Top Image

Top Image

More Wants

Posted on: Wednesday, 25 January 2012


You are a tease.

You are so very sexy. But oh-so-very cutsey 'n' coy simultaneously.

And your dresses have names like Vox Populi and Persephone. Actually dying here, people.

(vox populi. vox lauri, more like. see, the 'i' denotes the genitive. knew that latin a-level would come in handy.)

(engagement card. uber-cute.)

(a little bit of me dies when i realise we didn't have this as a guest-book-devicey-thing at our wedding. it is so unutterably perfect.)

(this photo album is described as a 'handsome velvet photo album'. handsome, you say? oh yes you are. coochee cochee coo.)

(best name of the lot. these shoes are called ELOPEMENT PUMPS. they are $340. can i justify?!)

All pickletures BHLDN.


If only I didn't have my saving boots on.

More on saving boots (and the reason behind them) soon.


Posted on: Monday, 23 January 2012

Happy Birthday Bedders.

Posted on: Saturday, 21 January 2012

Like the card? Find it here.

It was a wee while ago. The 15th, in fact. To celebrate this auspicious occasion, we went to Lahndahn Tahn and lived it up. We met up with Lovely Matthew. We stayed at the Farmers' Club. Bedders is now lusting after (and justifying) a membership. We went to see The Ladkillers at the Gielgud. We ate tasty Italian food somewhere that Giles Coren has raved about. Then we went to see The Pajama Men, where I nearly expired laughing. It was a bit rude.  But very, very funny.


Posted on: Sunday, 15 January 2012

"I'm a poet. I get away with this sort of shizzle. It's called being creative, DUH."


Excellent literary celeb spot today. We have been in OUR NATION'S CAPITAL this weekend (say it loudly, in an American accent, just for the craic) and Bedders spotted Simon Armitage at Kings Cross.

Honestly, I should contact Heat magazine.

Little silver earring (his father thought it bloody queer). Haircut like a sailor. He got beaten up for it 30 years ago, but I note he's still sporting it.

I was, like, SO cool. I didn't say 'Hello, Simon.' Or 'I thought The Universal Home Doctor was pretty wicked.' Oh no. I just stared at him and his wife and his daughter. And tracked his movements like a hawk from under the arrivals board to WH Smith.

Years ago, I used to have another blog, now mercifully hidden away from public view. It was rather Smiths-quote laden and self-consciously introspective (pah, whaddya mean, what's changed?!).

However, I was reminded of this which I wrote on aforementioned embarassing blog.

"I'm reading Gig by Simon Armitage - so far, it's proving a satisfying and muchly entertaining read, especially given that it's a) a chunky hardback and b) was bought with a Waterstone's voucher from Christmas I'd completely forgotten about. Kerching. Last night I read the chapter 'On the Road 4', at the beginning of which he recalls an eccentric Science teacher who encouraged his students to complete "little missions" and the lesson in which he and another boy were sent outside to measure the size of the human voice. He describes the system on which they settled - Armitage's partner advancing further and further across the yard and further, shouting and shouting, while Armitage remained still, preparing to drop his arm when he could no longer hear the boy's voice. Then they'd pace out the different between them, and that, approximately, would be the size of the human voice. A pleasing logic, no?

The he dropped the clanger, if such a phrase may be used. Thirty years later Armitage was told, presumably via some Yorkshire-based friend or relative in the domestic channels through which these sorts of discoveries are usually made, that the boy, whose name and features he admits he can't even remember, had "shot himself through the roof of his mouth somewhere on the far side of the world." And he felt inspired to write a poem which muses on the idea that no sound dies completely - somewhere in the cosmos every sound, every individual utterance ever made, is still resonating somewhere."

I quite like that idea.

Return to Blighty.

Posted on: Monday, 2 January 2012

....traffic, traffic, TRAFFIC, horns blaring, "excuse me, Sir, what is your native country?", school uniforms, bare feet, cows, graffiti, fireworks, noise, spice, dosa, terrible pop music, Laughing Boy....

...tuk tuks, EVERYTHING on a scooter - toilets, goats, chickens, babies -, mongrels, markets, vegetarianism, crazy toilets, politeness that borders on the ridiculous...

..."Ma'am", sweet sweepers, graffiti, The Hindu Times, temples, Catholic iconography, paper stars, banners, propoganda, sari shops...

...smog, sun, sunburn, holiday pants, dicky tummies, sleep, reading, reading, READING (the joy!), Kindle-mania, traditional music, dance...

...seafood, tandoori, lime soda, mango, pineapple, watermelon, banana leaves, the growing conviction that I COULD be a vegetarian (or at least a fish-and-chipocrite)...

...swimming pools, sari throws, elephant blessings, Upwords, Kingfisher beer from a Government shop, communist outlooks, farming co-operatives... 

...mosquito bites, Jungle Formula, air conditioning, Michael Jackson, worrying vaguely about dysentry, being pointed at for being SO very white...

...realising the impossibility of everyone in the world sustaining a Western lifestyle (or even diet), considering the inequality of opportunity, facing up to the reality of no National Health Service and having to pay for any kind of quality education, wondering what can be done about such things...

Bloody good trip.

Parliament Of Owls All rights reserved © Blog Milk Powered by Blogger