear shorts, mini skirts or even a skirt/dress just above the knee unless thick black tights are provided. This makes shopping at the moment a teensy bit tricky. I apologise for having boobs, a small waist, curvy hips and not very nice legs. Apparently there are no clothes available for freaks like me this summer. It is the summer for those with spindly legs, flat chests and pot bellies to rejoice.

Even though French style can be a little conservative, some say boring, there's one thing I wholeheartedly agree with and that's that if a trend doesn't suit you or enhance your best features, avoid it. I saw no one in Paris wearing white or red Rayban Wayfarers recently, but plenty wearing black ones. I don't think that's boring, I think it's always a good idea to veer away from the Timmy Mallett look. I generally manage to take my own advice on such matters.

But today hell froze over and I purchased this pair of dungaree shorts.
But they're really cute!
But they don't suit me.
But they're so cute!

I succumbed to the I Want It Too Why Can't I Have It Too school of dressing, last seen during summer 2006 of the smock dress. I rationalised this purchase thus so: I will not subject Londoners to my legs, I will only wear the dungaree shorts when visiting my father (who, in a cruel twist of genetic fate, has fabulous legs at the age of 65) on the south coast, in a small seaside town where frankly, if you're not morbidly obese and are under the age of 85 then you are pretty hot stuff.

MEH. GRR. ETC...

We (by which I mean Lola and I) are most perturbed - disturbed even. Since 7.30am there has been a Polish plumber and his mate ripping pipes out from under the floor in the flat upstairs, which was supposed to happen at the weekend when . I . will . not . be . here. How, I ask you, are you supposed to eat the VERY LAST of your eurostar smuggled Pierre Herme macarons with all that racket going on? (If you want to see what all the fuss is about re: PH there are some good pics here.)
And I was saving the Abricot Pistache until last.

This week we have been mostly: 1: Hating London. 2: Doing that annoying and completely futile comparison thing where you compare everything in London to the way it would be in Paris. 3: Blaming all ills, petty annoyances and problems on London/England. 4: Not helping: Walking (yes walking! Being in Paris cured my foot somehow) through the city at lunchtime watching investment bankers rush in droves clutching sad plastic bags with plastic sandwiches in, talking on mobiles saying, "re-mortgaging's the only option..blah blah...terms of contract..blah...shall be instructing my solicitor.." and realising with absolute certainty that I have nothing in common with these people, and even if they earn 100 times more than I do, their quality of life sucks and I think they are all insane.

We, well I (since Loly has never been to Paris and is only grumpy if you try to pick her up) have been very busy with the above - moaning, complaining, being generally grumpy and so have not lavished this space with the attention it deserves. For this we apologise and make amends with this picture of cuteness.

BRIGITTE...

It was annoying me that the first thing you saw when you clicked on this page was a photo of A.A. So here's B.B. instead (in the window of Les Archives de la Presse). Something about it made me think instantly of Kate Moss and the media's obsession with her. Nothing much changes does it? Except the camera isn't right in her face/up her skirt.

And p.s: I admit it, I bought a vest in A.A. - and a bandeau top. Grr.

CHARMED...

And so, the gentrification of the north Marais is complete.
The End.

But! Where to now?
Northwards friends, ever northwards...and er, left a bit...

Ooh, that looks more like it. Where's that?
The haut haut Marais I believe some estate agents are referring to it as. Well, it's Temple really. Behind the Carreau du Temple (often used for shows at fashion week) is a very lovely area, and one that I wouldn't really know well if it weren't for the rumour I heard that there was a Lyell shop up there. It's the kind of place people really live and work - go down the cobbled Cite dupetit Thouars and you'll find children on bicycles, homes with windowboxes spilling geraniums, arty looking offices with doors open to let in the breeze and a sleepy dog lying on the mat. Wander round a bit in the quiet, quiet streets - once in a while you get spewed out into the crazy crazy of rue or boulevard du Temple then back in to the cool quiet streets.

In rue Charles Francois Dupuis there is this charming shop opened by a charming Australian girl. It is the Lyell shop but it's actually even better than that. Marie Louise de Monterey is a vintage clothes shop as well. Shoes line the floor around the entire shop, bags hang on one wall and vintage sundresses, white broderie slips and evening dresses hang on the rails. There are (I'm not typing the word vintage again) bakelite belt buckles and jewellery and such and there's a children's (oh bugger it) vintage clothing section. Then one half of the shop is given over to Lyell - their only Paris stockist as far as I know.

I'm really quite obsessed with those tiles.

After much dithering, I bought a snakeskin bag.

It did not cost ninety euros and no one felt the need to have a hissy fit.

{EDIT: Marie Louise de Monterey closed down after about a year, sadly. AA is, at the time of writing, still there, still selling neon headbands.}

DEJA VU...

Home.

Over tired. Extenuated would be a perfect English word too.

Feeling like why have we made London so ugly, harsh, crazy, expensive and almost impossible for anyone to live well in? But it contains my little Loly, lovely friends and neighbours, my just the way I want it flat. It's home. My own bed - heaven.

So why do I always feel like crying when I get off the Eurostar at Waterloo? It's not just the length of the taxi queue.

Why is Paris so wonderful, soul nourishing and designed in every sense for living? But what are the people there so pissed off about?

Round and round I go again...

Now . must . sleep.

YOU GO...

What do you call that little wire where you put one end in your camera and one end in the computer, thus allowing you to upload photos? It doesn't really matter does it, since I forgot to bring it with me. So: Words now, pictures later...

The latest in the series of Parisian shopkeeper vs. me hostilities was really the pinnacle - one hopes anyway. I had hobbled down to the K.Jacques shop, which is tiny, late in the afternoon. It was jumping with customers and I couldn't even get in the door, so I resolved to go back early the next morning. Wandering along to rue Malher I was looking at this shop I've often passed but never felt compelled to go in, called Gavilane. There are gothic looking lycra clothes and skull pendants in the window - sort of Ozzy Osbourne meets Flashdance. Could be someone's cup of tea but not mine. Incongruously there were some really lovely vintage handbags in the window, and never one to pass up a possible shopping coup, I decided to have a look. You could drop me off in the most unappealing retail location ever and I will always unearth something worth buying.

Anyway in I went to the shop - first commiting the unforgivable sin of forgetting to say bonjour. I was only interested in the bags and what a choice - I could've bought them all and immediately saw the one I wanted. A burgundy leather frame bag with a cool stainless steel clasp and a really thin shoulder strap - it had been re lined at some point and there was no label. The man in the shop said it was "good leather." I would say it was Spanish leather and had not been an expensive bag when new. Then I noticed there was a water stain on one side. If it had been 15 or twenty euros I would've bought it in a second. Fifty and I would have thought twice. In fact I've never paid more than fifteen pounds for a vintage bag so that would have been stretching it. But it - and all the other bags were ninety euros. Ninety! I could've bought it but why pay such a hefty commission to someone for their good luck in finding it? It's the thrill of the hunt and the bargain that makes it all the more satisfying.

Since in Paris I feel I must always give a reason for not buying something, I said quite honestly that I thought it was lovely but it was too expensive. The man started saying, "Yes you can go out there and buy lots of bad cheap bags. You go! You go and buy bad bags out there! You will find many bad bags for ten euros. Me, I have good bags!" I had to agree with him and said so, again praising the loveliness of his bags. I kind of thought we were having a bit of light hearted banter but before I knew what was happening I was being physically ejected from the shop and found myself standing confused on the pavement outside. Then - did he just slam the door and lock it behind me? Yes he did. I looked down at the floor for answers and saw only a dead pigeon in the gutter - possibly the only previous customer that day. This only heightened the sense of surrealness.

How curious, I thought. Then I thought actually that's quite sweet that he cares so much about his bags. It's absolutely true that you could rifle through the depots ventes of Paris all day and find loads of faux leather '80s clutch bags for ten euros, but never a really nice one. I almost thought of going back in the next day but when I walked past on my way to K.Jacques my man must've seen me approaching because - again - he closed and locked the door! I mean whatever next? Customers wanting to spend money in your shop? Disgraceful. Anyway I had a little chuckle to myself then went on my way to buy sandals, or as I now say: Tropeziennes.

The girls working in the K.Jacques shop were SUPER NICE, even cooing in sympathy and I think a little admiration over the impressive bluey purpleness of my broken foot. They patiently let me try on every sandal in the shop and I ended up buying the Orion ones and being seriously tempted to get another pair as well. Oh yes, I do believe I have a new obsession.

THIS IS WHY I NEVER HAVE A PLAN: PART 348...

In the parallel universe where my right foot would not win first prize in a special effects make up competition for Most Gruesome Looking Toe Tagged Corpse Foot Sticking Out Of Sheet In Morgue, I would buy some K.Jacques sandals in Paris. Or should I say I was planning to buy some K.Jacques sandals in Paris. I was planning to trot down to rue Pavee and quite simply, buy some K.Jacques sandals. (Please don't hold their website against them.) And then I was going to buy a falafel sandwich. It seemed so simple. And this - again! is why I hate planning anything. Unforseen freak wedding accidents aside, I can still dream. It's between these:

 Maybe I should still go and horrify the shop assistants when I take my sock off.

WHERE ARE ALL THE VEGETABLES?...

Now, I don't want this to sound as if I'm complaining.....but I want to know, how do they do it, these Parisians. I mean how do they have enough energy to last the day? Do they secretly mainline cocktails of vitamins in the privacy of their homes, sprinkle Greens + over their morning coffee and linseeds on top of their tarte aux poires?
Yes I've read that book.
When I'm in Paris I treat my body like an engine that needs no fuel. I start my day with a cafe creme and a croissant, walk for three to four hours, stopping maybe for another coffee. At lunchtime I might treat myself to a selection of cheese and some bread, washed down with a glass of red wine. Then I walk non stop for another five to six hours, maybe stopping for a Berthillon ice at some point. Later, a coffee, then an apero, then a proper dinner, usually some kind of meat with perhaps some gratin dauphinoise masquerading as a vegetable. To bed still digesting that creme brulee. Then at some point I go, "Oh my god, I'm so exhausted, I just don't understand it." Yes it's fantastic to eat all that yummy food, but I'm not three. If I was three I'd sit here all day eating nothing but gummy bears. I'd never eat that way at home but I have the When in Rome mentality - trying to get my fill of decent pastries while I'm there, knowing I won't even be tempted by the greasy examples back home. It's worse if you eat out a lot, as I do. I can tell you that it's entirely possible to go for three weeks in Paris without eating any vegetables and not even realise. (I did it.) The dauphinoise potatoes don't count. I sometimes wonder if there's a secret menu I'm not being given that has all the veg on it. Of course there are lovely seasonal veggies at the market, but apart from tasting the new season's asparagus or whatever, which most likely will get made into a 75% cream soup, it's kind of tricky to eat anything apart from bread products, meat, cheese, caffeine and alcohol. Then there was that time when I tried to eat - and cook macrobiotically - in Paris. Ha! That's why I end up going to LPQ, even though I swore I'd never go there again since they've gone all Starbucks and after they put up a sign - in English - with a diagram of how to eat a tartine. They do salads, that's why I go - and rye bread. But that sign, and the cup at the till with "Tips" written on it in English is inexcusable and makes you feel like you're at a theme cafe at the Epcot Centre.

So, maybe it's just me - maybe you get bored of all the tasty naughtiness after a while, or your digestive system implodes/explodes and you get punished for not being hardcore enough by having to shop in the grim macrobiotic shop and eat millet for the rest of your days.

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...