Warning: Do not attempt gardening in those heels. Serious health hazard.
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| Shoes, £37, Office, Trousers, £59.99, Fever London, Sleeveless shirt, £38, Topshop, Necklace, £12.95, Sour Cherry, Jacket, £35, River Island |
Friday 29 June 2012
Flower Patch Colour Blocking
Warning: Do not attempt gardening in those heels. Serious health hazard.
Tuesday 26 June 2012
Scribbles of Young Ladies and Gentlemen: The Young Gentleman with the Hair
The Young
Gentleman with the Hair
As the name might suggest, you can identify the Young
Gentleman with the Hair by looking at his head. Because, in contrast to the
somewhat subdued follicles possessed by most young gentleman, the Young
Gentleman with the Hair’s hair doesn’t just sit passively on his scalp, it does something. This sense of
hair-in-action is what singles out at Young Gentleman with the Hair from his
peers.
Perhaps his hair stands to attention like a London Guard, or
perhaps it is poised like the crest of a wave over his forehead. It might
wiggle and dance in chaotic curls, or it might be a Justin Beiber curtain that
is drawn back and forth as he moves, opening and closing the Young Gentleman’s
face.
Whatever style of coiffeur he favours, it is certain that
his hair is the Young Gentleman with the Hair’s pride and joy. He nurtures it
like a new relationship, and parades it as proudly as a lover. Whenever he is
confronted with a metallic or reflective surface (a shop window or the back of
a spoon in a restaurant, say) this young gentleman is utterly compelled to
examine his hair and will probably run his hand through it like a comb.
It has been said that the length and shape of a Young
Gentleman with the Hair’s hair is a compensation for something, although what
is meant by this I would be quite unprepared to speculate. It is worth
mentioning, however, that a Young Gentleman with the Hair can often have
something of an attitude problem. His vanity is something of legend and he has,
in the past, been referred to as obnoxious.
The most tragic thing to see is the Older Gentleman with no
Hair, a former Young Gentleman with the Hair who has grown up and been dealt a
cruel blow by genetics. This older man will most certainly be in possession of
a motorbike, and possibly wears leather trousers as a fashion statement.
Perhaps he is trying to re-connect with his youth, and by proxy, his lustrous
locks.
By contrast, the happiest of Young Gentlemen with the Hair
is the young gentleman who has found his soulmate in the Young Lady with the
Hair. What a happy pair these two make! They share hair straighteners and
pocket mirrors and a content existence spent admiring themselves, and each
other. When the time comes to procreate the Young Lady with the Hair gives
birth to a cherub of a child. Perhaps the child may not speak until he is two
and a half, but no matter because look: what a cloud of angelic curls sits on
his pretty head! And so is born the Very Young Gentleman with the Hair.
Libby
Sunday 24 June 2012
'My Single Life' Warning: This is NOT a Rom-Com
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| Enchanted: is waiting for a prince really so enchanting? |
Most of the time I enjoy being single.
I don’t like the term single though; I prefer independent. I
like spending time with my girlfriends. I genuinely like spending time alone. I
like sitting in cafés by myself drinking coffee and feeling utterly content. I
like flirting with the cute waiter and not feeling guilty or expecting him to
bring me anything more than an Americano. I like that the first thing I think
about when I wake up in the morning is breakfast.
There are times though when the thought occurs to me that
perhaps it might be nice to have a boyfriend. Maybe I’ll be struggling to put
suncream on my shoulders or cooking myself dinner and I will suddenly think,
‘Hey, it would be good to have someone do this for me.’ When it happens it is
more than just a thought though – it is an all-consuming madness that turns me
from a sane independent young woman into a crazy single girl.
I entirely blame romantic comedies.
Romantic comedies, sitcoms and a weakness for soppy
tear-jerker novels, were my romantic education. I just didn’t realise that
the lessons they taught me were about as useful as a paper raincoat in a
hurricane.
I’d like to think of myself as a not altogether
unintelligent woman, so in theory I should know that rom-coms are not representative
of real life. They are fiction made for Malteser-munching girls and nights in
with mud facemasks.
However much I tell myself that the stories in films really
are just stories and that no, Friends is not real life, when the ‘I want a
boyfriend’ moment strikes all reason disappears and my expectations hit Love
Actually heights.
The thing is, real life doesn't read like the script of a rom-com...
The Situation:
I am wearing my favourite dress and sat in a café, by the
window, reading The Man Who was Thursday and drinking coffee. Every now and
then I look up and smile coyly out into the street.
What happens in the Rom-Com:
As I take another sip of my coffee and turn another page of
my book, Dream Guy crosses the road. It is a warm day and his sleeves are
rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular arms that are perfectly built for DIY and spooning
(he is the big spoon, of course). He is a graphic designer who has had
commitment issues in the past, but as he walks past the café and catches my eye
he suddenly realises what he has been looking for. Me (der).
He walks confidently into the café and makes a comment about
my book. We have an intelligent and witty conversation. He buys me coffee and
we begin a happy relationship that is accompanied by many a walk along the
beach and an offbeat soundtrack.
What really happens:
Every guy who walks past the window is holding the hand of a
very beautiful girlfriend. I finish The Man Who Was Thursday and am left feeling
more confused than intelligent.
It depresses me that I just spent £2.20 on average
coffee. So I buy a brownie.
A family with young children sit down at the table next to
me. The children start throwing food. I decide it is time to leave. It starts
raining just in time for my walk home.
The Situation:
I am sat on the grass in Hyde Park, admiring the view and
enjoying the sunshine. There is something in the air – perhaps it is the
feeling that something wonderful is about to happen.
What happens in the Rom-Com:
A golden retriever bounds towards me and jumps onto my lap.
The dog is followed by an attractive young man in a checked shirt who is
running towards me and carrying a dog lead.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, revealing a wide smile of
abnormally white teeth, “he doesn’t normally like women at all.”
I smile.
I smile.
“I’m Sam,” he says, shaking my hand, “Can I buy you dinner
some time?”
He does buy me dinner, and one day several years later he
buys me a golden retriever puppy with a pink bow tied around its neck.
What really happens:
I realise that the only thing that is in the air is pollen.
My eyes begin to puff up as though I have been punched and I have a rather loud
sneezing fit. People sat within a 10-metre radius of me move their picnic
blankets further away.
The Situation:
My best single girlfriend and I go to my local pub for
drinks and dinner. We sit at a table near the bar and scan the candlelit room
for potential interesting men.
What happens in the Rom-Com:
My friend and I chat and laugh and swish our hair in slow
motion in such an inviting way that we catch the attention of two dashing
single guys at the bar.
“These drinks are from those two men at the bar,” says the
waiter. We invite the guys over. It turns out that my friend has SO much in
common with guy one and I have SO much in common with guy two. We agree on a
double date and my friend and I leave the pub and skip all the way home.
What really happens:
My friend and I are so engrossed in conversation that the
two single guys at the bar assume we are a couple and proceed to chat up the
two girls at the other end of the bar.
I love a soppy story. I often clap at the end of
particularly happy films. But the films also skew my sense of what’s real and
what’s not and paint an unrealistic picture of what my life should look like.
Neat hair, killer shoes and a knight in shining armour about to come around the
corner at any moment.
Maybe love, actually, is all around me. But I’m certainly
not going to find it by watching rom-coms in my room with a packet of biscuits or
by sitting in cafés waiting for my dream man to find me.
The other thing about rom-coms is that they imply a woman is
incomplete until that fateful day when ‘the love interest’ makes his entrance
into the story. The last time I looked in the mirror there was a fairly whole
human being looking back at me. When the ‘I want a boyfriend’ cloud lifts and I
am able to see clearly again, I ask myself: do I really even want to be found?
Stay tuned.
Libby
Friday 22 June 2012
It's raining sequins
Apologies for my absence. No, I haven't become the first person to die from hay fever and glandular fever (actually I feel like I've pretty much kicked the glandular fever, touch wood). I've been busy. I am now back in London and have officially finished my second year at the London College of Fashion.
I may be getting less frequent visits from the glandular fever Dementor, but that doesn't mean I'm not ill. I have developed a new sickness that is perhaps even more frightening.
Reader, I am addicted to sequins.
It started in Topshop. I was shopping with a friend when a ray of light punched me in the eyes. But instead of blinding me, I felt like I was finally seeing clearly. Yes, this is the dress I have been waiting my whole life to find.
When I picked the shimmery skater dress off its hanger I think my friend was ready to escort me from the shop. She could see the look in my eyes and the seeds of an addiction planting themselves in my happy heart.
I ignored her and headed to the fitting room.
It probably goes without saying that a sequin dress would be sparkly. But this dress wasn't just sparkly. It was really, really, really sparkly. I wouldn't be surprised if I got arrested whilst wearing it down the street for over exposing the public to sequins and potentially creating traffic accidents by blinding drivers with shimmer.
I didn't buy it, but I have been dreaming in sequins ever since.
My main argument for resisting the sequin dress was that I wondered where I would wear it. Now I am regretting my decision because I realise that I would wear it EVERYWHERE. Perhaps I would look insane, and certainly insanely shiny, but I would be so insanely happy.
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| Dress, £80, Topshop |
 |
| Vivienne Westwood sell similar boots: mine are cheaper and have sequins on them. Win. |
 |
| Shoe, £24.99, Dizzy at Treds |
My sister: Where are you ever going to wear those? You're not going to Glastonbury any time soon.
Me: It rains in London too!
I have worn them several times since buying them. I splash happily through city puddles and feel like a sparkly duck.
I know that sequins are not tasteful and they are not chic. But the one thing they certainly are is fun. Resisting my urge to paint my life in sequins is like resisting an urge for cake: perhaps I would be skinnier if I said no to the chocolate gateau, but life wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable. Maybe I would look more 'fashion' in simple black trousers and a Breton tee but what is the point in fashion if you can't enjoy your wardrobe? In fact, what is the point in life if you can't enjoy it - if you can't eat cake and wear sequins?
Libby
Tuesday 12 June 2012
Drop scones, not bombs
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| Bag, £14, notonthehighstreet.com |
Drop scones (or Scotch pancakes) with homemade raspberry compote and creme fraiche. Yum.
Libby
Monday 11 June 2012
Scribbles of Young Ladies and Gentlemen
Sketches of Young Gentlemen and Couples (With Sketches of Young Ladies), by Charles Dickens, Illustrated by Phiz
This was one of my purchases on Sunday, and the first that I started to read.
It is wonderful. One of Charles Dicken's less famous works, it is a compilation of short and witty sketches of young characters, written like a zoological report.
Among them are The Mysterious Young Lady, The Very Friendly Young Gentleman, The Nice Little Couple and The The Romantic Young Lady...
"Her pity knows know bounds. She pities the "the poor flowers in winter". She pities her friend's shawl if it gets wet. She pities poor Mr. Brown, "he has such a taste; nothing but cabbages and potatoes in his garden." 'Tis singular that, with all this fund of compassion, she was never known to pity a deserving object. That would be too much matter of fact."
I am engrossed. Much to the amusement of my family as the occasional laugh splutters over the top of the book that I have my nose buried in.
Despite being written so many years ago, the characters are people you could bump into in the street today. Just take them away from the balls and the villages and give them iphones and Starbuck's...
Which gave me an idea to recreate these sketches for the modern day. So every now and then on this blog I shall be sharing with you my own 21st Century sketches: 'Scribbles of Young Ladies and Gentlemen'.
I can't write like Dickens or draw like Phiz. But I can write like me and draw stick people.
Scribbles of Young Ladies and Gentlemen
(Including stick drawings by me)
(Including stick drawings by me)
The Young Lady with the Loud Laugh
You may not have seen the young lady with the loud laugh,
but you will most certainly have heard her.
The laughter of young ladies falls, for the most part, into
a handful of categories. There is the pitying laugh, offered to young gentleman
with bad hair whose jokes are pulled from Christmas crackers. The dainty laugh
has the sound of a teaspoon against a teacup but is often produced by the least
dainty of young ladies. Perhaps the loveliest of laughs is the steak-and-kidney-pie-laugh,
so named for its warmth and heartiness and because it is a regular in jolly
public houses.
The steak-and-kidney-pie laugh is loud, but nothing compared
to the sound produced by the young lady with the loud laugh.
The young lady with the loud laugh’s laugh is not just loud.
It is extraordinarily loud.
It is also quite unique in tone and resonance. An expert in
such matters of classification might liken the sound to that of a rather
agitated kookaburra or an elephant playing a trumpet.
If you are short of hearing and seek visual confirmation
that you have encountered a young lady with a loud laugh, here follow a few
distinguishing features. The young lady with the loud laugh can most frequently
be found riding on public transport, and is most likely to have her head thrown
back as if her chin is involved in a longstanding argument with the rest of her
body. You would be forgiven for mistaking her as a sufferer of indigestion: she
will likely be clutching her stomach as though tormented by an inner agony.
Other notable characteristics include the clapping of hands or mirthful banging
of fists on nearby surfaces.
The young lady with the loud laugh is also not unknown to
make appearances in libraries.
If you find yourself in the company of a young lady with a
loud laugh, it is worth looking out for certain unusual traits. She has, for
example, been known to accidentally project a little more than laughter onto
her neighbours. It is worth observing the young gentleman sat opposite her as
he blinks back a teardrop of her saliva and wonders as to the socially
acceptable thing to do next.
Occasionally the young lady with the loud laugh will
surprise even herself with the volume of her laughter. A somewhat bashful look
will flutter across her face as she acknowledges the weary faces of her fellow
young ladies and gentlemen.
But it will not be long until she is brushing her knees and
back on the hee-haw in the playground of her life.
N.B It is highly advised never to enter into a serious
argument with the young lady with the loud laugh. It is universally accepted
that you will never have the last laugh.
Good Enough to Eat: Outfit Post 3
A Hummingbird Cupcake Ouftit
 | |
Frame image source: graphicsfairy.blogspot.com
Changing Faces
I liked the previous layout but felt it was difficult to navigate - I was also told that the format didn't work on an ipad.
So apologies for the changes and please bear with me.
Most importantly: what do you think?
Libby
Sunday 10 June 2012
Dear Diary...
I think it is a tragedy that so few people keep a diary. In my diary, if nowhere else, I am the movie star in my own film.
In my diary I can write whatever I like; it is like talking to an elderly relative who loves you very much but is very hard of hearing. They will sit and nod and it really doesn't matter what you say. I can fill the pages with mundane details about the food I ate that day, I can safeguard my most thrilling gossip (sadly never particularly thrilling) or I can write four pages about bookshops...
9th June 2012
I am sat in bed with a happy pile of books next to me. Today I spent several hours in two beautiful independent bookshops in Bath. I could have spent all day there. I could have spent my life there.
Bookshops are unlike any other place. They are ripe with opportunity - all the possibilities of the juicy words I could pluck from bookshelves that are like branches. Not just the opportunity of all the books I could read, but also the opportunity of all the different types of person I could be. The books you have on your shelf and the books you read on the tube say a lot about the kind of person you are, or at least the kind of person you want other people to think you are. It is inadvisable, for example, to read self-help books on the underground. I once sat next to a woman on the Victoria Line who had her head bent over 'How to Find a Husband'.
Back in the bookshop. If the books are fruit and the shelves are branches, then I want to sit quietly in the shade of the trees and wonderfully waste away an afternoon.
The first bookshop we went to was called Mr B's Emporium of Reading Delights and had wooden floorboards and a clawfoot bath in the window full to the brim with children's books. The shop twisted around corners where unusual titles were hidden amongst wrapping paper and birthday cards and above a small bench seat scattered with gingham cushions.
Upstairs was a small coffee shop, although we didn't go up to have a look. But I imagined it: wooden tables, one with a wobble. Chairs with homemade cushions. And cake. Of course.
After book shop number one (and three purchases), we walked down the street in the sunshine. At the end we bought ice cream from a little stall. It was lovely and locally made, but in those crunchy wafer cones that taste like stale seaside holidays.
I like watching how different people eat ice creams.
We walked up the other side of the street and then went into bookshop number two, Topping's. This one was bigger, which meant more books and more difficult decisions.
Here they love books so much that they wrap the covers of their favourite ones in cellophane. I like the idea of wrapping all my favourite things in clear plastic; the kind of plastic you get around sweets and flowers (that says a lot).
In the shop there were tables and chairs placed like commas through the room, offering pauses to the people sat at them drinking coffee and reading books. The sound of running water behind the till comes as a surprise; they have a kettle and a cafetiere and a teapot in this bookshop.
A man was in there with his dog, a big brown spaniel who huffed and puffed as they walked up the short flight of stairs to the 'Arts Room' - the section of the shop dedicated to art and design books.
I pulled out the spines that smiled their sideways smiles at me and left the shop with an even larger pile of books.
Now to decide which one to read first...
Libby
P.S And yes, I do realise that I cannot draw. And my handwriting would make primary school teacher put her hands in her head and weep. Miss Jenkins, I apologise for my wayward ways.
Saturday 9 June 2012
You have a crush on WHO?
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| Image source: cosplay.com |
I thought it was time to share some home-truths. So what if I have a dodgy pair of pants with fruit on that I wear when I really need to do some laundry? So what if there are too many photographs to count of me as a goofy, chubby redheaded child with an infestation of freckles? And so what if I fancy a hobbit?
What I really mean to say is that being weird is OK. Because being weird is what makes you just like everyone else.
Here is my list of embarrassing crushes:
Samwise Gamgee:
When I was watching TV with my family recently we flicked over to Lord of the Rings and Samwise Gamgee came up on the screen.
"I want to marry someone like him," I said.
My mum looked at me as though I had just revealed that I was hiding a baby dragon down my top.
"You do realise he's a hobbit?" said my sister.
"Yep."
"And he has hairy feet?"
"Yep."
He may have hairy feet, but his name is also Samwise the Brave. I want someone who will come and rescue me no matter what, even if I have fallen in a lake and they can't swim. If you'll do that for me I don't really mind if you have hairy feet.
I bet Samwise Gamgee would be great at fixing things in the house too, and dependable, and would enjoy my baking. Maybe I would have to deal with living in a tiny house with round doors, but I think I could manage.
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| Image Source: sbtv.co.uk |
Ed Sheeran:
This shouldn't really be on the list because I am not even vaguely ashamed of this one. I defy any sane female not to listen to him singing and fall hopelessly in love.
Another TV evening with the family and we switched on to Ed Sheeran alone on a stage with a guitar, breaking my heart.
"But he's so... messy," my mum protested.
I wasn't listening, I was too busy melting on the floor.
"How could someone who writes like that and sings like that not be a wonderful person? He could sing to me every day..."
"Yeah I guess," said my sister, "and you'd have loads of kids that could sing and you'd be like a ginger Von Trap family."
In my head I was already tearing down my curtains to make outfits for my vibrantly haired brood of children.
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| Image Source: freeimagesarchive.com |
Aladdin:
Yes, he may be a cartoon, but what young girl didn't want him to show her the world on a flying carpet?
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| Image source: irishcentral.com |
Michael Bublé:
Because my mum would be so happy.
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| Image source: futuregamez.net |
Paulie Bleeker (AKA Michael Cera in Juno):
Juno: You're, like, the coolest person I've ever met, and you don't even have to try, you know...
Paulie Bleeker: "I try really hard, actually."
I think I just have a soft spot for geeks. Probably because, despite apparently being a fashion student, I am still a geek at heart. I was head girl at my school and once went to an all night Harry Potter screening at the Imax. Enough said.
So, I've shared mine. Laugh as you will, but don't feel too smug. I'm sure you have a few embarrassing heart-throbs hidden away somewhere. Probably right next to the bad underwear.
Libby
Friday 8 June 2012
Reasons to vote for me in the Cosmo blog award (Best Lifestyle Blog category)
3) It would make me so happy that I would dance around the streets like that (see photo above).
5) I will bake you a cake.
http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/blogs/cosmo-blog-awards-2012/
Libby
Wacky Britain: A Great Gift Guide
I think it's a bit sad though that it took 60 years for us to have such an excuse to celebrate. Most of the time we are quick to criticise our own country. Yes, we have debt, rain and a general public that votes a dancing dog as the best of British, but we also have so much to be proud of.
The Queen, as this weekend demonstrated, but also enough things to keep Republicans happy as well. We have Harry Potter and the Lake District, Yorkshire dales and Yorkshire puddings, Big Ben and beautiful little villages. We have fish and chips and we have the Archers. We have Cornish beaches and Cornish Pasties. We have crumpets. We have Morris Dancers.
We also have British eccentricity (hence the Morris Dancers), which is something I for one think is cause for celebration. With this in mind I have trawled the web for the more unusual Jubilee souvenirs that will make a wacky edition to your world and will keep you patriotic all year round.
Why limit the Union Jacks to one weekend? Just because the bunting has come down, that doesn't we should too.
Wacky Britain: A Great Gift Guide
(Above) Jubilee Beermats, £12.50
The Original Metal Box Company at Not on the High Street
Drink with the Royal family every evening with these patriotic beermats.
Corgi T-shirt, £25
Not for Ponies at notonthehighstreet.com
Hunter Gatherer at notonthehighstreet.com
Wash up in style with this stately scrubbing brush.
Sewgirl at notonthehighstreet.com
Make do and mend and create your own Jubilee souvenirs with this sewing kit.
Kiki's at notonthehighstreet.com
Walk in pride in these pretty heels.
Helen Bateman at notonthehighstreet.com
The most patriotic pumps on the market.
Jodie Anna at notonthehighstreet.com
Bowler hats and well maintained facial hair: some of the under-rated gems of British culture.
Made with Love Designs Ltd at notonthehighstreet.com
You don't have to be a Queen to have your own throne.
Mutts and Hounds at notonthehighstreet.com
Even your pooch can be patriotic with this Union Jack dog harness.
The Cake Nest at notonthehighstreet.com
As if a cuppa wasn't British enough.
Snowdon Design & Craft at notonthehighstreet.com
Promote British eccentricity with this quirky print.
Ulster Weavers at notonthehighstreet.com
Because every teapot needs a crown.
The Little Picture Company at notonthehighstreet.com
I personally have never seen a puffin in London. Actually, I've never seen a puffin. Which is why I love this crazy patriotic puffin print.
Urban Outfitters
If you're not quite royalist enough to have 'Her Maj' tattooed on your arm, go for something less permanent with these transfer tattoos.
Urban Outfitters
I'm not quite sure what the point is off this scratch map. I guess you could scratch where you've been or write rude things about the towns of rival football teams? Or perhaps I just love it because it there really is no point to it.
Urban Outfitters
Some things in life are too perfect for words. That's all.
Urban Outfitters
With thanks to the Ice Queen Scoop you can now remind yourself of your royalist credentials even when performing the most unlikely of activities. Like scooping ice cream.
Iwantoneofthose.com
To be worn whilst listening to The Beatles, The Kinks and The Rolling Stones.
Joy
Now your egg can be accompanied by real soldiers.
Jonathon Aston at Topshop
For royally good legs.
Marks and Spencer
Some people wear their heart on their sleeve. I wear my nationality on my tights.
Marks and Spencer
For watching England lose the football but watching with pride nonetheless.
Linea at House of Fraser
Because if you're going to have a rubber duck bath mat it may as well be a patriotic rubber duck bath mat.
Marks and Spencer
One can never have too much bunting.
Debenhams
Practically patriotic.
Swan at Debenhams
For making especially British brews.
Debenhams
For eating roast dinners and posh picnics.
Salter at Debenhams
Weigh the ingredients for your Victoria Sponge in style.
Republic
Patriotic pants.
Dress up the Royals, £5.99
John Lewis
Now you can have endless fun dressing up the Royals with this dress-up dolly book. I'm sure your life is now complete.
John Lewis
Sit up straight in these British dining table chairs.
Next
Too much? Never.
Next
I'm not quite sure what animal the Queen is supposed to be here. A guinea pig? A sheep?
John Lewis
Now you can be truly patriotic even when you are phoning to vote for a dog to win Britain's Got Talent.
John Lewis
And finally, just what I have always wanted.
Libby
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