EARLYBIRD...

Well, well, well. So these are the kind of shenanigans the sky gets up to when I'm still tucked up in bed.

By the time I wake up the sky usually has a uniformly grey pallor, spitting drizzle as if slightly annoyed. Now I know, it's just got a hangover after all that early morning partying.

The only reason I was up at that ungodly hour of sunrise was because of my own partying. I awoke to discover my boots on the floor beside me, still with jeans and socks inside. I had cat scratches all down one arm which I have no recollection of receiving.
My cream tunic/dress thingy was covered in day glo pink splatters which could only have been achieved by pouring a particularly sickly sweet cocktail down one's own frontage.

And so I was up at 7am washing my tunic/dress thingy. My earlybird wishes granted just this once.

As the day kicked in, the sky went back to normal. Red sky and shepherds...

So I went back to bed.

It's that strange time of year - in betweeny. Nothing is as it usually is, there are people everywhere displaced from their usual routines, happy to have some time off to spend sitting in traffic jams on their way to and from retail parks. It could all get quite depressing.

See what I mean?

However; some of us are merely confused:

IT'S ABOUT NEED...

I was going to ignore the sales but...oh!
It may look like a school cardigan but therein lies its 100% cashmere charm.
I need it.
A.P.C's online sale hasn't started yet so I'll have to brave the shops.
I may be some time...

MERRY...

A couple of the Christmas stockings I made for my laydeez. I made five altogether and had a lot of fun in the process, or with the process maybe I should say...

I hope Santa fills all your stockings with everything you wished for as well as the juiciest satsumas, most enormous gold chocolate coins and no stinky guest soaps or novelty pencil sharpeners.

Merry Christmas!

DEAR FESTIVE PERIOD, PLEASE CAN WE KEEP CHRISTMAS?...

I'd already noticed that newsreaders had stopped saying the word Christmas, but last night on the tube the announcer detailing the myriad cancellations over the next few days referred to it as "The Festive Period."

I was on my way to see The Pipettes play at The Roundhouse in Camden, which is oh, so, SO much nicer since it's been renovated. The audience ranged from little girls dolled up as Pipette-ettes with beehived hair and brightly coloured mini dresses, to senior citizens in leopard skin - damn, I should have taken my camera. I guess their 60s harmonising appeals to all ages, everyone was swaying and clapping along. It felt kind of intrepid going out last night; woolly hat, gloves, big overcoat, thick tights and flat boots covering a lace shift dress - my one concession to it being a night out on the tiles.

Today is a day of wrapping presents, ready for the family get together tomorrow.
All this talk in the newspapers of British folk not having any traditions left falls flat on it's face when confronted with our Christmas day. There are usually about twenty of us and there's an order to proceedings which is rarely altered, not enforced in any way but it just always goes like this:

12 noon: Arrive bearing gifts, admire big tree with sea of presents around the base to which you add yours. Greet everybody, merry Christmas, merry Christmas, kisses, say hi to dogs, suppress pang of missing Lola.

Champagne, squares of smoked salmon on wholemeal bread with lemon and black pepper passed round. Loud nattering ensues (largely female family).

2.30 - 3pm, lunch: Turkey, stuffing, pigs in blankets (sausage and bacon rolls), sweet red cabbage, roast parsnips and potatoes, Brussel sprouts and chestnuts, gravy, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, red wine, oh I know I've forgotten something...all made from scratch (obviously) by either of my superwoman aunts with Agas.

A pause between courses to pull crackers, tell the jokes, put on the hats and clear up a bit.

Lights dimmed for Christmas pudding alight, brandy butter, a couple of other desserts - pavlova, maybe a fruit crumble, mince pies.

Cheeses, including stilton of course; celery, grapes.

Retire to open presents. Someone is designated to pass them round; it used to be the smallest cousin dressed as Santa, in fact it's still usually the youngest. Then follows a frenzy of unwrapping, thanking etc. Clearing up and making a wobbly pile of all your presents.

At this point without fail everyone falls asleep. When we were younger my cousins and I would giggle at all the grown ups snoring with their mouths open, and would take photos up their noses. Now guess who's lying in a heap of arms and legs?

Tea is served. More mince pies, Christmas cake.

The controversial walk. It's lovely to gather the dogs, put your wellies on, wrap up warm and go out in the pitch black, where (out in the countryside) you can see the stars blanketing the sky. Sometimes carols are sung reedily and tunelessly.
Often, people can't be bothered to go for a walk and by people I mean me. This is something I always regret. The walk is the most important thing I'm beginning to think.

More drinks and general lounging. Charades!

Then later on my very favourite: The turkey sandwich (with cranberry sauce, mayonnaise and stuffing) and other leftovers.

Say goodnight and dozily stumble towards bed for the night.

And that my friends, is Christmas day. And I wouldn't miss it for the world.

IT'S OH SO QUIET...

...shhh

Arrrrr, there be a heavy fog descending o'er t'moor this morning. Mark my words, strange things are afoot.
I woke up in the middle of the night. Or so I thought. It turned out to be 8am. It's so, so quiet, maybe it's because there are no planes. I live on (under?) a flight path, which I never notice. Sometimes I'm on the phone and the person on the other end goes "Oh my God, what the hell is that deafening noise, are you ok?" And I'm going, "What noise?" But nope, no planes, no distant sound of traffic, no upstairs neighbour thundering down the stairs and slamming the door on his way to work to wake me up. All is completely still.

The other morning sunshine still existed.

Cheery uppy red roses...

And here we have a WIP of what is keeping my little hands busy. The old Bernina sewing machine has been hauled out of storage, and it has been making some pretty, pretty things out of all these bits and pieces (if I do say so myself). Which I can't exactly show you yet. I really enjoy doing fiddly bits of hand sewing for some reason; it's so satisfying. I'm having such a lovely time, sewing and choosing which thing goes where; I'd far rather be at home making presents than battling it out on the streets of shoppers.

Only the blokes are left now anyway, staggering around the shops going 'Oh my God I've got to buy ONE present, this is so fucking stressful, I hate Christmas, why are there so many people around? - "Oh, alright mate, yeah me too, bloody Christmas shopping"...ah, a deep fat fryer - perfect! Romantic AND useful.'

In other exciting news: I realised this morning with a start that I somehow forgot to eat my advent calendar chocolate on the 18th so I had two today.

I do apologise if anyone has stopped by here expecting any kind of shopping insights or caustic remarks about Parisians. Normal coverage will be resumed just as soon as I'm over Christmas...

HMM, WHAT SAYS *VENICE*?...

Carnival, masquerade, Death in Venice, bellinis, gondoliers, Don't Look Now?

Marc Jacobs dressed as a pigeon with Andre Leon Talley at Marc's "A Night in Venice" themed annual party. Sounds pretty damn amazing...

Personally I would have gone as a vaporetto...

image source

HI, BYE...

I'm here, I'm here, she says scrambling to the laptop at ten to twelve still in pyjamas (Princesse Tam Tam stripy if you're interested). Ooops I did say I'd post every other day didn't I? Why can't I do anything with rules except break them, even when they're self imposed?

Somebody has been dreaming contentedly, emitting little sighs and half snores on top of constant purring. Could there be a love story brewing? Ginger Tom, next door, very handsome. That's all I'm saying.

I have much to say................later!

BLAME MARTHA...

It was all very well going down the hand made route, visiting artists in their ateliers to buy Christmas presents; but when it came to actually making things and festive decorating chez Lola, I was unable to locate any cute Christmas tree light boutiques or young up and coming artisan purveyors of fleece, felt, pom poms and pipe cleaners. So Homebase and John Lewis it was. The HELL of pre-Christmas John Lewis where they don't have any white felt, their selection of rick rack is pitiful and Entree des Fournisseurs seems like a sweet and distant dream I once had and might as well be. And I'm blaming Martha for the John Lewis bit. Martha Stewart Holiday Handmade Gifts - AMAZING.

I never buy Martha Stewart Living, though I do like Martha's Blueprint magazine (not to be confused with long running U.K architecture mag Blueprint. Only Martha is so powerful (feared?) that she can get away with starting a magazine with the same name as another.)

ANYWAY this holiday handmade gift thingy basically shows you how to make all the Christmassy things you want to make but don't know how to, and some you didn't even know you wanted to make until you picked up the Holiday Gift doo dah. (Can I just ask any American readers what the deal is with saying "holiday" and "the holidays"? I quite like it actually, being agnostic, but is it absolutely not done to mention the C word (as in Christmas!) in the states now?)

ANYHOO there are so many gorgeous things to make: what do you think about the ankle strap felt baby booties? In an adult size of course - perfect for lounging! Oh, but they make it all look so beautiful. They could photograph a piece of tinsel draped over a plastic snowman and it would look simple, chic and timeless for goodness sake. How do they do it? I know my efforts will come out looking a bit wonky and grubby compared to the pristine, "I said do it four thousand more times until you get it perfect" projects shown in the magazine, but they do give good template. And for that I am thankful.

They even give you basic knitting and crochet tutorials which are perfect if, like me, your sweet Granny taught you to knit twenty years ago and your recent attempts have only led you to realise it's not quite like riding a bike; however you have no sweet Granny left to ask.

I have the best of intentions towards my crafty endeavours. I'm brimming with ideas but my fabric and trims still stay stuffed in the carrier bag so I can dream of how beautiful it will turn out a while longer. I just love it at the beginning of a project when my vision of what I'm going to make is unsullied by the reality of my slapdash corner cutting and short attention span.

But too many of my ideas have fallen by the wayside because I think they won't turn out absolutely perfect enough. I have never had a business card for this very reason. I have to remind myself of that old chestnut: If it's worth doing, it's worth doing badly.

COMATOSE SUNDAY...

200 grams of Colston Bassett Stilton, half a loaf of soda bread and one mince pie consumed.

3 glasses of pinot noir imbibed.

62 Xmas cards completed and stamped.

Casablanca on T.V which I have watched six times and never made it through 'til the end without falling asleep. I must buy the DVD in case I ever have insomnia.

HAPPY SHOPPER...

Yesterday I made it to the much anticipated Orla Kiely sample sale in Brick Lane. There was masses and masses of stuff (the sale is still on today and tomorrow if you're around there.) The prices were still a bit high for me though - bags I expected to be marked down to £50 were more like £150. Sample sales used to be more of a secret affair and because of that or not, the prices were much, much lower in ye olden days. Now I find things more at ordinary sale price, not cost price. In any case the Orla Kiely sale was not really samples but excess stock from past seasons and as always I found a few little bargains: a mohair top (£40), a wallet (£12) and a silly sunhat with my favourite print (£10).

Not bad, actually. I love Orla's prints and I'm not the only one judging by the number of die hard Orla fans decked out in her clothes, already carrying one of her distinctive bags who were literally stockpiling stuff that I thought was way too expensive. And no sighting of my most wanted satin shift dress.
I have a hunch they might lower the prices again before the sale ends because there's so much stock, so if you're feeling lucky get down there tomorrow afternoon.

After a cup of tea at Story, Z and I checked out another sample sale just around the corner. Should have known, should have known. Claiming an impressive roster of designers from Marc Jacobs to Miu Miu to every bold face fashion brand you can think of, the penny should have dropped the moment we were asked for £1 to get in. We saw one pair of Marc Jacobs shoes amongst the dregs. But they did have loads of the lovely Mont St Michel knitwear (still too pricey) and my heart lifted when I saw a whopping great rail of Eley Kishimoto prints smiling at me. I was sure I'd get something but only the difficult to sell wacky and unwearable bits and pieces had found their way there, which obviously is what sample sales are for but sometimes a girl gets lucky. In fact they did also have recent Camilla Staerk samples at proper sample sale prices (like £25).

But the real reason we were hanging around Brick Lane yesterday evening was the Cheshire Street and Friends Late Christmas Shopping Evening. Quel bon idee!
Give me a mince pie and some mulled wine and my purse mysteriously empties itself of all that cumbersome cash. I do love Cheshire Street but usually when I'm over that way most of the shops are shut. (Some of them are only open on Friday and Saturday afternoons.) But last night store of Scandi goodness Mar Mar Co, utility chic Labour and Wait, Comfort Station and all the other wonderful little shops down there opened their doors until 9pm and fed and watered everyone from their big vats of mulled wine or hot cider and trays of home made mince pies.
I bought a lovely pair of earrings by Louise Kragh in Mar Mar Co and Z fell in love with this sugar shaker. At Shelf I bought some Christmas paper cut outs and the letter I for my collection. Yes I now own the letter I, kind of in a 'Happy Birthday' way so if you ever want to use it again please speak to my lawyers...

Also at Shelf there was a blog life and real life collision as we admired in person Camilla Engman's 'Listen' print and her calendar. Such a talented girl.

See, painless shopping and not an in-store Santa, tuneless carol singers or a packaged "The Ultimate Best Ever" anything in sight.
Tra la la.

I'M HERE...

Last December I hardly posted at all, which is kind of annoying since I have a memory like a sieve. I'm pretty sure stuff happened in the gaps between posts that was really quite interesting, it's just I didn't have time to record it. It's the little in between-y nuggets I savour when I look back, and when I read other people's posts. Yes, I care what you had for lunch.

I'm always envious of (and grateful to) those who find time to post every day. And those early birds who have time to post before the day begins? I am plain jealous. I wish to be an earlybird more than anything; alas I am forever a nightowl.

I have no idea what I did last year at this time other than attempt to complete a macrobiotic cookery homework assignment whilst in Paris. (By the way do not attempt anything involving brown rice, healthfood or macrobiotics in Paris ever. You will be shamed, defeated and possibly deported.)

Anyway apart from that I don't know what else happened - I was possibly too busy caught up in the fray of soul destroying mindless consumerism (see previous post below) to check in here, or was too knackered from said mindless consumerism and did nothing but vegetate in front of the TV grazing on mini mince pies. But who knows, it might have been fabulous.

So I have a not very cunning plan. I shall try my best to post at least every other day until the end of the month/year. As with last year's macrobiotic winter vegetable stew containing daikon and hokkaido pumpkin I may fail and end up with a sludgy brown mess, but it's a risk I'm willing to take.

THIS IS CHRISTMAS...

I hate the whole hamster in a wheel merry-go-round of Christmas shopping, though I do, I'm starting to remember, love the season itself. But for the past fifteen years or so (give or take a year when my mum did it) I have been assigned the role of family Christmas shopper. With between twenty five and thirty presents to get for my extended family depending on births, deaths and marriages, there was nothing to do but sharpen my elbows and wade into the eye of the high street storm for what I call an extended bulk shop.

My ideal gift giving situation would be to float around, going to open studios and buying handmade, browsing the artists I love on etsy or even (am I dreaming here?) making a few things as well.
Unfortunately because I was so consumed (literally) with buying presents for my relatives, friends often got the short straw, culminating in my handing over a 'fun, stupid book' from Colette to one of my best friends last year and receiving an Ipod in return. Oh, and Christmas cards? No, not enough time, sorry. Everyone kind of knew the deal and knew not to expect much, more expressing shock at the insane amount of presents I was stockpiling, I mean thoughtfully choosing for each and every relative I hardly ever see. Actually I don't know if that's a lot - everyone I know seems to have six to eight presents to get, but maybe there are others out there (apart from those related to me who by random fluke are reading this - in which case I hope they don't take this as a diss). If anyone else has a big family I'd love to know if everyone gets a separate present or how they work it - I always thought secret Santa would be a bit more fair. I'd be more than happy to not even get a present as long as we could all get together and share a meal.

The main thing I've really missed is thinking of the person you're giving to and finding the perfect thing for them. Buying loads of presents (and here I give away my wealth of experience) I often end up putting people into categories so I'll start with Auntie type stuff, then do Uncley stuff etc etc and just hope it all turns out ok. My mum used to go through and comment on what I'd got and usually ended up wrapping most of it. But for the past few years I've done the shopping alone, wrapped everything up and posted the ten or so that need to be posted and brought all the ones to exchange in person on my own.

This year, I felt the strange sensation of putting my foot down, more to make a point than anything. After all it's easy enough to not see what all the fuss is about when it's all done for you and you just magically receive thank you letters for things you didn't know you'd given. So this year's Christmas shopping will get done, how and by whom I couldn't really say.

I have so far stuck to the handmade only rule for the ten or so presents I need to get and my goodness, what a lovely time I'm having. Seriously, ten presents? Pah! AND I have sent real, actual physical cards to people I haven't sent them to for years.

I went to Cockpit Arts last week and found some beautiful things (which I can't share just yet for obvious spoiler reasons), I am having a petite soiree, and I may even make mince pies. My outdoor fairy lights are up and my flat is slowly becoming more festive. Christmas is lovely; funny I never noticed.

And of course Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without Frank on the old gramophone singing:

"I diiidd it myyyyy waaaaaayyyyy."

TODAY'S FAVOURITE THINGS...

I had an irresistible craving for some Le Pain Quotidien praline spread today which is just about my favourite thing in the world and I haven't had it for ages, not having been in Paris for a while. I suppose it's my Starbucks, I know I'll always get a good coffee there - which makes it nothing like Starbucks but you know what I mean. I've actually been quite disappointed by the LPQ branches in London so far. The one in Marylebone is really noisy and always full of botoxed eurotrashy ladies who lunch. The one under the arches at Waterloo would be nice if it weren't for the trains thundering overhead and the water dripping from the ceiling. I haven't been to the one in Kensington because I have absolutely no reason to go to Kensington ever. I hadn't tried the one in Great Marlborough Street, almost opposite Liberty and the entrance to Carnaby Street, which has been open now for a month or so. It's big and in a modern building which usually makes the whole rustic styling thing a bit hard to swallow, but somehow it works. Their coffee is fairtrade and organic and they have free wi-fi so I totally forgive them for being a chain. Anyway I had a lovely time there, me and my big bowl of coffee and a basket of bread with ALL the chocolate spreads to choose from. I felt like I was in Paris. (I know LPQ is Belgian but I always go there when I'm in Paris.) Then afterwards the shop I wanted to go to was unexpectedly shut at 2pm on a Thursday and I really did feel just like I was in Paris.

But Beyond the Valley was open. It's such a nice little shop because not everything is super expensive, they have quirky bits and pieces too, all very well chosen. I love the little matchbooks with "call me" written on perforated squares of paper and the mini books by Lucy May Schofield. And they had the Donna Wilson knitted doughnut that I just really, really needed to buy for someone.

And they also had the necklace by Kyo Hashimoto I've been lusting after but felt sure I wouldn't find anywhere.

The black and white one, ain't it purty? I'd love to have it but at about half the price they're selling it for in the shop.

And then of course I ended up in Selfridges where the Benefit girls got me again. They see me coming a mile off, all haggard and dehydrated; weighed down with shopping bags (of Christmas cards but they don't know that). They entice me to their stools with silky tones inviting me to take the weight off, let us make you feel better, and then you know the rest. I am wearing more products on my face than I have all year and I look suspiciously healthy. I also have another eye cream but two new products in one year isn't that bad really is it, when they're able to work that glowy light reflecting magic on me.

A LITTLE EXORCISE...

Today seems to be the day for blogging as subject. I don't question it that much, in the way that I don't question the volumes of sketchbooks and morning pages I have stashed away all over the place that most people in my 'real life' have no idea about. It's just something I do and always have done, except someone went and invented blogging which is the perfect medium to express, as Alicia says in such a perfect way, my need to "lurch about saying this or that, whatever it is." The only times I've ever felt any negative feelings about what I consider a necessary part of my life are the thankfully rare occasions when someone I know in the scary non internet world, who I know doesn't get who I am or where I'm coming from and does not have my best interests at heart or at anywhere, mentions casually that they have "read my blog a couple of times". This is presented with no further comment or discussion which, depending on the person can make me feel as if they have stolen a key to my house, come in and taken a shit in the corner of my living room and left quietly, perhaps making some kind of snidey quip to their accomplice about my choice of soft furnishings on the way out. It's hard to continue to write freely when my safe little world has been invaded. As much as I hate to admit it, it makes everything I write a bit stilted and self conscious for a while until I can get back on my feet and truly believe it when I say (silently) "I'm not doing it for you and I don't give a shit what you think." Sorry if this is all a bit cryptic, and may sound like I'm taking it all a leeetle bit too seriously but in order to express myself again I must ahem, express myself.

What has consistently amazed and thrilled me since starting this blog is that I now know THERE ARE OTHERS LIKE ME; people somewhere out there in the world who like the things I like and seem to understand what I'm going on about, even if it's just macaroons or shoes and when I don't know myself half the time.

DOPPELGANGERS STEP THIS WAY...

Almost exactly two years ago I interviewed photographer Francois Brunelle and wrote an article about his project, 'I'm not a look-a-like.' Have a look at the photos on his website, you won't believe these people aren't related.

The craziest, spookiest thing about it all is that when the look-a-likes meet - often for the first time in the studio, they invariably discover other similarities. There have been cases of people turning up wearing their own everyday clothes and not only having features that resemble the other but the same style, even the same tattoo. Once they start chatting during the shoot they often find they have similar life stories; one couple discovered they were born at the same time on the same day thousands of miles apart.
Here's the text from my article which was published in the Metro newspaper back in December '04.

Francois Brunelle collects look-a-likes the way other people collect rare stamps or butterflies. For the past three years he has travelled the world seeking out and photographing pairs of people for his forthcoming book and exhibition entitled ‘I’m not a look-a-like’. The starkly beautiful black and white portraits capture two strangers meeting a mirror image of each other for the first time. We all think we are unique, but this book proves it’s entirely possible that somewhere in the world there’s another ‘you’. It’s elevation of the ordinary person, or persons in the street to something special, all by virtue of the fact that they have a double.
So far Brunelle has photographed around 100 pairs of look-a-likes world wide, some of whom have been mistaken for their double for 20 years. Now he is seeking look-a-likes here in the U.K. Brunelle doesn’t mind whether his subjects are famous or not, as someone who is recognisable in his native Montreal would be unknown in England and vice versa. He says, ‘It’s not about celebrities, it’s about looking like other people.’ If you have a look-a-like and/or are interested in being part of the project, you can apply online here.

As the first (ahem - that's FIRST) person in the U.K to have written about it, it's very exciting for me to see how the project has gained such momentum globally and now here, with articles in many of the major British newspapers over the last few weeks. Tomorrow at 9am Francois will appear on LK Today (ITV) to talk about the project. He still wants to photograph another sixty pairs for his book to be completed and I know he would love some from the U.K to participate.

JET LAG...

I seem to be in another time zone lately. I wake up late, can't stomach anything to eat until around three in the afternoon, then I'm ready for supper at the time everyone else is going to bed around here. I can't believe I must go to bed before two in the morning, but where can I go when everything closes at eleven? Maybe it's a delayed reaction to Barcelona.

I have also, I.just.cannot.believe. been getting excited about the third Thursday of November, even though I'm not in Paris - only to realise that today is in fact the FOURTH Thursday of November and I should have been swigging happily a whole week ago. So today is Thanksgiving I believe in the U.S. It's easy to get your dates mixed up when they're not really yours.

I've been valiantly holding off on the old "I really miss Paris" nostalgia trip for the whole of October and now most of November. Did you know I spent the whole of last October there, meeting poets and artists, discovering the whole "so THIS is how it's supposed to be done" of Paris fashion week and fairly skipping along the street to the bakery each morning as if I really actually lived there and knew how to carry the bread in a casual manner? Of course you do. It seems like a dream now, although it wasn't my first trip to Paris and by no means my last, that particular month had a magic about it I've never since been able to replicate on subsequent visits.
I received some kind of grace or luck during that time, bloody well brimming with joy was I.

So here goes, I'll indulge myself this once: every colour of macarons, place des Vosges, the nice waiter at Camille, ridiculous pooches in the street and cats on windowsills, La Seine at every time of day or night, rue St Paul, sitting in cafes for hours, buttery croissants, un quart at l'estaminet, gorgeous shops, 'my' little bit of the 3rd, the French guy who looks but doesn't perv, breakfast at Le Flore-cliched but good, Centre Pompidou bookshop, tartine, the artistry of florists, flanerie, Jardins du Luxembourg, popping into one of the APCs, Bonjour Mademoiselle, poetry readings, FROMAGE, Assouline bookshop and La Hune and..., 100 exhibitions to choose from, the water running along the gutters in the morning, sheets cleaned at the laundry, apero, cafe, cafe, cafe.
I miss you.

Cat Town via Cosmic

ARE YOU BEING SERVED?...

Maitre d' at The Wolseley: Good afternoon Madam, how may I help you?

Me: Hello, I'll just sit in the salon there because I'm waiting for a friend.

Him: May I take your name?

Me: Oh, I don't have a reservation, I'm just waiting for a friend.

Him: And what is his or her name?

Me: Oh, he doesn't have a reservation either.

Him: *exasperated* If you give me his name I will be able to direct him to you.

Me: Oh, he's called Benjamin Braddock.

Him: And your name is?

Me: My name is Bonnie Parker.

He shows me to a table. I am still perplexed about the necessity of the name thing. I await *Benjamin...Another customer is shown to the table where the rest of his party are.
Maitre d': *Jubilantly in booming voice* MONSIEUR . HAS . ARRIVED!

AT THE IQONS AVANT PREMIERE PARTY LAST NIGHT...

www.iqons.com

TABLES ARE THE NEW IT BAGS...

I took Duckie for a spin to the Midcentury Modern design fair held in the 60s dinner hall at Dulwich College boys' school.

What I really wasn't expecting when I tootled up was first of all to bump into and almost drive over an old friend who it turns out is getting married next week - it always freaks me out when people tell me they're getting married, in all sincerity it's such an alien concept to me. But good luck to them!
And then to see the other folk who'd come to fawn over Danish rosewood sideboards and Cherner chairs. Well, my attempts to interest anyone I knew in this as a day out were a resounding failure, although I did present the opportunity in a somewhat defeatist manner. Like "Oh yeah there's this thing, you probably don't want to go, no, probably not your sort of thing, ok, fine don't worry about it." But haha! I joined a motley assortment of arty chic young, hip things with apartments to furnish and an aching nostalgia for the latter part of the 20th century. All dressed as if on their way to Brick Lane (for want of a better place), not a furniture fair in South East London. If the Sartorialist had been there he would have been kept busy snapping all afternoon. As it was I kept tripping over various film crews.

As well as furniture there were ceramics and smaller items for sale like Lisa Stickley's printed tea towels, ceramics from People Will Always Need Plates and Donna Wilson's super cute knitted creations which were cleverly suspended like a giant interactive mobile for grown ups. I gotta get me one o' them there doughnuts. Yum. And slimming.

As for the furniture itself, it was mostly of the "Bugger it, I bet my dad's thrown those curtains/that coffee table/ that Midwinter pottery away variety, and confirmed that I am not insane for wanting to have my inherited (no one else wanted it) 60s Heal's dining table refinished for roughly the same price as a new table would be.

In the collectables section was a great selection of Russell Wright American Modern ceramics in the signature soft sludgy pastel palette that's become so collectable I didn't dare look at the prices.

Although when I left, my bag did mysteriously contain a Lisa Stickley teatowel and some drinks coasters from Ella Doran; had I bought them four years ago I wouldn't have ruined the aforementioned table in the first place.

TRY TO FIND THE LIGHT...

Panicking, panicking, oh just ever so slightly. Sorry to be a cliched English person and talk about the weather - and I said sorry too, there's another one. It occurred to me yesterday that it's only the middle of November and we still have December, January, February and if the last few years are anything to go by March as well, in which we are treated to the shittiest weather that ever did exist. Well maybe not, but it's the familiarity of it that gets to you. And the dampness, which gets into your bones. At least now the trees still have leaves, turning the most amazing colours, which against a steel grey sky is pretty spectacular. I'm drawn to the leaves that are bright vivid yellow on trees with sodden trunks and branches registering to the eye as black. But soon the leaves will fall...
I don't mind cold and snowy, that's often accompanied by dry and sunny. But day upon day of rain; dark, dark skies, constant drizzle, drivel, miserable, blaeeurgh. It is this time of year when London living foreign friends who moved here for the buzz and the raw energy on da street (especially those who moved here in the spring) start saying things like;

"But ho my Gaahd, this is really it is unbelievable you know, I am really in DEpress now. Hevvery day, hevvery day it is raining and then there it is no sun, just rain, rain, rain. So November is worst month in London yes?"

Should I lie to make them feel better? Why get their hopes up. You need a survival strategy. A good plan is to LEAVE THE COUNTRY at regular intervals throughout the winter. Actually an English winter is only bearable if you live in a quaint old house in the countryside with an open fire and a cosy village pub that also has an open fire. My radiator and my local nouveau gastro bar or whatever we're supposed to call it aren't quite having the requisite effect.

I take comfort in flashes of colour: the trim of my colour combo genius Orla Kiely steel blue cardi with one mustard coloured cuff, the other coral pink. Petrol blue shoes. A brightly coloured blanket to trail around like Linus from Charlie Brown.

Smells and flavours too: Kiehl's Original Musk Oil is warm and comforting. My pumpkin and sage risotto (Vialone Nano rice of course Mia) with feta cheese and lemon olive oil. Spanish orange macaroons (Nigella). Candles everywhere in the daytime. I'm in my living room and it's just as dark at 3pm in here as it would be at night.

My furry alarm clock failed me this morning and gasp! the furry one and I stayed snuggled up in bed until ten to eleven which was quite shocking since I had an appointment at ten. Oops. What an excuse - it was dark so I couldn't see the time, and my cat was cold so she didn't wake me, choosing bodily warmth over breakfast.

AND THE ANSWER IS...

...Barcelona of course.

I am failing dismally in my attempts to stave off post trip depression. It doesn't help oh cold, rainy English climate that last Friday I was wafting around wearing just a cotton shirt (and jeans, shoes and underwear of course), and that on Sunday I could have (if I'd had my cossie) happily gone for a swim in the sea.
Straight back into mundanity today and no I cannot go out for dinner at midnight should I so desire. I cannot begin my evening's social activities at 1am, and the checkout girl at Tesco's today did not call me guapita or carinya (scuse the spelling?) And why does my train ticket home from Gatwick cost £7 for a single when the train into Barcelona from the airport costs 2.40 euros for a longer journey?
Yes it's my favourite comparison game. Poor England almost always loses.

Oh, but I did have a lovely time. It was too short really and I know I'll be back. So easy to pop over with sleazyjet for a weekend of partying. My hermit tendencies vanished as soon as I was able to stroll everywhere without being buffeted by wind and rain. We went out 'til the small hours every night. It took me roughly one day to acclimatise to having a relaxing 'early' evening drink/dinner at home, then going out at around 12. A nap the next afternoon and it seems you have double the time in each day.

I must say it was clever of my cous and her beau to find a flat bang slap in the heart of El Born (overlooking the Passeig del Born) where all the cool little bars and shops are and a mere three minutes walk from my other Barcelona friend Ester Pastel's flat. They may now be wishing they'd plumped for the suburbs as since they moved there six months ago they have had friends to stay every weekend, poor loves. But this also makes them expert hosts so really they are now doomed to my regular visits.

Now, about my usual diligent note taking and recommendations...
I bought a Moleskine Barcelona City Notebook and was all set to use it to create the ultimate guide to BCN. When I arrived shortly after midnight on Thursday evening we went out for drinks at various bars in the neighbourhood. My recollection of this, as faithfully recorded in the Bars, Wineries, Stories section of the city guide is as follows:

Glass goldfish bowls of cocktail mixes on bar, cosy, pint of armagnac, Passeig del Born. Also other on corner poss gay bar, bit Blue Oyster, Italian guy.

It could be like a game. You go to Barcelona and try every bar in El Born until you recognise those two from my description. Or even better - you could take me with you and I'd guide us there.

Same with the shops. There was a shop I absolutely loved called Zhu Zha (or maybe it was Zha Zhu) that had the most amazing clothes by young Catalan designers that were so well made, inside and out that I could almost justify the prices (not a penny less than you'd pay in London). I wanted to go back but it was always closed, as was pretty much every shop I liked the look of whenever I was passing. Zhu Zha was my favourite by far though, so here are my comprehensive directions:
Stand in the middle of the Passeig del Born with the Basilica on your right hand side. Go down one of the little side streets in front of you then turn left into the street parallel with the Passeig which I think might be called Carrer de l'Esparteria. It's on this street on the right hand side. No website, no linkage, can't remember any of the names of the designers either. Trust me, you'll love it!
At the end of this street in Carrer del Rec is this shop which sells chic vetements from the likes of Vanessa Bruno et al:
As if the bargain Manolos weren't enough to incite envy! I try to console myself with the fact that there is a brand of Spanish clementines called Lolita.

BACK...

I'm sneaky aren't I, going away without telling you. I'll be back properly tomorrow after a good long snooze.
Until then, three guesses where I've been...

I LAAAHVE THE COUNTRY!...

The photographers I admire all capture beauty in the everyday detritus of life, urban or otherwise. I unfortunately have to accept that my own photographic eye is drawn to big, blowsy, universal beauty. Of the Kodak moment variety. And loves, I'm afraid I must inflict some more sunsets upon you; though not of the Parisian variety.







Can you believe that all this is within a half hour drive of London (at least if you drive as fast as my friend does.)

1962

"I'm sure he'll be an important couturier."

SATURDAY NIGHT? I'M MORE OF A WEDNESDAY GAL...

Just call me a big old party pooper. Or just old. Saturday night and I cannot bring myself to wrap up warm and trek to a Bethnal Green pub "where Vincent Vincent and the Villains used to play" which is I expect what most pubs in that area that host live music would like to have you believe - that or "Pete Doherty was here a couple of weeks ago - he fell over and Kate sang."

I feel bad though, one of the guys that's playing is a friend, practically family but my winter agoraphobia has set in and I'm so, so tempted to stay in and watch Parky snuggled under a blanket on the sofa. Last week Kate Winslet cried, Jude Law looked shifty and sounded a bit pretentious, and Parky got Justin Timberlake visibly shocked and embarassed by asking him what kind of music he had sex to. I mean how can you beat that for a Saturday night?

The thing about going out, especially on a Saturday night (I sound like such a grouchbag but I feel quite happy to have come to this conclusion) is that I always end up thinking "Is that it then?" The whole getting ready and going somewhere to stand around and er, do what exactly? Maybe it's because I don't drink as much as I used to but I always feel a bit disappointed and detached, the old alone in a crowd syndrome. Obviously if I join in the drinking these thoughts (or any) don't come into it. But I don't know how some of my friends can still want to go out every Friday and Saturday night and get wasted without fail or question in the same way they have for fifteen or twenty odd years. And they think I'm weird for not wanting to.

Oh my God, is this why people have babies, for something else to do? Not a good enough reason people! Well since my biological clock seems to have no battery and every time I'm handed someone's baby to hold I have to fake the whole joy thing, all the while thinking "How long do I have to keep this up until I can hand it back?" (With one exception, that means you my little mate Boo) It seems I am as usual the odd one out. I feel OK about this but it's really hard to explain to other people.

Actually I love going out for dinner (but nobody in my circle goes out for dinner before the drinking) and I love seeing a good film but um, I prefer to do that in the week when it's less busy. It's not like I'm looking down my nose at my friends who are stuck in the weekend social pattern because I'm going to the opera or anything, though I admit to feeling a tad annoyed - ok smug as well, when they can't get up until 4pm on a Saturday or Sunday.

Tonight the sky is full of fireworks as we celebrate *Guy Fawkes night (which is officially tomorrow). Ten minutes from here is one of the biggest firework displays in the country at Blackheath. I reeaaally don't like it. Actually it's not the fireworks themselves that scare me, it's the people. I've been to this display a number of times, bought a duff sparkler, oohed and aahhed like I'm supposed to, fought my way through the crowds to a pub I don't like afterwards, after major logistical planning with no mobile phone signal managed to get a round of drinks in and stand on the heath in the cold saying things like "yeah it was quite good, not as good as last year though." Fireworks are going off all around as I write - of the even scarier back garden amateur dad variety. It sounds like a war zone out there. Little Loly is most perturbed.

* I leave it to these people to explain the origins of Guy Fawkes night to those possibly not familiar with it - hi Kazakhi reader!

I was once asked with a knowing smirk, by my Italian teacher, to explain this tradition to my united nations of a class. In Italian. I blabbed and burbled about gunpowder and the intricacies of being hung, drawn and quartered as my teacher continued to quiz me like a prosecuting lawyer. "And then you make effigies of this man and set fire to him on a large bonfire don't you? And you all dance round it."

LIBERTY IS FOREVER MY TIFFANY...

The other day at the end of a styling job I took myself to Liberty to decompress. Trundling up to the top floor in the wood panelled lift and working my way slowly round and round, back down to the ground floor. I never really buy anything major there, I just trail around admiring the whimsical displays - they must have so much fun thinking them up. I'm sure I saw a dressmaker's dummy covered in china teacups. I waft through the furniture department, marvel at glassware and stop before one of those bunch of grape blown glass chandeliers I've always hankered after. It's quiet, the music there is never too loud.

I scan all the bolts of fabric, touching all of them. Liberty print fabric reminds me of my lovely granny. When I was little she used to make me cotton dresses, and knit cardigans. Oh to have those now, or anything made for you by hand with love for that matter. The dresses were liberty print and I get a strong sense memory from some of the fabrics.

In the haberdashery department I buy a few bits and bobs, a round Liberty print sewing box is tempting but I pass, then take ten minutes to choose the colour yarn I'm drawn to most. The lady at the counter is a sweetheart, calling me pet and darlin' in her Geordie accent, fussing round me good naturedly making sure I've got everything I need. I feel the tense foot tapping "fucking hurry up" stance from doing bulk returns in Topshop and Selfridges drain away.

As it's winter I'm nesting so I spend ages in the bed linen department trying to justify the price of a Descamps pillowcase. I can't stop thinking about a bolt of petrol blue mohair and wonder if I should buy a metre to put on the end of my bed. I overhear a member of staff talking the ear off an American tourist, telling her all about the origins of Liberty, how the company made its name importing artisanal goods from Asia; she relayed the story as if it were her own family history.

By the time I make my way down the wooden stairs (does anyone else ever stop and think how amazing those wooden stairs are?) after skidding quickly through contemporary collections and shoes, I am fully relaxed. In the vintage bit they have a Kelly bag on sale for £2,500. I kick myself again for not bidding on the one I saw at Christie's.

A quick squirt of Creed in the perfume room and a drool over Jean Rouget stationery but I can't decide on a colour so I buy a sheet of wrapping paper. Along with my yarn and an embroidery hoop that's all I need. Maybe some flowers but the flower seller in the entrance vetoes anything I pick out as "not very lovely at the moment" picking at them sadly as if he couldn't possibly sell them in that state. They look absolutely fine to me but I'm grateful for his honesty.

Back outside in the twilight I try to keep the Mary Poppins vibe alive by avoiding Oxford Street and instead wend my way through the back streets of Mayfair.

LONDONERS: WELL PLAYED...

I've noticed lately just how well, spiffy everyone looks in London at the moment. In spite of the fact that I've developed an irrational fear of asking well dressed folk if I can take their picture, there's just too damn many of them to capture each and every one.
I think there are a few reasons for this. The weather for one. After a warm September it's now damp, humid, a bit cold - the perfect conditions for us Brits whose wardrobes are filled with trans seasonal clothes for dank, moody seasons. (Ie: autumn, winter, spring and two thirds of summer.)
It could also be down to the fact that apparently the U.K has more credit card debt than the rest of Europe combined. Add to this a high street churning out directional fast fashion and it's not surprising everyone looks so tippety top. Although the people I'm noticing don't look like they've been kitted out at Primark. I do believe I have a keenly tuned eye for such things and the young man I saw on the tube wearing the most beautiful navy suit with the buttonholes picked out subtly in pale blue stitching did not get it at Zara.

English people are usually known for looking a bit dishevelled but - and again with the statistics (I've been watching too much London local news), if more than 50% of London schoolchildren don't speak English then I suppose all these people walking round in perfectly co-ordinated tweed, cashmere and sheepskin ensembles - not a bobbly jumper or scuffed shoe in sight, may not in fact be English. Actually when I walk down Jermyn Street or Savile Row all it reminds me of is "Lo Stile Inglese" that Italian men pull off so perfectly.
Whoever these sartorial sharp shooters are, I don't care. It's nice to walk around your own city and see style on a par with Paris or Florence - and I do mean style, not fashion. Maybe it's not so important in the scheme of things, but seeing others so well put together puts a much needed spring in my step too. And reminds me I need to get my shoes re heeled and my coat dry cleaned. Both things I would usually do before going to Paris but wouldn't worry too much about here. Raising the bar fellow Londoners, me likes it.

BELATEDLY DUE TO NO EXCUSES...

Thanks to Miss Julia you can finally read (I hope!) my Paris piece for Bust magazine here.

A whole host of handy excuses for why "I haven't posted in awhile" can be found here.

APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE...

I'm sorry you have to see this.

You might be eating breakfast or something.
I feel a bit sick actually.
But in times of disaster we must all pull together and share the anguish.

I suppose you think this is funny do you, Carine?
Is nothing sacred?
UNFORGIVABLE! (Until next month)

image

A DAY AT THE OFFICE...

4.30am: Get up.

5.00am: Drive to C's marvelling at sliver of moon in still pitch dark sky.

6.00am: Load people carrier with clothes until there's only enough room for two passengers to squish onto a seat.

6.30am: Arrive at location somewhere and tuck into bacon sarnie, still in pitch black darkness.

6.45am: Set up 'our room' for flurry of fittings, ironing, pinning, faffing and important decision making such as "which neckline is less friendly?"

9.30am - 12: Stand around in rain watching model on tractor wearing silky negligee and Fendi wellies (which you've proclaimed fantastically tacky) on monitor, periodically restick negligee to model's cleavage.

12 - 12.30: Sit on cold, wet step to eat thankfully edible lunch.

12.30: Meet band. Obligatory banter and chit chat. Iron stuff without ironing board. Approve of band's ability to dress selves and stay reasonably clean and uncreased.

2.13pm: Hear radio crackle with "Urgent de fluff" and run weilding lint roller.
Hang around in case needed. Meet cat named Simon.

4.00pm - 8pm: Hang out with band, re iron one shirt three times which is then not worn at all, babysit superstar chihuauha and kitten in training for stardom, watch monitor, hang out with actor, search for piece of vital missing equipment that's holding everything up. Give up search. Another sent at great expense which is then not used. Develop mild crush on guy on set (Ha!), eat slice of gross pizza standing up for dinner, procure kit kat from somewhere, take headache pill.

8pm - 10pm: Frantic behind schedule stress permeates entire crew, evening hysteria sets in. Make note to self that everything have not put in kit today because never need to use have needed. To own surprise switch object of mild crush. Hang out (hide from being shouted at for no discernable reason) with C in room, leaving only when strictly necessary, sit down or lean on something at every opportunity.

11.00pm: Watch last few shots with zombie like glazed expression. Finally wrap.
Load up people carrier, back to C's. Unload, get in car and drive home clutching new Fendi wellies which you have now decided are just fantastic.

2.00am: Home. Lola. Bed.

YE OLDE PRINTED MATTER OF YORE. PART II...

So, anyway.....The book I'd been hoping the Marie Antoinette one would be more like (see previous post) was this book: The Audrey Hepburn Treasures. Amazing. I'm not even particularly Audrey Hepburn's greatest fan. I mean I like her and I happened to see Breakfast at Tiffany's when I was about eleven which became my most watched and loved film for many years. But I would recommend this book to anyone, even just to go and have a flick through because it's so beautifully, lovingly done. I have never seen anything like it. Juicy it is.

It's basically a big hardback whopper of a book, recording her life from beginning to end, with lots of pictures I'd never seen before. The very, very special thing about it is that in each chapter there is a transparent sleeve filled with reproductions of Audrey's personal papers such as two pages from the script of Breakfast at Tiffany's with notes in pen, handwritten notes, her Oscar receipt, official documents, her son's birth announcement. They are all reproduced on the right weight of paper, in every little detail to look just like the original. You really do feel that you're sifting through treasures.

It actually brought a tear to my eye the first time I looked at it. It was written by Ellen Erwin, the Audrey Hepburn Children's Fund executive director (to which a portion of the proceeds from the book go) and Jessica Diamond, the Audrey Hepburn Estate's archivist/photo curator, and obviously there has been a huge amount of input from her sons. Every page reinforces that it's been produced by people who knew and loved her.
Audrey and son Sean on location in St. Tropez, 1966. That is exactly how I would like to be dressed on holiday in 2006.




At a grocery store in California, 1958.





On the set of Sabrina, 1953. Oh Audrey!














Oh my, I am buried under printed matter, and I haven't even told you about all the magazines I bought last week. Strangely, Blueprint (the Martha Stewart one, not the British one) I absolutely loved and adored, the third issue of Lula - not so impressed as with the first two.

YE OLDE PRINTED MATTER OF YORE...

I have had no internet connection since Sunday so I turned to ye olde printed matter. The Marie-Antoinette book I ordered months ago turned up, prior to the U.K and U.S release of the film it accompanies this Friday (I saw the film in Paris last June). So the book, hmm. I'm loath to criticise anything Sofia related because I find her so inspirational. Honestly. Think about it. I actually can't think of ANYONE else of my generation who I find as creatively inspiring. So I'll blame Rizzoli who published it. Maybe there's no one to blame except me with my expectations. The film is so sumptuous and the book that accompanies it is so sparse, actually very Sofia. I'd built it up in my mind to be a behind the scenes look at the making of the film, with maybe handwritten notes, inspiration collages, on set shots of cast members in full Versailles costume smoking, wearing Chuck T's and talking on their mobiles in between takes. And plenty of shoes and macarons. In fact it's stills from the film, with excerpts from the script, which interestingly in the book has a different ending than the one they went with. I really loved the film but the book just wasn't juicy enough. Better to get the soundtrack which really does.fully.rock. (To the ear of a child of the '80s.) Actually it's a lovely book, just not the book I was hoping for. The book I was hoping for is more like.......
....Grr. To be continued. Blogger is being an arse at uploading pictures so I will leave you with the first part of this post until it starts behaving itself.

HAPPILY MUNDANE BUT SPIC AND SPAN...

This past week we have gone into nesting mode. (That wasn't a royal we, it was a Lola and I we.) I have my new magical toe warming winter duvet which makes it very hard to leave my lovely bed, and which Lola gingerly picks her way across as if through deep snow. It's THAT fluffy.

Duckie is with Uncle Stevie for her yearly M.O.T, a new roof, new chrome bumper, and oh God all the things I've been putting off for about two years. I'm so glad I have my new duvet to hide under when I find out how much this is all going to cost. I miss Duckie though, even when she's away for two days. I walk down the street thinking, "Why isn't everyone smiling and waving at me?" At least she gets to visit her other Figaro friends. We (that's a we as in Duckie and I) were very impressed by this resprayed black one (the work of clever Uncle Stevie) Duckie's nuzzling up to here.
Actually if we moved to another country we would have to factor in the cost of flying Uncle Stevie over for Duckie related maintenance because no one else, ESPECIALLY NOT THOSE IDIOTS AT NISSAN can be trusted with her.

I don't mind staying at home when the view from the window looks like this.

I could look at that red tree all day. It really is extraordinary, I can't remember the name of it.
Yup, we have hunkered down, I am very excited by the prospect of Jane Eyre on BBC one this evening and wish I had a patchwork quilt on the go or perhaps some knitting to do while watching it. I am not going to make a quilt because I will never, ever finish it. It will be my life's work, I imagine finishing the last square just before I die, then some house clearance person will come along and use it to wrap all my valuables in, then throw it away. What a lovely thought?! Maybe I'll make a patchwork cushion to start off with.

I was going to make Lola a sock monkey to replace her icky catnip filled sock which was covered in drool and looked frankly, highly distasteful. I ended up buying one and performed a simple surgical procedure to insert the catnip into his stomach.
Lola shows her love for Monkey by sitting on him.








I've sewn on lost buttons, re-upholstered my dining chairs, and cleared out all the cupboards. It's as if I'm getting everything spic and span in preparation for something, though I don't yet know what that something is. I'm pleased to say my consumerism turnaround seems to be more than a passing phase. I seem to want fewer things, but I want the things I do buy to be lasting treasures. My new obsession is with (discreet!) monogramming, headed paper and ooh, the one that really gets me excited: personalised rubber stamps. There's just something about it. My grandparents, and in the past my parents had initials inside everything, and I remember the regular Saturday trips to the stationers to pick up a new box of our headed paper and envelopes. So maybe it's just nostalgia, I'm hankering for something real, in ink, stamped I dunno, on something, anything(!) as a reaction to this life of emails, downloads, text messages and impermanence.

LOVING / HATING THE HIGH STREET...

It's funny when what you consider to be your style is everywhere. Like not funny haha, funny WEIRD. At the moment it's as if a retail spy has infiltrated my wardrobe and used it to stock the British High Street. I walked into Gap and the first thing I saw was my Comptoir de Cotonniers winter coat from last year. It was exactly the same except the collar wasn't as nicely rounded. Fuckity fuck. I wore my Maje short trench jacket and my friend said "Oh yeah, I've seen that, you got it in Topshop recently didn't you?" "No actually I got it in Paris about six months ago," I replied stiffly. Again, they're exactly the same except in slightly thicker fabric. Oh, how I miss the days when people said "Ooh is that Marc Jacobs?" and I smugly quipped "Nah, twenty quid from Topshop." The other way round is so much less fun.

Every dress in Topshop at the moment seems somehow related to my wool button down Vanessa Bruno dress which I was kind of hoping to wear again this year. And I'm not saying I invented plaid checked tops. Just, you know lovingly accumulated them over the years with much searching and rejecting of those not quite perfect enough. My beloved absolutely favourite Rutzou top, coveted in Copenhagen but above my budget, then snapped up in Selfridges sale for £22. And my perfect vintage plaid cowboy shirt. And my authentic real Canadian shirt which I actually really did buy in Canada (I bought a kids size so it's not baggy). Now - a sea of plaid in Urban Outfitters and Topshop, everywhere, and, and, but they're cute, but it's too easy, but they're cute, but you don't need any more, but you might as well, too many commas, etc etc.

Oh, and how could I complain that both Topshop and Faith have rip offs of the Chloe T strap ballet shoes I wanted from last season? For £20. But I don't want them now I can have them easily in pleather. I like the hunt. All the pseudo vintage stuff is quite good, but it sort of makes you feel less original wearing real vintage stuff. Today I consoled myself by buying a charcoal grey wool pinafore dress because I really need another charcoal grey dress which invites the question "When's it due love?" It's only men who ever say that anyway. Men! Why not pick up a Sunday newspaper style supplement and acquaint yourselves with the volume trend? You can ogle models at the same time.
Anyhoo we really might as well make the most of Topshop while we can. Do not underestimate how much Jane Shepherdson, design director of Topshop who resigned last week, was the driving force behind the Topshop we all know and love today. Would you have been seen dead in there ten years ago? It was grim.

At heart, Topshop is an old school, hierarchical, corporate, rag trade monolith where you have to get clearance from twelve different departments before going to the loo, let alone implementing a new idea. For sure there are a few other forward thinkers around there, but it takes a certain kind of person to cut through all that. Her departure even warranted a slot on the national evening news; okay possibly that was just as an excuse to show footage of Kate Moss at Fashion Week with (Topshop/Arcadia boss) Phillip Green - and I'm really not so sure it's true (as the 'papers keep saying) that Jane Shepherdson gave up her position because she felt sidelined by Kate doing a capsule collection for the brand. Weirdly I'm not overly excited about the Kate thing happening. It'll be interesting to see how it all turns out. But there is a silver lining (polyester mix?) which is that Jane must be going somewhere, hopefully not the far east or retiring to an island...

ONE PROJECT DOWN...

I finally made the sleevies that I mentioned er, ages ago. Honestly, it must be so thrilling for people to read about one of my bright ideas and then see the results when they've forgotten all about it, if ever! To recap, they are kind of like a cross between fingerless gloves and leggings, to wear layered under all my 3/4 length sleeved clothes before we get into elbow length glove weather. I'm definitely so much more of a dreamer than a doer.

The bag I'm "going to make" has been in my head for ooh, I don't know how many years. (Also not so good at pinpointing exact timelines.) Recently I got the final part of the jigsaw puzzle about how to complete the bag which I haven't even started on yet. Oh but I've even got an etsy shop to sell them in thought out if the first one's a success, though this one's been brewing so long it can't possibly be as good as in my imagination. When the final piece fell into place in my mind I was like "A ha!" So what did I do? Did I rush home and start making the pattern? No, I took the two lambskin hides I'll use to make it out of the trunk where I'd stored them and draped them over a chair, where they still are. Hopefully soon I'll get started on making the bloody thing before I get the urge to tidy away the hides. Part of the problem is having a multitasking living room/dining room/studio/office space. I don't like to mess it up with sewing stuff because then I have to tidy it all away again. But I have to actually do all these projects so that new ideas can come through. I'm all backed up.

Back to the sleevies. Yesterday was the first time this autumn it's been cold enough to need a jacket, and as mentioned, mine all have 3/4 length sleeves; so that's what spurred me into action. Here are the instructions for making sleevies:

1. Take really old unwearable shrunken cashmere jumper out of wardrobe (no need to felt it, this has already been achieved by over washing).

2. Place jumper upon table.

3. Remove dressmaking shears from sewing box.

4. Cut arms off jumper (coincidentally leaving you with a cashmere T shirt).

5. Place sleeves on own arms and admire handywork.

Time spent procrastinating: months
Time spent completing project: twenty seconds

You see this is why I'm secretly addicted to craft blogs. Yes, I'm the lurker everyone! I'm so not in that world but I love to read about all these productive, self motivated people making beautiful things in their studios, with their inspiration walls, letterpresses, kilns, crochet hooks, spools of wool, piles of vintage fabrics and paints. I kid myself that if only I had a huge daylight filled attic studio with vintage dressers full of fabric, paints and papers and a big table to make a mess on and not have to tidy it up, I'd be making things all day too.