At last. The next exciting instalment of Blog Love. On reflection, I think I was being a bit ambitious trying to post every month; you can't manufacture love, or conjure it up out of thin air. You have to feel it in your gut, and that goes for blogs as well as boyfriends. So from now on, I'll be sharing my blog loves sporadically (does anyone else think of Clueless, otherwise known as the greatest film of the 1990s, when they hear that word?) and only when I am really, truly loving something.

Right now, as someone who often finds herself floundering in the depths of career indecision and uncertainty about the future, I'm loving bloggers who tell it like it is. Or at least, how they think it is. They're blunt, painfully honest, and I might not agree with everything they say, but at least they have the balls to give it to me straight. I need some of that in my life, and I reckon you might too.

Oof. Where to start with Penelope Trunk? She is ostensibly a careers blogger, distributing no-holds-barred advice to troubled Generation Y-ers, confused entrepreneurs and desperate stay-at-home mothers alike. Following in the cowboy-booted-footsteps of The Pioneer Woman, she left big city life behind to live in rural Wisconsin with her two children and the Farmer, her imaginatively-named and long-suffering second husband. But be in no doubt; Penelope Trunk is no Ree Drummond. This is not a saccharine, over-photoshopped vision of rural perfection. This is screaming fights and getting run over by her husband in a tractor. Divorce, Asperger's, goat-farming and abortion, all somehow tied up with a bow and presented as careers advice.

If there's one thing I admire, it's a writer who can delve into seemingly unrelated topics, collect all the shimmering threads together and weave them into a colourful tapestry of themes and ideas that shouldn't go together, but somehow do. And if there's one thing Penelope does well, it's ideas. Big, juicy, shocking ones. She even has a sidebar devoted to them: Don't do what you love. Choose sex over money. Job hop more. Blueprint for a woman's life. And last but not least controversial, don't report sexual harrassment.


I'm not for a moment saying I agree with her on all of these, or even some of them (although her thoughts on the quarterlife crisis and prioritising your ovaries over your CV both gave me pause for thought). But she writes with such conviction and hard, brutal honesty that, as an indecisive soul myself, I can't help but be oddly fascinated by her. I suspect much of her punchy style and chronic over-sharing is inextricably tied up with her Asperger's Syndrome - it's impossible to tell whether she's being deliberately provocative or if that's just her personality - but, for me, her unpredictable, out-there take on things only makes her more engaging. Of course, it makes some people hate her with a passion. Which is understandable, too.

I feel compelled to point out that I first heard of Penelope Trunk via Lisa of Privilege, whose opinion I respect (and who, incidentally, really must be the subject of her own Blog Love post some time soon. Mental note), so I'm inclined to believe there is something of value there. And it's dangerously easy, in the vast space of the internet, to live an easy life reading only things you already know you'll agree with. Perhaps the value of reading Penelope Trunk lies in her ability, if nothing else, to make you think.

Or she could just be completely insane. I'll let you be the judge.

And finally a quickie, because I'm pretty sure that many of you will already be long-time devotees of the snarky indie wedding queen East Side Bride. Her legendary Dear ESB posts (now also featured on 100 Layer Cake) see her giving no-nonsense advice to brides on fashion, wedding planning and life in general. 

I'm not talking advice like, "here's a detailed bullet-point guide on what to do if you think you might cry at your wedding". 

I'm talking advice like, "Please tell your fiancé to remove the stick from his ass," and "Fuck the obligatory invites. Cross them off of the list right now," and "CHOP IT ALREADY. Jesus." (This latter being in response to a bridal hair quandary, in case you were wondering.)

ESB also has a very distinctive eye for photography and style (just check out her pins), which sets her apart from other, more weddingy wedding blogs. She might occasionally be guilty of trotting out one skinny model too many, but at least they're in interesting poses and not strapped into identical fluffy white ballgowns. Why have another dreamy shot of a bride in a veil when you can have a  picture of a creepy old lady wearing a crown? Why, indeed.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your lot. I'd love to know what you think of these three, and shout out if you have any other recommendations for straight-talkin' sharp-shootin' bloggers (I don't know why I've suddenly turned into John Wayne there).

Un-roast: Today I love the way I look wearing a flower crown and lots of eyeliner while gazing wistfully out of a window. Oh, wait. That's not me. Dammit.

Images: 1. Lee Crutchley 2. Penelope Trunk 3. Caesar Sebastian on flickr via Style Bubble 4. Alexandra Grecco via East Side Bride

I mentioned that when Lucy was staying with us last weekend, she was sweet enough to take Fin and me on a mini love shoot, letting us see her amazing skills in action. What I neglected to mention was that said shoot took place outside. In a public place. In the middle of August. Next to three restaurants, a hotel and a bustling harbour. In other words, lots of people. Crrringe!

Of course Lucy, being the pro that she is, was quick to reassure us that nobody was looking at us. But seriously, what could be more conspicuous than a couple posing in front of a giant fancy camera, on a harbour wall, in the middle of summer?

I'll tell you what could be more conspicuous: a girl posing in front of a giant fancy camera, on a harbour wall, in the middle of spring, playing a cello. And wearing cream palazzo pants. Oh yes.

Remember ages ago when I got my hair cut, I posted a sneaky picture of me and my cello and promised that I'd be back with the full explanation the following week? Well, slightly (ahem) later than planned, here it is.

The images were taken by my talented friend Kristen of What Kristen Saw. Kristen is part of a photography group in her local area, and wanted something a bit different to share with her fellow photographers; specifically, she was after some pictures of a musician in action. She happened to be staying with the Hubster and me for the weekend, and it was just after she had sprung her lovely surprise on us, so I really had no choice but to volunteer my services. Well played, Kristen.

From the ages of 8 to 18, playing the cello was a huge part of my life. After I was deemed insufficiently musical by the school's violin teacher to be worthy of one of the three free spaces to learn the violin (HA! I showed her!! Not that I'm bitter about it), I was encouraged forced by my dad to take up the less cool and consequently less competitive alternative: the cello.

Thus I was doomed to endure a decade of back pain (those things are heavy), bad jokes ("Bet you wish you played the flute! Haha!" No, I don't. Please fuck off), callused fingers, endless rehearsals, the mind-numbing repetition of scale practice, exams, exams and more exams.

But in return, oh, the gifts I was given. From the tiny triumph of hitting a difficult note perfectly in tune, to the huge swelling of my heart as the first proper orchestra I played with struck up its spine-tingling opening chord. The prickles on my neck every time I listened to Elgar's cello concerto, and the heat in my cheeks when I found out the results of my Grade 8 exam (Readers, I aced it).

When I think back to those years, playing the cello was such an enormous influence on how I spent my time, who my friends were (Kristen played in the school orchestra too - clarinet, if you're interested), how I perceived myself, who I was, that it seemed impossible that things would ever change.

Then, life intervened. I went to university, where opportunities were fewer and the temptation of other, less cultured activities was irresistible. Playing the cello meant less time for studying and, more importantly, less time for partying and drinking and flirting with my future husband. Playing in orchestras meant auditions (scary) and walking alone into rooms full of complete strangers (scarier).

I did try, for a while. I even took my cello to France with me when I studied abroad, but a miserable experience in a small, dark French classroom with three violins, a flute and a tuba, accompanied by the unfortunate discovery that the notes have completely different names in French, was enough to consign the cello to a dusty corner of my room for the rest of year. And then it was finals, and then it was training, and then, and then, and then...

Nowadays, the cello is still sitting in a dusty corner of a room, silent and forgotten. The tips of my fingers are soft and smooth, their rosy plumpness untroubled by its sharp metal strings. Words that used to flow freely now sit lumpenly on my tongue - rosin, vibrato, harmonic, rallentando. But when Kristen asked if I would play it for her, what could I say but yes?

I will spare you the details of the hour it took us to construct a suitable outift from the random contents of my wardrobe (cream trousers? Really?). I won't tell you how horribly out of tune the poor instrument was when I finally removed it from its case, or how I managed to snap a G-string (not that kind, thank you) trying to wrestle it back in tune, or how I couldn't remember how to play anything, or how strangers stared at us, perplexed, as I sawed away making terrible noises while Kristen darted around me, snapping away.

I will tell you that I felt completely ridiculous. And I will tell you that, despite the indignity and the sad realisation that I was rustier than the crusted rings in the old harbour wall, playing again felt absolutely bloody brilliant.

But I haven't played since.

Life intervenes.



{Top image by me. All other images by What Kristen Saw}

I hate bank holidays. Hate them, hate them, hate them, because I NEVER get them off work. The only public holidays we get are Christmas, New Year and Easter. We *allegedly* get extra days of annual leave to make up for it, but that's cold consolation when I've already used up all my leave and it seems as if everyone in the world is getting a lie-in apart from me.

Well, if I can't have a day off work, I can at least give myself a day off blogging (I'm such a generous boss). So I hope you all enjoy your day of eating and napping and fun. I'll think of you as I sit at my desk, gazing longingly out of the window...

Oh look, another month, another blog love post missed. Whoops. I do have one in mind; I just haven't, erm, found time to write it yet. Sorry about that.

So, instead, I'm setting you a Friday shopping challenge. After the success of the now legendary yellow skirt hunt, I wondered if I could enlist your help once again? I have been suddenly struck with an irresistible desire for a pair of red skinny jeans, as a potential dress alternative for Any Other Party. (Apparently "cocktail jeans" are all the rage. Who knew?)

These bad boys are currently topping my wish list. I already have the same jeans in washed-out black and I love that they're not too low-waisted (the higher they go, more they hold in, obv). But then I noticed they were described as "Tangerine", and come to think of it they did look a little orange, so naturally I turned to twitter for advice. Views on the colour ranged from tomato to orange bell pepper - vegetable chic is so in this season, don't you know - to Fanta-coloured, to "if you painted black stripes on them, you would look like a tiger", to my personal favourite: "red, orange - it's still totally hot". Indeed.

I might order them anyway, just to check the colour, since my local Topshop(s) aren't stocking them. Ooh, or if anyone is hitting the shops this lunchtime and happens to see them, could you let me know?! Because if they are a bit orange, they simply won't do.

I have my heart set on red. 

Louboutin red. Ferrari red. Hello magazine red. You know the red I mean? Yes?

Ok then, so I need a pair of succulent skinny jeans, not too pricey please, available in or shippable to the UK, in THAT red. Think you can find them for me? Okay... go!

P.S. If you want to post a link in the comments, here's a handy guide to making them clickable (rather than copyandpasteable), courtesy of East Side Bride:

<a href="http://lewebsite.com/">Le Website</a>
or
<a href="PASTE THE LINK HERE">WHAT DO YOU WANT TO CALL THE LINK?</a>

Image via WHERE?? WHERE IS IT FROM?? If you can find *that*, you totally win.

How beautiful and cheering are these fabrics and prints by Scottish textile design company Bluebellgray? Aren't they just amazing? I want it all. 

I first came across Bluebellgray's designs thanks to Sophie, who created the gorgeous florals for designer Fiona's wedding. The entire wedding in all its glory can be found on photographer Lisa Devlin's blog right here and oh my word, it is just breathtaking - that dress! Those ribbons! The COLOURS! It's like her cushions came to life and got married. Which, with your average cushion, would have the potential to be seriously hideous, but believe me when I say it works. It makes my heart smile.

As did all your sweet, calming messages yesterday. After all the virtual drinks with you, and a couple of actual drinks with Lauren, I am feeling significantly more sane. So thank you. You're fab.

Speaking of flowers, and weddings, and drinking, it so happens that Lauren was having lunch with a certain super-stylish engaged friend of mine yesterday. A friend who did not, before yesterday, know I had a blog. But, naturally, she asked Lauren how we knew each other. And there's only so long you can dodge that one without starting to sound like a weirdo (though Lauren really tried, bless her). So, long story short, I was totally busted. Hi, friend!

But what does this have to do with flowers and weddings and drinking? Oh yes. So, I don't really know about you, but I didn't put much thought into whether or not I should throw my bouquet. In fact, I didn't put any thought into it at all until about 11pm on the day of the wedding. As I swayed around the dancefloor, sweaty, dishevelled and clutching a kazoo, I was suddenly struck with the irresistible urge to take my very expensive and dearly beloved flowers and chuck them at some single ladies. It just made sense at the time. After all, I caught the bouquet at Fin's brother's wedding (although I confess there was some pre-toss collusion with my sister-in-law) and five months later we were engaged. IT DEFINITELY WORKS.

So I gathered my girls together, assembled them in a rough line, turned my back, held my breath and threw. Of course, I was facing the wrong way, so I didn't see the rammy that doubtless ensued (they were really very nice flowers) but eventually one friend emerged victorious, holding the bouquet aloft and no doubt already planning her imminent nuptials in her head. She just needed to find a groom, and she'd be sorted. Let's call her Friend A.

Skip forward a couple of hours. Lights are on, glasses being collected, taxis arriving. My mum is luring people back to her house with promises of wine and Lady Gaga, reluctant to let the night come to an end. I stop to chat to a different friend - let's call her Friend B - who is strangely fondling her jacket, which seems to be folded oddly into an awkward lump. With a sneaky glance around, she lifts a flap of fabric to reveal dusky pink petals and broken sprigs of foliage hiding beneath. 

"Wait - is that my bouquet? I thought Friend A caught it?"

"No, I caught it. Me! That bitch ripped it from my hands! It's mine, I tell you! All mine!!!" (or something like that).

I couldn't believe that Friend A could have been so cruel. How could she deprive Friend B of her rightful place as catcher of the bouquet? It was shocking. Appalling. So I acted as a lookout while Friend B made her escape with her floral booty, and when I later saw Friend A wandering vainly among the tables, peering under them in search of her ill-gotten gains, I shook my head in disgust.

Lo and behold, a few months later, Friend B got engaged! The power of the bouquet is confirmed! Order has been restored to the universe! 

Or so I thought. Until I was browsing through some facebook pictures of our wedding, and came across this:

Who's busted now, hmm? Shame on you, Friend B. Shame. On. You.

I've also just noticed that one of the girls standing smack in the middle, arms outstretched, was ALREADY MARRIED at this point. Clearly my friends have no morals whatsoever.

That super-stylish engaged friend who forced Lauren to out me as a (sort of not very) secret blogger yesterday? None other than the nefarious Friend B. I'll let you off this time Miss B, but only because I'm really, really excited about your wedding.

(At the time of going to press, Friend A is still single...)

Those of you who have been paying attention will know that this blog was named after the words of a wonderful poet, Wendy Cope. I owe my love of her work to my mum, so it was only fitting that together we burled along to listen to Ms Cope reading at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

Much of her verse is witty and light-hearted, and as a result has been harshly criticised in some quarters for not being "proper" poetry, but to those critics I say: cheer the fuck up.

Having said that, the poem that struck me the most yesterday was one of her more serious pieces. It was part of a series commissioned by the Endellion String Quartet to celebrate their 30th anniversary, centred around the theme of "The Audience". The end result is a series of wonderfully insightful vignettes and character sketches. From the Traditionalist ("I like a good tune with a regular beat / From the days before music went wrong") to the Radical ("This isn't avant-garde enough / It really isn't hard enough / It isn't avant-garde enough for me"), to the adorable First Date, as told from both perspectives ("She said she liked classical music / I implied I was keen on it too").

But my very favourite poem made me want to grab the people I love the most and wrap them up in a ginormous bear hug, as if by simply loving them enough I could halt the very passage of time. So here it is.

The Widow by Wendy Cope

I like this piece. I think you'd like it too.
We didn't very often disagree
Back in the days when I sat here with you
And knew that you were coming home with me.
This is the future. It arrived so fast.
When we were young it seemed so far away.
Our years together vanished like a day
At nightfall, sealed forever in the past.
I can't give up on music, just discard
The interest that we shared because you died.
And so I come to concerts. But it's hard.
Tonight I'm doing well. I haven't cried.
My head aches. There's a tightness in my throat.
And you will never hear another note.

From 'Family Values', available here.

Images from French Connection lookbook via asos

A Siamese Slanket, OBVIOUSLY.

Otherwise known as "The Best Present Ever".

Well, it's actually tied in first place with a stunning bouquet created by the super talented Sophie of I Heart Flowers. Both of which were given to us by lovely Lucy Stendall and her husband, when they came to stay this weekend. Can you believe she got us a Slanket just because I mentioned it on my About page? Do you think if I mention how jealous I am of her iPhone, she'll get me one of those too?

I was also lucky enough to spend time with not one, but two sets of twin girlies this weekend. First, we met Cara's adorable babies (with Cara, obviously. They weren't just having a wee day out on their own). Last time I saw Cara, I was all, "Arrrgh, I just got MARRIED!!!" and she was all five months pregnant, so hopefully I was more coherent and she was more comfortable this time around. 

I was very proud that I could tell Ella and Amelia apart; if I hadn't been able to tell just from their little gorgeous faces, I would have worked it out pretty quickly after E sat quietly, gazing up at me and gently grabbing bunches of my skirt in her sticky wee fingers, while A rolled around on the floor chomping on a squidgy toy shaped like a blood-spattered dagger (awesomeness) and letting out the occasional wail, just in case we'd forgotten she was there. 

Then the following day, we celebrated the 80th birthdays of Fin's granny and her identical twin sister. Yes, that's right. Twin grannies. They're almost as cute as the twin babies. 

It's always fun to spend time with The Twinnies, as they are affectionately known by their offspring, just to see the amazing bond that they still share after all these years. Both of them have now lost their husbands, and they never seem to tire of each other's company or run out of things to say. I couldn't help thinking, as I watched them setting side by side, two fluffy grey heads bent together, of Cara's little ones and how lucky they will be to always have each other. 

Then yesterday, as if our weekend wasn't treat-filled enough, Fin and I had our very own mini Love Shoot with Lucy. Now, Fin is on record as saying he would rather chop his balls off than participate in any form of photo shoot. (I feel a bit bad using the word balls beneath a picture of The Twinnies, but what can I do? I'm not responsible for the filth that comes out of his mouth.) I have no idea what Lucy said to Fin when I was out of the room, but somehow he was persuaded it might not be *quite* as bad as being castrated, so we trotted out to the nearby harbour and got our pose on. In between Lucy and me laughing hysterically, me looking decidedly shifty, and one position that made it look as if I had done a poo on the harbour wall (which, to be clear, I HAD NOT), hopefully Lucy managed to get something that didn't make us look like total weirdos. It's no easy task.

No doubt I'll share the results at some point, but until then, here's one of us looking like weirdos. Just to prove my point.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I thought I'd share with you one of his favourite YouTube videos ever: 

Don't talk back to Darth Vader, heee'll getcha! Oh, the cuteness.*

But that's not the only thing I'm celebrating today. As of yesterday, I can officially cross another goal off my life list. Because, at the time of writing, this blog has had 1,003 comments!** That's three more than my target! WOOHOO!!

You might remember that my original goal, way back when I started the blog, was to get 100 comments. I doubted at the time whether I would get as many as that. In fact, I didn't think anybody would really talk to me at all. Why would they? But back in March, thanks to the lovely Pen, I hit 100.

So I upped the ante. I went bold. I set myself a craaaazy target. I mean, 1,000 comments? Come on. Pie in the sky stuff. But that's what a life list is all about, so I thought, what the heck. If it took me two months to get 100 comments, I thought, maybe by the end of the year I might have inched my way up to the big 1k.

But thanks to all of you, my lovely blog friends, I can put a big fat line through that bad boy right now. So thank you, and keep 'em coming! Here's to the next 1,000. Or 10,000? Or 1 million...?

**Obviously, I am not counting my own comments. And I'm not counting the ones trying to sell me viagra either. If I did, I would have had 15,742 comments. And a slightly disturbed husband.

Sadly, due to meeting my husband-to-be in the salubrious surroundings of a sticky student dive at the tender age of 18, I have never had an opportunity to become "well-versed in the arena of e-love", unlike the inimitable Anna K. In fact, before I started blogging, I thought people who spent a lot of time online were the ultimate in tragic. Creepy, sweaty loners hunched pathetically over the dull glow of their laptops, emerging from their bedrooms only to gobble up the dinner their mum has made them before scurrying back into the shells of their empty, hopeless lives.

Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration.

But there's definitely a perception that meeting people online is somehow inferior to meeting them In Real Life.  Those of us who blog, who comment, who tweet, know beyond doubt that the blogging community is a tangible thing. It's real. It supports us, challenges us and enriches our lives every day. And yet, I still hesitate to admit my membership of that community. When Fin and I met Meg and her husband for dinner in San Francisco, I didn't know how to explain it to his family (not helped by the fact that I haven't told them I had a blog, but that's a whole other trauma). "We're going out for dinner with, um, a... kind of like a friend." "Oh, that's great! How do you know each other?" "Erm, well, we, er.... met on the internet..." 

Cringe.

What people don't understand is that the truth is so far from the creepy sweaty loner stereotype. Bloggers and readers alike are constantly seeking ways to reach out to each other, not only virtually but physically. Just look at the APW book clubs, or the Love My Dress Summer Soirée, or Yay New York; we grab every opportunity we can to come together. To laugh, hug, share stories and trade numbers. To discover with a thrill that cherished online friendships are, in fact, cherished friendships. End of story. (Or, with luck, the beginning of one.)

Lauren put it well yesterday. She has moved thousands of miles away from all of her family and friends to be with her husband, and was feeling somewhat sheepish that the majority of the relationships she has forged on this soggy side of the Atlantic have blossomed online. But, as she said, "Do you have any idea how long it would take for me to find friends that are smart, funny, genuine people as well as being seriously talented writers and photographers without the aid of the internet?".*

The lady has a point.

And so, with that in mind, I will hold my head high when people ask what I'm doing this weekend. "Oh, a girl I met on the internet and her husband are coming to stay with us."

Actually, it's still a bit cringe. Sorry Lucy.

But hopefully I will have gotten over my embarrassment in time for the highly fabulous and exciting Any Other Party, which I will be attending with bells and possibly nipple tassels on. (Just kidding, Dad.)

In case you live in a cave, or don't read Any Other Wedding (same thing), it's in London on the 9th of September. You're all coming, aren't you? AREN'T YOU???

Good. I'll see you there.

{Geektastic greetings cards by 4/Four Cards}

*By the way, she totally included me in this list. It made my day.

A new white polo shirt, unfurled from a drawer. Long, straight creases criss-crossing my back, the foreign shop scent still lingering faintly in the fabric. A fresh packet of tights, ripped open; no holes in the knees, yet.

On Saturday we were talked into going to see a comedian called Sanderson Jones. We were talked into it by the man himself, who has instructed the Edinburgh Fringe box office to sell no tickets and instead is selling every one of his tickets personally. 

As you might expect from someone who has to personally talk people into buying tickets, his material - a manic mixture of Venn diagrams, penis jokes and beard sweat - could be a tad hit-and-miss. 

But if things are funny because they're true, then this pie chart was flipping hilarious.

I have gratefully stepped away from all of the badness, and wrapped myself in all the goodness of Fringe by the Sea. A timely, much-needed reminder of what a community can be. 

Last night, Eddi Reader brought the house down. The woman is talent personified. Funny, intelligent, and a voice that gets you right in the guts. My mum and I could be seen dancing away at the back of the tent, singing "it's got to bee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeee... perrr-fect!" at the top of our voices and generally getting into the spirit of things.

Today is a Maggie O'Farrell-Kris Drever double whammy. It is pissing with rain. The spiegeltent is leaking, the volunteers are dripping, the outdoor picnic tables (the very definition of wishful thinking) are rattling in the wind, but the smiles are firmly in place. This morning my mum checked the weather forecast and announced excitedly that it would "only" be drizzling tonight. Hooray!

Perfect, indeed.

I cannot believe what has been happening in London (and now, worryingly, elsewhere). 

The images we are seeing are heartbreaking, terrifying and utterly depressing. I'm thinking of all of you who are there, and hoping you are safe. 

When will it come to an end? How do we, as a country, possibly come back from this?

{Edited to add: I wrote this at 1am this morning, when times were looking very dark indeed. They still feel pretty bleak, but if anything can bring us hope this morning, #riotwombles can.}

Image by Lauren McGlynn Photography

First, a huge thank you to all of you who entered my lucky yellow skirt giveaway. I had secretly envisaged a big fat '0 comments', or every comment saying "I don't want the skirt, but...". I know I said I wouldn't cry if that happened, but let's be honest, I would have been more than a little embarrassed. I give something away for free and NOBODY WANTS IT? Cringe! Thankfully, a whole load of you managed to see past the crazy pink-tights-green-jumper-random-supermarket-flowers styling (that isn't an outfit I would wear in real life, just to be clear) and threw your names into the proverbial hat.

Speaking of which, I know that it is all the rage these days to head over to random.org and let a random number generator do the name-picking for you. But last time I went on random.org, I ended up getting completely distracted and spending a good half an hour learning about randomness. Which, though mildly interesting, is still thirty minutes of my life I'll never get back.

I couldn't risk that again, so I decided to go old school. I actually wrote the names down. ON PAPER. Yeah, I know, it's amazing that people still do that. I even ripped the paper up into little squares and folded them up as uniformly as possible, so that none of the little squares would have an unfair advantage in tempting my fingers with their textural delights.

Despite my eagerness to embrace old-school methods, however, the proverbial hat remains just that, since I didn't have a hat handy. (By "handy", I mean within reaching distance of where I was sitting at the time. Did I mention I am incredibly lazy?) Fortunately, I just so happened to have the perfect receptacle sitting just a couple of feet away. What could be a better object from which to draw the winner of a yellow skirt, than a yellow handbag? The answer is nothing.

Drumroll please...

Congratulations Genevieve!! Send me an email to claim your lucky skirt. And commiserations to the rest of you. If you are still in the market for a yellow skirt, Monsoon has a gorgeous one in at the moment. Not that I've been looking or anything. No sirree.

As an aside, my eagle-eyed readers will no doubt have clocked my attempt to jazz up the rumpled duvet cover background with the addition of the September issue of Vogue. I suspect I am about to shatter my street cred by admitting that this is the first issue of Vogue I have ever bought, but I was feeling inspired by the responses to my post on Wednesday and decided I needed a little aspirational Autumn/Winter goodness in my muggy, anorak-clad life right now.

And look what I found as I was flicking through its glossy, beguiling, occasionally obscene pages:

It's Keira Knightley! Wearing a yellow skirt!! Told you yellow skirts were the way forward. And more proof that they're lucky too - she's nabbed herself a boyfriend and it's obviously down to the skirt. I haven't worn a knotted white shirt since I went out to a club dressed as a school girl on what turned out to be a not-remotely-school-themed night circa 2002, but hey, if it's good enough for Keira....

Next week Fringe by the Sea starts in earnest so posting might be a little sporadic. In the meantime, I wish you all a swirly, twirly, sunshiney weekend. Anyone doing anything exciting?