Lebanese Nights

Alas, not nights spent in the country of Lebanon, instead a rather lovely Lebanese restaurant that I visited on Friday with my mother. I’d been telling her for weeks that I’d take her out for dinner (a sort of thank you for the lifts, laundry and general mother duties that the rent doesn’t cover) so I duly gave her a choice of cuisine (Lebanese or Moroccan…sort of a choice) and off we set.

We sat at the front next to the large glass panel – a slight error given that it was about 2 degrees outside. After shifting over a seat, however, our temperature issues were all sorted. The staff were very friendly and accommodating. True, when asked what sort of wine the house wine was, we were told ‘house’ about four times before my mother had to explain she has an allergy to Chardonnay and would like to see the bottle…it was indeed a Chardonnay and not a House. But in its own way, it added to the charm.

Our waiter was keen to offer us much heeded advice on our options (we decided on a combination of hot meze and a main course). The stuffed vine leaves were delicious, the halloumi squeaked to perfection and the calamari crisp. The spicy sausages could have been a little spicier and there was a rather confusing salad with pink…stuff. The main, however. Wow. Meat Mountain. Various meats kebabed in every way kebabably possible. We were utterly full by the end of the main course, but as the set menu included dessert we couldn’t possibly say no. I adored the sweet density of the baklawa whereas my mother prefers her lighter, crumblier and less sweet. But each to their own I guess.

As we were mulling over our peppermint teas, a belly dancer appeared, gyrating and wobbling all over the place. Yes we did have warning by way of the poster in the window and she was really rather good, yet there is something a touch awkward about a woman twitching her stomach at you whilst giving you a very seductive look as you sit in that post-food state waiting to return to a comfortable size. Glancing around, the men clearly were not going to object to a young bejewelled bra clad woman dancing around them, indeed a few looked like their birthdays had all come at once much to the disdain of their female companions. We won’t talk about the loud 30 year old who decided dancing with her was the only way forward.

It might not have looked much from the outside but its colourful and atmospheric interior made up for that (although they probably should do something about the polystyrene ceiling tiles) along with the food and friendly staff.

My First Time

There are two types of people in life; the 'hats' and the 'hat nots'. I've always admired from afar those of my friends that can happily don a hat as another may a necklace or earrings but always accepted that, past the necessary head wear on the slopes and perhaps the odd fascinator, I would never fit into that category. Until last weekend.

A few weeks ago my mother bought me a fedora. It is a thing of pure beauty; black felt with a pink band and feather. Stunning. Day by day went by, me staring at it longingly and it looking back at me from its perch, daring me to wear it. And yet...I found excuses. Impractical, outfit clash...and on it went, procrastination. I felt as though I had a puppy that I refused to walk. As everyone knows, procrastination cannot go on forever  and eventually I finally took the plunge. I arranged the hat upon my head, fully aware that I risked an embarrassing episode of hat hair, and strutted out the door. And I mean more so than usual. There was something about walking out the front door with extra inches attached to my head that did something to me. I walked taller, I liked people not being able to see my face, I enjoyed  the mystery that suddenly shrouded me (or so I imagined it to. It probably didn't). 

True, the wind hampered things slightly and I had to embark on an unsuccessful quest for a hat pin, but that's an irrelevant digression. It seemed that the mere fact that my vision of the world was so narrowed, so restricted by the almighty brim that surround by head with a halo that it seemed that I was more of a casual observer, watching the world as I walked around. Of course people could see me, but I couldn't see them seeing me, thus it didn't matter. I was barely recognisable and it seemed as though as I had achieved pure anonymity. 

That was until I arrived in Oxford and I was recognised immediately. But it felt good whilst it lasted. I have become one of the 'hats'. 

Out of Order

From a young age we are taught to do so much with an orderly approach. For obvious reasons we are taught that pants must be put on before trousers (something Superman's parents clearly forgot to mention) and the alphabet must be learnt before we can read. But standard order ends in these early years. Everyone thinks that the way they do things is the correct and most effective way of going about life, of course they do or else another method would be sought, yet rarely does it happen that two people do the same thing in exactly the same manner. Even after being told precisely how to do it, techniques differ; slightly infuriating at the best of times.

Let's keep things very British and take making a cup of tea as an example. Everyone knows that a standard cup of tea consists of a tea bag (you use tea leaves do you? Tough, I don't), boiling water and milk. Yet what do you do first? Boil the kettle? Place the teabag in the mug? And then what? I personally boil the kettle, teabag the mug, pour boiling water into said mug, leave for 30 seconds or so, prod it around with a spoon, dispose of the teabag and add milk. So many people add the milk with the tea bag still bobbing around; fine, I guess, if you like splashing milky tea over your foot on extraction. I just don't. Some people, more disconcertingly put the milk in first before adding water...the mind boggles. Edwardian ladies would test their hostess's willingness to provide them with their finest bone china upon their afternoon visits by watering their cup first; bone china wouldn't crack when boiling water was poured into it, whereas the cheap stuff would, and obviously if milk was already in the teacup it would cool the water down on contact.

But enough of tea. This trivial instance merely highlights the lack of consistency within order, and illustrates that as times change, so does the accepted way of doing things. There was a time, less than a century ago, when young girls who'd had a little too much fun with the soldiers (or any other male for that matter), would be scurried away to homes in which they would have their babies and then returned to society after they had recovered from their 'illness'. How many unmarried girls do you know with babies? Unmarried mothers are now completely accepted by virtually all of society, totally usurping the idea that 'first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage'. Not even a murmur of the once tabooed s-word. The order of proceedings has been turned utterly on its head. But does it work? In the 1930s, the marriage rate was higher yet divorces were rarely heard of, let alone carried out with fewer than 10,000  marriages in 1930 legally breaking up. Compare this to 2010, a good year for family lawyers, with 119 589 divorces (Office of National Statistics). Is the reason for this simply because it has become more socially acceptable to walk away from a spouse or has it been a necessary change due to young couples doing things in 'the wrong order'?

It is pretty much a given now that people have sex before they are married, but, and I don't wish to sound like my Grandmother, maybe this trend has a lot to answer for. Perhaps it would be a good idea to revert to old-fashioned principles and actually get to know someone, I mean really know them, before jumping into bed with them, thus encouraging the confusion between lust and love. I might even give it a try. Maybe.

The Middle Of It

Body parts have, throughout history, taken it in turns to be rude, unacceptable and positively illegal. Whilst the Victorians found ankles the height of offense, just a few years previously ball dresses were cut down to the bosom and were by no means full length. It seems each generation has its own paranoia about showing off certain parts of the anatomy; for the poor Victorians it was the entirety, the flappers of the 1920s did the utmost to conceal their breasts and legs were hidden for years. Our generation has moved on from all this; legs are celebrated, breasts a mere part of walking down the high street and bottoms revealed in the tightest body con. One thing that hasn’t quite penetrated the liberal mind of the average Brit is the stomach. The midriff, navel, abdomen. Whatever you want to call it. An inch or two will be glossed over, especially if it’s a loose fitting top, but the tight, short cropped top? Even if it were a high neck, long sleeved piece paired with a midi it would still be met with disapproving looks. Even on a night out. Even in Hull. (Ok, so the test piece was worn with a mid-thigh skirt. What’s a few inches between friends?)

What is it about this seemingly innocent area that has made it the unwitting victim of society’s disapproval? Perhaps we have become desensitised to other areas through over exposure, both in reality and in the media, which and have sought another cause for embarrassment and horror. The stomach, of course, is usually covered through sheer practicality; no one wants a chilly tummy. Perhaps, however, the reason is deeper than this. A woman’s stomach is the nest in which babies grow, essentially the future of humanity. It is vulnerable and tender. If we feel nervous, we cross our arms, creating a barrier between our abdomen and the world and according to the BBC,  40% of women who would like to change something about their body would change their stomachs. Indeed, a recent abs class at the gym had a staggering majority of women with only a couple of brave men, apparently fighting for their six packs.

Maybe we simply don’t like seeing the midriff because it reminds us of what we haven’t got. The only girls who (should) reveal theirs are the annoyingly slender, toned morsels who must have my share of will power as well as their own, incurring a deep envy in the women in their vicinity. As for those who definitely shouldn’t be showing off what they have in abundance, those looks of disgust are quite simply that. Looks of disgust.

Don’t think I’m against the idea of exposing my navel to the world, I simply don’t understand the negative result that doing so incurs. Why has wearing virtually nothing more than underwear in public become expected yet that nice, flat expanse of harmless flesh in middle is almost sinful? Try it. I dare you. It’s liberating.

Writing an Essay

Writing an essay shouldn't be a chore. They always are, but they shouldn't be. They are an opportunity to craft words in order to express an opinion sharply and concisely. They can be compared to dining at a fabulous restaurant.
First is the planning phase. The restaurant needs to be chosen, the day set aside and people invited. It then needs to be booked. Like research.
On arrival at the restaurant, an apertif is the norm. This is comparable to the plan. It relaxes you, gives you chance to look at the menu and generally think about food. The plan gives guidance, explores your ideas and implements order.
Once food has been ordered, the first course comes; each course of food should have very different tastes, but not so different that they don't compliment one, and should be enjoyed thoroughly. A good wine binds it all together. This is like writing each paragraph. Delicious to write, exciting and different. With all the crumbs swept up because it's just that good. But bound together by a solid idea.
There. Essays are just like good food.

"Name the Nicest Thing Someone has Ever Said About You"

I found this question on an online quiz (procrastination is really taking its grip).
I tried answering it and found that I couldn't. Not because nobody has ever said anything nice, they have! I just can't think of any examples.
So why then can I call to mind at least three un-nice things that people have said about me? I don't really dwell on either, so is it  a confidence thing or a self improvement thing? Or are they one an the same??? Way back when cave men trotted around the country side, those who could run fast, kill well and were presumably attractive were the ones who bred. We can imagine that those who weren't naturally pre-dispositioned to be this way trained hard, learnt to use arrows and clubs and...had the equivalent of cave man botox. Whatever that may have been. They were bad at something so improved. Children do the same at schools all over the world. They don't do well in a spelling test so they (are supposed to) try harder for the nest. Is this not what negative comments constitute to? A way to make ourselves more appealing to a wider variety of people, because let's face it, the smelly, fat slob sat in the corner reading 'Take A Break' probably isn't going to be an employer's first choice. And sadly, that is generally what life has come to; the office has become the new hunting ground and where success was once measured on physical ability it now has more to do with the ability to climb and network company ladders.
If you say anything nice to me, anything at all, I will try to remember it. It just seems like evolution doesn't deem it a satisfactory use of mind space. Either that or I should re-assess this question when I have fewer exams, I'm less stressed and generally in a happy frame of mind.

My Good Friend Nigella

It's said that the kitchen is the heart of the home, and although my kitchen currently looks more like a post apocalyptic refuge, this sentiment is most certainly true. Food is one of life's biggest comforts; it is necessary to eat at least once every three weeks to carry on living, a piece of chocolate or bowl of rice pudding can make the entire world seem like a better place and there really is nothing quite like a greasy £4 pizza at 3am. But before I sound like a secretly obese whale (although how I'd keep that a secret I'm not sure) let's also remember that food is what you eat with friends, where you go on dates (having said that, I've never really understood the attraction of watching a virtual stranger shovel food into a hole in his face while I frantically refrain from dripping pasta sauce all over my top and around my mouth. But each to their own) and an all round bonding experience. 

This is perhaps why celebrity chefs and cooks (Nigella does NOT like being called a chef) have such a special place in our own hearts. Many people are on apparent first name terms with Jamie, Heston and Delia. Food somehow connects us; it is something that everyone has in common no matter what nationality, class, age or gender. It is virtually impossible to dislike someone who cooks good food...which is a little damning for me when I manage to ruin scramble eggs. But practice makes perfect...Breakfast anyone? 

The Real Point of Uni

Maybe the title of this is a tad generic. Should be something more along the lines of "Why I want to get a degree". I'll change it later. Probably.
When someone asks me what I want to do after I graduate, I instantly reply that I want to do Masters (and no, not in Hull). Although the thought of getting a job and being -dare i say it?- responsible absolutely terrifies me, I don't want to prolong my education to stall for time. Nor do I actually want the Masters to further my career prospects (just don't tell my mum this), although most of the jobs that I'd like do require one. Instead the mere knowledge is why I want those letters after my name. It excites me. Alot. Learning in such depth about something that interests me.
In turn the reason I am currently an undergrad is for similar reasons. I just like learning about Wordsworth's politics, Hardy's character formation and Middleton's depiction of London. For me, my degree is more of an indulgence that has the added benefit of career prospects, valuable life experience (from living with other people and budgeting to not drinking sambuca) and meeting new people, some of whom will prove to be incredible friends and others useful contacts, than being a total necessity. It's a bit like an expensive but high quality pair of beautiful shoes. Costs a lot, you do it for love but ultimately they save your feet from getting dirty. I could read the books at home in the same way I could wear crocs or something equally as repugnant.
There is nothing quite like an active, engaging seminar where everyone has their own opinions, the tutor encourages discussion and you leave feeling thoroughly intellectually stimulated.

Yet despite all this I'm still struggling to find motivation to write my essay.

Gilded Beauty

Fashion is a world that is perceived to be a glamorous and fierce place, dominated by beautiful people.  Indeed, the front rows of the world's major fashion shows back up this image. But the magazine editors who adorn their pages with the likes of Kate Hudson, Mary-Kate Olsen and Kristen Stewart to name but a few, sitting with concerted expressions pondering how they can fit the latest trends into their mammoth wardrobes, fail to mention the other side of fashion.

Fashion weeks see journalists, models and designers practically mainlining coffee, clutching their trusty sunglasses to hide bags a panda would be proud of and avoiding human contact as much as possible for fear of an episode of sleep deprived murder. Such are the effects of sleepless nights. And, yes, these may be but a few weeks a year but there is a constant pressure that is put upon people in the fashion industry to live up to a standard that has been set largely by myth and Photoshop.

Possibly the hardest hit in the general fashion stereotype are the models themselves. There is no denying that eating disorders are rife, enhanced not only by designer's preferences for the slimmer creature (samples are much cheaper to produce in a UK 4) but also though an ever-changing ideal body shape. In the real world, the ideal body shape is a natural one, achieved though a healthy diet and lifestyle with perhaps more than a little influence from photographs of flat stomached celebrities and television (think of the current trend for 1950s clothing that best suits a curvier shape). For a model her body shape is her livelihood. If the clothes don't fit her, she won't be booked. Simples.

Supermodels are a slightly different kettle of fish, but still face the same pressures. Although they can get away with being a little less restrained around the canapés because designers will book them on the basis of their name, their fame means money to the paparazzi.  Celebrity gossip magazines thrive on photographs of supermodels where they are drunk and humiliating themselves or simply have had a late night, haven't worn make up and aren't looking up to their air-brushed perfume ad image.  Have a moment's thought for Lily Cole; a photograph of her stumbling out of a Cambridge club could have a negative impact on her work. She may be rich, she may travel a lot and she may know Karl Lagerfeld and other fashion Demi-Gods   but she can't have the true experience of being a student.

This isn't to say that models should be pitied or felt too sorry for; they choose to stay and it often pays off for them. Modelling gave Natalia Vodianova her fairy tale escape from Russian poverty into a Tom Ford wedding dress at her wedding to the wealthy London property developer, Justin Portman.  Fashion does have its ugly, dark facets but it has a reputation of beauty and glamour and there is never smoke without fire.

Jewels of a Circular Sort

I should be slaving away over an essay, yet I have managed to find time to procrastinate. But after finding this little beauty of a site, I feel my time was well spent.





All from http://www.etsy.com/shop/LaPetiteBoheme?page=1

Love how they all look so individual and special without trying too hard.

Jewellery can be so hard to get right; it should be personal and expressive but at the same time looking tacky is...tacky.
Delicate chains and pendants can sometimes be overshadowed by an outfit yet at other times costume jewellery is just too much.For full impact jewellery should be a part of the outfit, not an afterthought.

A Comfortable Distance

When humans pass one another in the street they instinctively look at one another. They do this for a variety of reasons; personally I check to see if I know them. But what happens when you see someone you know walking towards you from 50 metres away? Far too far to speak without shouting and the other walker may not have even noticed your presence so a wave is out of the question; nothing quite like the rejection of an unrequited wave. 

So, eyes down, you keep walking. But when to look up? Too soon and the smile and acknowledgement will take place but it will be followed by the awkward ten steps as you edge towards a comfortable communication distance. Leave it too late however, and it looks like you're simply trying to ignore them. When did greeting people we know get so complicated? Perhaps staring them out is a solution...would certainly be an ice breaker and a good conversation starter. And better to err on the side of creepy than rude. Sometimes.

Once the comfortable, socially acceptable distance at which acknowledging someone is established the second obstacle arises. What to actually do. Stop, kiss and hug with open arms, enquiring about their health and giving an answer in great detail resulting in a two hour coffee shop conversation? Or smile, say 'hi' and continue walking, even if still exchanging pleasantries? The issue stems from everyone approaching the situation in a different manner with different expectations, based upon their preferences, time availability and mood. There is no easy answer, indeed it is doubtful there even is an answer.

Maybe life would be easier if we all walked around with masks on? 

I Shouldn't Have Bought That...Oops...

When I look in my wardrobe, there are a few pieces that bring a massive smile to my face; sometimes it's because  I have fantastic memories of wearing it but for other pieces it's the memory of actually buying it that makes me smile.
I rarely buy my favourite pieces when I intentionally go on massive shopping trips, indeed the clothes I spend days fantasising about often get relegated fairly quickly. Instead it's what I buy when I don't plan to go shopping, or know I really shouldn't be buying something, that become my favourite pieces. It's something about that guilty decision; the knowledge that it looks amazing and will be thought about for months, if not years afterwards (words of experience here) if it's not bought immediately. Despite only having £37.50 in my bank account. And the oh-so-pretty shoes being reduced to £36. From £70. There just isn't a decision there to made.
I don't know what it is about the impulsive spur of the moment decision and the potential feeling of regret that makes purchasing such pieces so addictive. Perhaps it is emotional roller coaster felt through the handing over of money intended for rent that causes attachment to the clothes that I have bought in this way. Maybe the fondness I feel for them is akin to the unconditional love a mother feels for her new born, 4.30AM screaming baby...I go through hell for those pieces; verbally from my family who think I shop too much, physically from my stomach who complains about the cheap diet I feed it afterwards and emotionally from the fact that the money I spent is rarely mine, instead money given to me for the purpose of surviving. But I have to love those shoes, the jacket, the bag, because it came down to a 'reasoned' decision and I was certainly not wrong in my judgement or justification. The shop shelf is rarely an option on which to keep exquisite things; it's simply not fair.
A small part of me suspects that I impulse buy sometimes simply to make myself feel good. The knowledge that I can go out and spent monstrous amounts of money on unnecessary things (albeit with money intended for another reason entirely) is good. It's rebellious. The purchase becomes the best friend of the moment with whom I break all the rules. Until something else comes along. All the same, I fall in love with it. Although I know I'll move on, it will always have a special place in my heart, no matter what.
Of course there have been times when I've taken home bags of shopping, opened them up and scratched my head, wondering what on earth I was thinking when I bought the flimsy 'dress' that more strongly resembled a night dress that would only be seen on someone over the age of 60 with seriously dwindling eyesight. And yes, that did get a hasty return. But more often than not, my naughty little secrets become my friends for life. 

I Never Knew That About You

Everyone has thousands of things about them that people just don't know. That's what makes getting to know someone so much fun; it's the little things that are interesting. It's the boring stuff that makes someone interesting.

Little Known Fact Number 1:

One of my first words was wine. Which impressed my dad  and should possibly have given an insight into what was to come. Maybe that's something I should tell more people...it's not my fault, a love of wine is clearly innate

Little Known Fact Number 2:

I have never been kissed...outside Europe. Which isn't altogether that surprising when the fact that I've only been out of Europe three times is taken into consideration. It's still true though. 

Little Known Fact Number 3:

I love Mozart. His compositions have life, humour and sadness. Play Mozart and I will be happy. 

Little Known Fact Number 4:

If I am wearing wellies, I will jump in every puddle I see. Even in front of children who are getting told off for doing so. Especially then. Just to reaffirm in their little heads that it is  better to be grown up (sort of). 

Little Known Fact Number 5:

Goats and snakes feature in my favourite animal list. I was once offered a meat parcel by a little old Greek man in his shop in the middle of nowhere (well, Greece somewhere). He was so proud of these because his wife had made them. Sadly they were goat meat and as bad as I felt, I just couldn't eat a goat. Which is strange when I will happily eat/wear rabbit and other cute little animals. Like pigs. 


Little Known Fact Number 6:
I don't like admitting I have gone the wrong way and will certainly not turn around and walk the way I have just come from. To the extreme that I once got on the circle line to go two stops...in the wrong direction. Maybe I should have admitted my mistake, gotten off and jumped on a train in the opposite direction. I didn't. It took about 50 minutes. 


Little Known Fact Number 7: 
I have a fascination with curling up in small spaces, i.e under desks, in wardrobes, cupboards, tumble dryers. I am very claustrophobic when it comes to my head though. Cover my head or touch my neck and I can't be held responsible for my actions. 


There we are. 7 little things about me. Feel free to tell me something about you!

Sumtumn Style

It's that awkward time of year again; too cold for shorts yet still to warm for jumpers. Not quite autumnal but definitely past summer. It's that time of year where every morning poses as a complete and utter style crisis that always results in me having no idea what to wear. Let's set the scene. The sun is shining, so logically I reach for the mini and strappy top, an essential summer combination. Then the clouds decide to emerge. So away goes the skirt and scrap of cotton, out come the skinny jeans and more substantial-yet-definitely-not-a-wooly-jumper top.

Turns out the clouds were just passing. Along with rain that could nearly be defined as monsoon like. But once again the sun reigns supreme, evaporating all trace of water with its healing hot rays. Then the process repeats itself with more torrential rain. (When I was younger I was told that rain happened because God was crying. I used to wonder for hours what made Him so unhappy. But anyway...)

This indecisive weather makes getting dressed an absolute nightmare. Flip flops and a bikini would almost seem logical, if the rain weren't so darned chilly. And walking down the road in said apparel may attract all the wrong kinds of attention.
Designers seem to forget this awkward pause between seasons, deeming it perfectly acceptable to migrate swiftly from S/S to A/W, conveniently avoiding one of the trickiest sartorial four weeks in the calendar. Sumtumn.

As a consequence I am floundering.
Wellies and raincoat? Or shorts and flipflops?

Good Morning Owl

"Good Morning". The two words most likely to make me growl at you in a way no human should be able to. Year after year I have made it my New Year's resolution to get up early, but January 3rd after January 3rd I have failed. I assumed myself lazy and lacking in self discipline. Until today.

Whilst at work I was having a discussion with a couple of my colleagues about getting up in the mornings. One had already hoovered, changed the beds and eaten breakfast before coming into work that morning (this conversation took place at 9:10am). The other, like me, had struggled to poke so much as a toe out of the warm comfort of the duvet. What my fellow night owl told us, however, made my morning-guilt evaporate (nearly) completely. The ability to get up early is genetic.

It's in the DNA.

I get it from my parents...

IT'S NOT MY FAULT!

Keen to verify these facts (I didn't want to let myself off too lightly), I had a quick flick through Google. Indeed, that National Geographic confirmed that some thoughtful researchers in Japan had been plucking people to work out when their body clock gene is most active. Turns out that the late starters have an active gene just after they wake up at the late time they want to, and the larks' genes are mainly active when they wake up at the crack of dawn (a.k.a middle of the night). Which would explain why I feel like I am in a sleep dazed fog before 10AM.

To make the whole thing even more exciting and fantabulous, a fine lady named Dr. Ying-Hui Fu a specialist in micro biology and microchemistry has basically discovered that, summed up, people who naturally wake up early have mutated genes, thus are mutants. There may be slight use of hyperbole there, but you get the gist.
I'm just ecstatic there's nothing wrong with me.



Some interesting websites on the matter...
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2010/08/100823-sleep-genes-body-clock-science-health/
http://www.neugenes.org/ying-hui_fu.htm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/2996364.stm

Photographic Memories

The best kind of photograph is a moment of the past that would otherwise have been forgotten. We always like seeing parents' and grandparents' wedding photos, but the likelihood of them being taken for the purpose of showing future generations what the dress and church looked like is slim. More probably, they would have been taken as a reminder of the day, something with which to decorate the walls in the new marital home. 


My favourite photos are the ones that aren't self explanatory; they have a story that accompanies them, a story that may have other wise been lost or forgotten if a camera's shutter hadn't moved at that precise moment. These, among many others are the photos that I decorate my walls with. I could easily write a thousand words on each of three pictures alone.

 

As much as I love these photos and the idea of capturing a moment's beauty forever,  I do think that sometimes a camera inhibits actions. People seem to subconsciously become stiff and false the moment a camera is in the vicinity; they become aware of their actions. Even those who seem to look so effortlessly natural and relaxed in every photo taken of them are still aware of the camera on some level (although, perhaps, the same cannot be said of the couple walking on the beach; they had no idea their photo was being taken or indeed there was even a camera anywhere near them). 


Sometimes you just want to have fun.Just live in that moment. You may do things you regret slightly, things that are out of character but it doesn't matter too much. They are unlikely to be remembered by anyone unless there is photographic evidence or it is truly terrible. And it is this threat of an image that makes me always err on the side of caution when there is a camera near me. Sometimes photographs contain the most amazing memories, but sometimes, just sometimes they can take the edge off what could have been a moment of complete inhibition. 

Where Did the Fairies Go?

They used to live in my garden

Shirt; Abercrombie&Fitch

Skirt; Warehouse

Sandals; Lotus

Belt; Vintage

These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things

I firmly believe that the best way to get to know someone is through their opinions, how they react in unusual situations and their favourite objects. Unfortunately people rarely divulge their full opinions, especially to people they are unfamiliar with and it can be difficult to contrive unusual situations. Mercifully it is fairly simple to provide a list of favourite objects so here is mine.

• My Doll’s House. I remember my father building it for me when I was about 6. he spent hours painstakingly measuring and glueing everything. My mother and I decorated it together. 
• A hunting knife in a leather sheath that I think was my father’s. I sort of adopted it a few months ago. I love the weight of it and how beautiful the embossed leather stag is. 
• My leather holdall; I take it everywhere. My grandma helped me persuade my mother to buy it for my 19th birthday present. I simply adore it. It makes me want to travel and go on long train journey adventures. 
• A pendant that my grandma gave me when I was younger. It is a vibrant blue butterfly wing in a silver and glass case. She used to let me wear it when I visited her house and one day gave it to me. It was a gift that she received when she was a child and I love the idea that it’s so old.
• The swan pendant that my Grandpa gave me. He chose it himself and I always have good luck when I wear it. 
• My sketchbook contains some drawings I’m really rather proud of and is such a good way to relax.
• My books. All of them. I wanted to choose one or two but I couldn’t, I love them all. Some I have good memories of reading, some have sentimental value and others are just damn good reads.
• The fur coat that I bought in Hull on one of the hottest days earlier this summer. It’s gorgeous and I love to wonder about its previous owner. 
• Each charm on all of my charm bracelets has its own special meaning. One is made entirely of charms that have a significance to me, another is a collection of entirely Orcadian charms. One charm (that is ironically bracelet-less) is a spider and was the first thing my Grannie ever bought in an antique shop. 

This list is actually a lot longer than I intended it to be. It was supposed to be eclectic, brief and…I’m not sure actually. 

Oh, and I love the sky. And the sea.