The original tagline for this blog (it's still my Twitter bio, actually, because I'm too lazy to think of something else) was, "Got a boy, got hitched, now just need to get... er, a life?" Not the wittiest thing in the world, but it seemed to fit where I was when I started here. Newly married, unsure of where I was or where I was going, but sure of the person who would be going there with me.
Last month marked ten years since I got the boy. Today, we're celebrating two years since we got hitched. 

For our first anniversary, I dedicated a whole week to blogging about our wedding. In the interests of getting a life, I'm doing the opposite this time around and taking the rest of the week off. Maybe a little bit of next week too, since on Monday I'm taking a tentative step towards that life I've been looking for.

In the meantime, and in honour of today, I have finally gathered together all of the stories I've told you over the last eighteen months about our wedding and pinned them down in one place. You can find them here or by clicking on the shiny new sidebar button. Fake ponytails, homicidal grooms, kazoo solos: just your average wedding. We kind of liked it.

I'm thinking a decent pair of leather combat boots could be the answer to my rainy-day shopping conundrum. I was never cool enough for them the first time round, but as the dawn of my thirties starts to slowly edge into view on the horizon, something tells me it's now or never. I reckon the right pair could just about work, as long as I avoid the chunky ones that make me look like a builder. 

So, readers, I ask you:

1. Combat boots as rainwear/workwear: yay or nay?

2. Were you cool enough to own a pair of Doc Martens in the 90s? Would you still have been friends with me if my school shoes came from Clarks (thanks Mum)?

And, um, 3. can somebody please find me a pair of boots that is actually available in this country, unlike these bad boys?


I'm still working on the jacket - untreated cotton is my nemesis. Thanks so much for all of your suggestions so far, though. You guys are ace.


{Image: Stockholm Street Style}

People say carnations are boring. I say not if they're arranged IN THE SHAPE OF A DOG!

And why stop at one dog made out of flowers, when you could have two? With handbags?


I know what you're thinking. You're thinking nothing could be classier than a fake floral dog in a basket. Well, that's because you haven't seen a fake floral dog in a basket wearing a themed outfit.

Don't worry. That's about to change.


(Unbelievably, this was only the second weirdest thing I saw on the internet this week. Sadly the weirdest thing is decidedly not safe for work. Or, in fact, safe for anything. I'm still traumatised.)

Speaking of dogs, the big news in our house this weekend is that my mum is entering Isla in a local village dog show. I am exceedingly jealous. Smidgen would totally nail the Best Rescue Dog category. And there's a Fancy Dress category! Can you imagine?!

Alas, I'm going to be larking about in the rain in a field outside Dundee with my friend Kristen. We're helping her jewellery designer friend Jane Gowans (remember my gold ring?) with a little creative project. There won't be any dogs in fancy dress, but there will be a model and a flower crown and lots of nice shiny things. I suppose that'll do.

How's your weekend looking? Any floral dogs or "sexy men shorts" in your immediate future? Actually, don't answer that.


{All images from 1800 Flowers and sadly not available in Britain. YET. Sophie, I'm looking at you}

Time now for the rest of that half-baked post I so brutally thrust into the world on Monday. Or rather, time for a rough approximation of that half-baked post, since I panicked and deleted it in its entirety within about thirty seconds of accidentally hitting Publish.

(Incidentally, if you ever mistakenly publish a blog post, don't delete it (thanks Lyn). But if you already have, this post and this post were helpful, although seemingly not helpful enough since Google Reader is still clinging on for dear life. JUST GIVE IT UP, GOOGLE.)

Anyway. The purpose of the post was, firstly, to thank you for being so kind and supportive, and, secondly, to blatantly take advantage of your kindness and support for my own sartorial gain. 

You see, one thing about my new position that I neglected to mention on Friday is that it's in Glasgow. I went to university in Glasgow, and it's a place very dear to my heart, especially when it comes to fashion. Edinburgh has a certain quiet style about it, I suppose, but Glasgow is a place that shamelessly struts its stuff and isn't afraid to embrace whatever trend happens to be passing through. The hair is big, the skin is (fake-)tanned, and more is definitely more. You can't turn up in Glasgow in a boring bloody Edinburgh quilted gilet with your eyebrows unplucked and your hair a hot mess. You just can't.

The dress code in my new office is somewhat more relaxed than my usual lawyer-chic-zzzzzzzz, so I'm planning on channelling a bit of Glasgow flair for the duration of the internship. As you can imagine, I'm almost as excited about all the new outfit options as I am about the job. That bit isn't the problem. The problem is The Rain.



When I first moved to Glasgow from the east coast, it rained every day for the first month. Not all day every day, but still. Every day. At the time, massive flared jeans and trainers were the fashion (or so I, in my innocence, believed) and I would arrive at my classes every morning with soggy feet, wet ankles and a tide mark of puddle water seeping up towards my knees.

At last, in my final year, wellies became borderline socially acceptable as everyday footwear. I picked up a polka dot pair from Asda for a tenner, and I am not overstating things when I say they changed my life. Dry feet! All day! Those wellies were worth every penny of that £10 and every minute of being mocked by random Glasgwegian builders (like I say, they were only borderline acceptable).

But you can't really wear wellies to work, can you? I'm going to be travelling on rush hour trains, so there's no way I'm carrying a change of shoes with me. And don't even get me started on the jacket situation. Why is every lightweight hooded jacket that is vaguely stylish made of non-waterproof material? WHY? Do I need to dress like a hillwalker if I want to be dry? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Topshop? Is it??

I'm throwing this one out to you guys. I need help.

What can a girl wear on her feet that will be classic, stylish and vaguely waterproof? I've heard Sno Seal can make decent leather shoes waterproof, but this could just be a cruel lie sold to desperate Scottish people.

Does a jacket exist in this world that can do for summer showers what my duffel coat did for winter ones? Something lightweight, stylish, preferably with a hood, and not made of 100% bloody cotton?

All suggestions will be gratefully received in the comments. Oh and don't forget the whole "unpaid" thing, which sadly puts that Frances May parka up there out of the running. Along with that pointy yellow number up the top. Which is a shame, because I think Glasgow would enjoy it.

Those of you who live in rainy climes, how do you keep yourself stylish but dry? Is there some trick that I'm missing? Should I just buy myself a massive umbrella and call it a day?


Images: 1. STREETFSN 2. Frances May

First, I slept through the alarm on my new phone and woke up an hour later than planned. Oops.

Then, stuck in a state somewhere between hyper panic and still asleep, I forgot what I was doing in the shower and tried to wash my hair with shower gel. Which was pleasant.

Then, I put a hole in the top of my only pair of clean tights and couldn't find any clear nail varnish to patch them up, so my tights are now held together with bits of gold glitter.

Then, when I finally made it to my desk, I was footering about on the blog (ahem, working hard) and accidentally published a random snippet of draft blog post that made absolutely no sense. But Google Reader clearly enjoyed it so much that it refuses to part with it, so if you are lucky enough to subscribe to this blog then you will have the pleasure of reading those nonsensical ramblings FOREVER AND EVER.


Fuck today. I think I should just go back to bed.


Dog in a bow-tie (!) by Shannon Michele Photography via Style Me Pretty and the best pinboard ever

But of course, I'm being simplistic too. When it comes to breast cancer, pink is more than just a colour. It's not like someone's colour-coded all of the cancers so we can easily find them in a great big cancer filing cabinet. "Testicular cancer? Try the bottom drawer, blue folder, labelled NO GIRLZ ALOWED". Hardly.

No, pink is not just a colour. For starters, it's a shorthand; a silent expression of support and solidarity. It removes the need for questions and explanations. It can shout to the rooftops, "I'm going through something really shit!" It can whisper, "Me, too."

Pink is a banner around which the troops can rally. Under which they can charge forwards towards greater awareness, improved standards of care and a strengthened community of support and understanding. Pink means business.

It's also a way for the rest of us to show our support. I might not be able to offer a cure, but I can offer to bake a dozen pink cupcakes and charge my co-workers for the privilege of eating them. I can put on a pink t-shirt and slog my guts out in the rain to raise a few hundred pounds. I can turn up to a secondary breast cancer awareness event as my mum's date wearing a fabulous fuchsia pencil dress.

Sure, pink sometimes stinks. But it can also be something wonderful.


These musings on pink aren't entirely unprompted. Remember that interesting news I mentioned the other day? Well, it has something to do with the colour pink. No, I'm not going to be Miss Piggy's stunt double. More's the pity. What I am doing is taking three months off my day job as a lawyer (unpaid! eek!) to take up a Community Fundraising Internship with Breast Cancer Care (unpaid! eek!).

Am I crazy? Maybe. I really hope not. After my mum's last setback, I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to do something, anything, to help. I can't make her magically well again, but I can contribute my time and talents to a charity that has been a constant spark in even the darkest moments of the past three years.

I'm still not entirely sure what my role will involve, but I do know that a big part of it will be promoting and coordinating BCC's Pink Fridays campaign in Scotland. Time to reconcile myself with pink, then. In general, I think - I hope - that there will be plenty of opportunity to work creatively and take myself outside of the little lawyer-shaped box I've spent the last six years building. We shall see.

So, that's my news. Have any of you ever done something like this? Voluntarily abandoned a nice, comfy, well-paid position in favour of financial ruin and moral superiority? Am I completely insane? (Actually, don't answer that last one.)


I feel compelled to mention that any views expressed on this blog, whether about cancer or pink or dogs wearing clothes, are my own and not those of Breast Cancer Care (or, for that matter, those of my "real" employer). But you knew that already, right? Right.


Images: 1. Antigoni Chryssanthopoulou 2. Ben Giles, both via Society6, with which I am currently obsessed. Can a girl ever have too many iPhone cases?

Did you know Blonde Bridesmaid is actually having two weddings? One of them is taking place on the cusp of winter in a country house in deepest Perthshire. The other is taking place entirely in my head. Or rather, on my Pinterest.

I can't tell you much about the first, because it's not my story to tell. I will tell you that two of the loveliest photographers in Scotland will be there. I will also tell you that the bridesmaid dresses were lovely. And that I managed to track down four perfect little cover-ups for us on ebay, £58 reduced from £240. £58 REDUCED FROM £240. Major bridesmaid points for me, I think you'll agree.

I even managed not to flinch when having my measurements taken for said lovely dress. Nobody likes to be told their ass is literally four dress sizes bigger than their boobs, but I took it like a trooper. When the lady in the shop smiled sympathetically at me and said, "Don't worry, I'm a classic pear too," I refrained from punching her in the face. Instead I recounted this "hilarious" tale to Fin, who some hours later confused his fruits and referred to me as a classic pineapple.

I don't even know what a classic pineapple-shaped person would look like, but it can't be good, can it?

Nobody would ever call me a pineapple at the other wedding, the imaginary one. That's because, in the imaginary wedding, I am a bridesmaid of the Katherine Heigl variety, except with a nicer dress.

Soon, the time will come when the imaginary wedding has to somehow be contorted into a real one, with budgets and measurements and opinions. This could be where it starts to get messy, trying to track down actual suppliers instead of pondering the aesthetic merits of fairy-light canopies versus fairy-light garlands and hypothetically filling a marquee with candles and flammable trees. But as a compulsive scourer of the internet (did I mention the ebay bargains, £58 reduced to £240? Did I??), I suspect this might be where the fun really starts.


All images and their sources can be found on my various wedding pinboards. If you would like a link to the source for any particular image, just let me know. Did I mention I'm a compulsive scourer of the internet?