Sunday, September 28, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
So why didn't I buy them? Because breaking these bad boys in would be like substituting my Ped Egg for a cheese grater. It's a difficult time of year, boot breaking in season. I've been working on my latest pair for 2 weeks and my feet currently look like I immersed them in a bucket of angry bees. I also got nail polish remover in an open blister just now, it didn't feel awesome. It will be worth it though, because once these things are moulded perfectly to the shape of my foot, it's going to be a marriage made in heaven. Like any journey to love, you have your ups and downs, but ultimately sticking it out can produce something beautiful.
So here it is, 5 reasons why breaking in new boots is a bigger commitment than starting a new relationship.
1. Once you've worn the boots, there are no refunds or exchanges. I mean, strictly speaking, you can't return a new boyfriend for a refund either. However if things don't work out, he's not going to be hiding in a box in your wardrobe, taunting you every day simply by existing. I mean, that's what Facebook is for.
2. I try to get a little tipsy before a first date with someone I really fancy. I might apply the same method for the second, but by the third I'm usually sober. When you're wearing shoes that are slowly filling with your own blood, sometimes the only answer is drinking through the pain. Doing this for 2-3 weeks is not only completely socially unacceptable, it's gonna dehydrate you like crazy, and if they're your work shoes...you gettin' fired. Yes you are girl.
3. Ah young love...when you meet someone and everything just 'clicks'. You have the same interests, like the same movies, laugh at the same jokes. Your friends tell you it's like you've been together forever...Quite the opposite with the boots. It's pretty obvious your boots are new when you're rollin' round Shoreditch with the pinch limp (it's like the pimp limp, but with a face like you swallowed lemon juice), rocking shoes so stiff and shiny they could be Bruce Jenner's face. Everyone knows they're brand new Docs. Everyone knows you're trying not to cry. I bet you even tried rubbing dirt on them, didn't you? Give it 3 months. If I've just described your relationship, DUMP him/her immediately.
4. You're too stubborn to have a back up plan. Don't lie and tell me after a few dates you don't start packing a survival kit (toothbrush, some face wipes, maybe moisturiser) in the bottom of your bag, you know...just in case. Yet how many times do you find yourself saying 'I'm only leaving the house for an hour, the boots will be fine. I mean...surely after three weeks I don't need to take a paramedic sized kit of plasters and bandages. I can totally wear white socks. There's no reason why they'll end up bloodied like a scene from Hostel...right?'
5. It's totally acceptable to retain the old pair in the event the boots break you, before you break them. You don't owe anyone any explanations for dipping back into the comfort and familiarity of last season's chain laden ankle boots. Nobody's gonna call your new boots to tell them they saw you and your old flame cosied up with a paper and coffee on a Sunday morning. Laughing, enjoying a sweet, blister free stroll through the market...maybe you did give up on them too soon.
Image via stories.com
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Images via Louis Vuitton
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
So my favourite Australian has just released the video for Black Widow, which is a tribute to Kill Bill and just her and Rita's general hotness. You can see it here.
While looking for it though, I found this on Iggy's YouTube channel, Black Widow live at Wireless. I was there singing along and going crazy. I believe at one point by friend BB politely tapped me on the shoulder mid dance and said 'Eb, I think you might be twerking up against this nice lady.' I was. She was 35 and there with her daughter. That's what Iggy does to a gal.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Tonight there are 664, 195 post on Instagram that feature #firstworldproblems. I had to look this up to prove my point and truly, there are some things you wish you can unsee. The first is a guy holding two Starbucks cups with the caption 'Too much free Starbucks #firstworldproblems'...Listen Hunter, I drink a lot of Starbucks, so I'm not about to rag on you for drinking from the green straw of the devil, but getting FREE Starbucks is not exactly what I would describe as a problem. The only way this really is a difficult issue, is if you asked for 2 extra hot, half shot, vanilla cappuccinos and you dropped both of them in your lap. I actually hope this happened to you.
Then there's some guy called Olaf who claims he has too many Porsches...I just, I mean, I can't even be bothered to rant about that one. What about Julie, who actually took the time to Instagram an empty roll of toilet paper to complain that it upsets her when someone doesn't replace the toilet roll. To top it all off, she's even used several more hashtags including #shitsmetotears (poor choice of words Jules) and #toilet. I really can't imagine a time I would need to use #toilet on social media, nor for that matter search for it. #gross.
To be fair on Jules, this isn't the worst example I've seen. I mean there are plenty of selfies of really pretty girls complaining about...I don't even know. This 'cometothedarksidewehavecandy' has just posted a really nice picture of herself (above) looking like she's from a hair care commercial, and sandwiched #firstworldproblems right between #healthygirls and #babe. Oh man...I'm just so sorry you're a healthy babe. I might go around to some homeless people in London and see if they can spare some change to buy you a wheatgrass shot.
You're probably sighing heavily and hoping I'll finally get to point instead of just bitching...so here it is. I am proposing an alternative, and I assure you it is already catching on. #shortbread.
Hear me out on this. It all started when I was out having a few drinks with some French friends. It was a sunny day, we were drinking pints and somehow in discussion about things that are consumed on hot days, my friend says (in a thick French accent) 'Ugghh...there is nothing worse, than eating a shortbread on an 'ot day'. That is 'hot day' if you take out the French accent. You can imagine my response.
'Really? Are you sure? NOTHING worse than eating a shortbread on a hot day? Not murder? Human trafficking? Even petty theft?'
'It is just,' he replied dramatically. 'Shortbread is so dry, and when your mouth is already dry because it is 'ot, it is 'orrible.'
You see my point. #shortbread. Here's an example of a time my friend Ruthie has used this effectively via Whatsapp. 'The wifi is shit here. I feel like a pilgrim. Shortbread'. Here's another from my flatmate Jules (not toilet roll Jules) who had something of an issue when she ordered the wrong size hammock stand online. Once assembled and the hammock placed in it, she realised it was way too small and she was essentially just sitting on the ground in an expensive sheet. As a result, she dramatically declared she was giving up her life long dream of having a hammock to enjoy in summer. The next day I bought her a card, and in it I wrote 'Keep Calm and Eat a Shortbread'.
You all know I love a moan and a rant, but I think we all need a reminder there are people out there with real problems who we need to support. It's probably too late for us to reclaim #firstworldproblems, which is why I'm choosing #shortbread. Because there are a lot of things worse than eating shortbread on a hot day, and it pays to remember it.
Images via Instagram
Saturday, June 14, 2014
The silver lining was discovering Purl in Marylebone. Although, I admit that my heart did race a little as I descended the stairs into the underground bar in my 6 inch heels. Partly because there's always the worry I'll fall, almost certainly because there would be no mobile phone reception down there and finally, because my loud Australian voice echoes in cavernous spaces.
Thankfully, I had nothing to worry about. This speak easy style bar offers a laid back and warm welcome, with super friendly (and let's face it, really fit) staff and an innovative menu. With its wickedly cool interior featuring cosy nests of seats, and intimate alcoves, Purl is actually a perfect date location. Between cocktails my date suggested we might move to an alcove featuring two black, studded chairs located right by the piano where you can see live Jazz Monday and Wednesday nights. Given my level of attraction to my date was sitting at about -5 on the Alcove metre, I declined the re-location offer, but for lovebirds I would definitely recommend it.
But what about the drinks?! I hear you asking. They don't disappoint. My first was a LemonJellyo (I think that's how you spell it) which caused me to exclaim upon its arrival 'Wow, it comes with a lot of shit'. A tiny bottle, a glass and a neatly wrapped ball of Jelly to be exact. Never fear, the mixologist will break it down for you and tell you exactly how to drink it and in what order, so you won't end up looking like a fool. My next drink came with a fruity ice lolly in a Calippo style package, which was deliciously refreshing and reminded me of child hood summers at the beach.
As well as accommodating bookings of up to 12 people, Purl also offer classic or molecular mixology masterclasses and are happy to teach even clumsy people like me how to incorporate dry ice, smoke and liquid nitrogen into your cocktail repertoire. A place not to be missed, hit up their website here.
Image via Purl London
Saturday, April 26, 2014
So last night I was sitting in bed, settled in to watch the Veronica Mars movie after a bottle of wine and a lot of Waitrose cookies (going for a run after I write this) and my flatmate invited me to see a blues band. It was only in Brixton and she was getting the last tube home, so since it didn't seem like the kind of event where a full smoky eye was required, I figured 'Why not!'
When we arrived it became immediately apparent that people are blues dancing...in couples. Suddenly I came over in a cold sweat, and it wasn't just because my leather jacket has quilting on the inside. We all know my dancing is a style all its own, and by that I mean hap hazardly throwing my arms around and stomping my feet. I was out of my depth, I needed a beer. My flatmate declined my offer of a drink as she wanted to dance. That's right, dancing with another human being in a situation where you cannot hold a glass...shit balls.
So here it is, 5 reasons why couples dancing is not for me
1. You cannot hold your bag and jacket while dancing
We were in a bar in Brixton OK, and there were piles of bags just lying around the perimetre of the room! As someone who has been robbed, this seems like insanity to me. Of course I didn't want to look like the odd one out and there's no chance you're getting a dance while holding a beer and a bag, so I stashed my phone, keys and credit cards in my bra and pockets, wrapped my Miu Miu in my jacket and prayed the values in the room were as old fashioned as the dancing.
2. You have to wait for someone to ask you to dance
For many reasons, as a teenager I was the girl who never got asked to dance by a boy. Then I started going to nightclubs where generally people don't ask, they just start crowding your space Night At the Roxbury style until you have to shuffle away like a crab to escape their greasy clutches.
At the blues evening, we all waited patiently for someone to ask us to dance. A couple of girls I was chatting to were lamenting their lack of partner, to which I replied 'Well can't we just dance by ourselves?' I mean, it was good music and I wanted to get my sway on...you know what I'm saying?
'But who would lead?' they asked. Lead...pfftt. I wanted to shout 'All the ladies who are independent' and hear the ladies shout back 'Throw your hands up at me' and then we'd all break out into a Destiny's Child/Charlie's Angels montage of dance showing how we kick ass. Instead we all just stood around.
3. The Stress
I did get asked to dance a few times, but then I felt obligated to give the guys a full break down of my lack of skills and give them a chance to re-nig the offer. They didn't, which was kind. We started with a very simple two step shuffle and I could tell they were thinking 'Oh man, everyone else looks way cooler than us'. Then I was putting my arm in the wrong place and I kept freaking out, then some guy span me WAY too many times and I'm pretty sure my elbows injured a few dancers...it was like PE at school all over again, so I bailed before I could dislocate something. When one of my dance partners came back for round two, I just couldn't do it. I had to tell him I needed a break...emotionally.
4. The Rules
See part of this stress comes from the rules and not understanding them. I'm an overachiever OK, I don't want to look like a twat. Anyway, apparently blues dancing is actually not that structured when you think about other kinds of dance like the Foxtrot or the Lindyhop or you know...what's that thing they bang on about in So You Think You Can Dance?...the Viennese Waltz. Still too many rules for me though. This is the advice I got-
Dance behind the beat
Dance to the guitar beat, not the washboard beat
Let your partner lead
Your arm goes on your partner's waist, NOT shoulder
Relax, loosen your shoulders
How can I relax when I'm doing it all wrong?! I feel completely relaxed when I'm in the house putting my eye liner on and shoulder shrugging to Fancy by Iggy Azalea, so I tell you what, let's both stick to what we know.
5. The Proximity
In a nightclub situation, when someone is getting too close, all you have to do is run (politely) away. When you have agreed to dance with someone, I'm guessing it's bad form to freak out and bail halfway through the dance because you can feel their breath on your neck.
It's just that if I don't fancy you, I really don't want to be pressed against you like a moist towel. My jeans are already too tight OK, there's a mild claustrophobia I suffer everyday just from being dressed, I don't need to add to it.
Personally I don't know how they got away with all this dancing back in the day when pre-martial sex was a no-no. You're basically engaging in foreplay on the dance floor people. Remember that scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby carries the watermelon and sees the 'dirty' dancing for the first time. She's shocked right, cos it's more intimate than she's ever been with anything. Then she dances with Johnny and she realises how powerful it is to be so close to someone you fancy...sigh. Last night was nothing like that, a strangers crotch was way too close to my thigh and I could barely keep a straight face.
Image via Hollywood.com
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
You all know I love jewellery, so the hours I've spent trawling the internet for photos from the Fall/Winter 2014 shows has been a total labour of love. I still didn't manage to get a shot of the LV earring that I feel truly captures the beauty that has ensnared my heart, but you know...I'm probably being too fussy.
Honorable mentions to Balmain for bringing back the ghetto hoop, Chloe for that phenomenal ring and Roland Mouret for the leather necklace/collar. However the true winner in my heart has to be
Celine, for also celebrating the single earring, and the chunky jewelled layers of bangles and necklaces.
Celine, for also celebrating the single earring, and the chunky jewelled layers of bangles and necklaces.
Images via Style.com
Sunday, March 2, 2014
I can never find a skull ring that fits, they all seem to be made for bigger fingers. If anyone knows of any designers who make them for ladies, let me know!
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
**About two years ago I wrote this and just never used it. I only remembered I had it tonight! I'm pretty unaffected by this issue these days, because I mean, you have to actually date to have exes. I do hate to let things go to waste though, so if you have recently gone through a break up you might enjoy this!**
Ahh young love. The world is alive with endless possibilities. The smallest interaction feels like a monumental step towards the unknown, enticing you into love. The first date, clumsy kisses, personal jokes that leave you in stitches. The precise moment when you stop being ‘you’ and ‘I’ and become ‘us’. All of these private, intimate moments painstakingly played out via social media for everyone else in your life to suffer through. It’s enough to make anybody old enough to have initiated a courtship via a landline, sick to their stomach.
It is especially horrible if this level of activity is coming from an ex and their replacement you. There was once a time when remaining friends was less like a commando level obstacle course and more an occasional bump in the road. You might run into each other getting coffee, when one hazy morning you forget who got that particular café in the divorce. Perhaps you'll spot them in all their sweaty glory when you drag your miserable self back to the gym you signed up for together. There's always the chance you'll both be invited to a mutual friend’s something or other. At times like this, all that's required is a short, polite conversation, during which you both significantly embellish the amazing things you're doing and how happy you are. If one or both of you does have a new someone, you only have to endure looking at their face for a matter of minutes before one of you makes your excuses and leaves.
Life with social media has turned us all into semi-stalkers, whether we like it or not. Bombarded by a steady stream of extreme close up, big grinned selfies of my ex and his new girflriend, I sent him a very nice email explaining the reason I would be deleting him from Facebook. The satisfaction I felt as I sat back to enjoy an ex-free newsfeed was fleeting. Despite my best intentions I was still kept up to date with his every movement via posts from his family and our many mutual friends. ‘Block them’ is the advice I get from my friends, ‘Just get rid of all of them.’ Surely deleting all these people is not the answer. I still love them, just not him.
The ex of my nearest and dearest, was ‘checking in’ everywhere with his new girlfriend. Restaurants, car parks, supermarkets. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ I said. ‘If he checks in to her vagina soon.’ My cousin actually did that. We knew he was coming home to reunite with his old flame when he checked in at the airport, excited to ‘see his girl’. Several hours later, his check in at the pub that read ‘Sex done. Time for some beer’ told us everything had gone to plan.
I admit, I'm prone to an over share with my friends. I regularly push the boundaries of good taste at the dinner table, Shaun's exhaustive collection of our group's most memorable quotes is testament to that. However our group operates with a cone of silence and trust. I feel comfortable sharing the details of my awful dates and awkward sexual encounters because I know the information will not be disseminated to all and sundry. Do I pick up the phone and call my former lovers every time I shag someone new? No, because it would be inappropriate and unwelcome. Yet somehow, notifying 500 of your closest ‘friends’ online of your every romantic movement is OK. We get it, you’re getting some. Keep it in your Facebook pants.
Image via someecards