Sounds about right.
NEW GAME. If you (or your blog) were an outfit, what would it be? Bonus points if you make a moodboard (I recommend Polyvore for the Photoshop-impaired).
Necklace: Amanda Deer | Dress: Joy | Shoes: Zara | Bag: Cambridge Satchel Company
PEOPLE PLAYED ALONG!
↣ Lisa of This Girl Is is clearly a total badass.↣ Cutest outfit ever (and not a red boot in sight) from Wendy of Red Boots.
↣ Screw my blog outfit, I want this one instead. Annie of Beard Today Gone Tomorrow has excellent taste.
↣ I also want this t-shirt, thanks to Michelle of My Creative.
↣ Trust Moz to take this game to the next (awesome) level, considering every detail from nail varnish to sunglasses.
↣ Better late than never, Kate! Cutest apron ever?
↣ The lovely Siobhan of Siobhan Claude Van Damme included a BOOK in hers. A book!
Sure, I thought. I'll play that game. I mean, I threw out several pairs of shoes in The Great Decluttering of 2011, and several more prior to moving into our new flat. I trimmed my shoe collection down to the barest minimum, only keeping what was absolutely necessary (bearing in mind the fickleness of Scottish weather and the very real possibility that one might need a pair of sparkly stilleto boots at a moment's notice). I was ruthless, I tell you. Ruthless.
The average response on Twitter was around 10-12 pairs of shoes, including flip flops and snow shoes but not, presumably, ski boots. Those really aren't shoes. That said, I did once see a man wearing a pair of ski boots boarding an Easyjet flight. Some people will do anything to stay within that baggage allowance.
Anyway, I guessed I probably had a few more pairs than the average person, but nothing too extravagant, given the extent of my decluttering campaigns. Say, 15 pairs; 18, max. But to make sure I was giving as accurate a response as possible, I decided I'd better count them. Didn't want to corrupt the data, you see.
So I counted them.
There were 43.
FORTY THREE PAIRS OF SHOES.
To put that in context, I could wear a different pair of shoes every day from now until Christmas and never wear the same pair twice, if I didn't think I'd lose a toe wearing flip flops in Scotland in December.
I don't know what's more insane: that I actually own 43 pairs of shoes, or that in my head I thought I had less than half that amount.
People, I need reassurance. Tell me: what's your number? How many pairs of shoes do you own? And before you get too smug thinking you only have like three pairs - just count 'em. You might be surprised.
Things (moving, unpacking, infection, exhaustion, things, things and more things) are getting a wee bit on top of me.
But at least I've got fabulous shoes.
I'll be back once I've fought my way out from under a mound of cardboard boxes. Friday, to be exact. Stay tuned.
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}
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
Fin has just been offered a new job.
I would like some new shoes.
These two facts may not be entirely unrelated to each other.
But it makes perfect sense for me to buy myself some
Fin's-got-a-new-job summer party sandals, doesn't it?
Surely?
Are you on Pinterest?
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Follow Courtney Cerruti immediately
That is all.
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(Well, almost all. For every great pinner with an amazing eye like Courtney, there are a whole bunch of crazies pinning "thinspiration", crocheted bike wheels and baby cakes. On which, see this handy little round-up. Okay, now I'm done.)
{Images all via Courtney Cerruti's pinboards. I know I should credit them all, but it's late and I'm lazy and only ten people are reading this anyway. You'll just have to look it up.}
Ever since I read this post on Florence Finds (have you all seen Florence Finds, by the way? It's a new lifestyley blog from former Rock My Wedding blogger Rebecca Norris. It has the same kind of vibe as the wifey posts on RMW, with lots of fashion and interiors, and also some more cerebral offerings in the form of Florence's Book Club. It's pretty fun, if a little behind the times on certain things...) (wow that was an incredibly long parenthesis) (sorry) I have been lusting after a pair of sparkly shoes.
The Christmas party season is looming large in my diary and I am b.o.r.e.d. of all my current shoe options. Plus I finally got rid of the bags in my wardrobe, so my options are actually fairly limited. In short, I have a vacancy for a pair of fabulous wear-with-anything party shoes, and I am damn well going to fill it.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I am finally beginning to recognise my sartorial and physical limitations when it comes to shoes. Perhaps it's another sign I'm getting old? Anyway, in order to satisfy my new, grown-up, post-de-cluttering criteria, a pair of shoes must:
♥ Be versatile. Which means, for party shoes, it has to be black. Much as I adore gold and silver and sparkly rainbows, let's get real. I have five near-identical little black dresses in my wardrobe at this exact moment and I believe black opaque tights are one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century. When it comes to party shoes, if it's going to go with everything, I'm with Henry Ford: any colour, so long as it's black.
♥ Not be too high. My 19-year-old self is shaking her head as I write this, but the big bag I sent off to the charity shop was stuffed to bursting with beautiful shoes, gorgeous shoes, shoes that I absolutely loved - I just couldn't wear them. I'm simply no longer interested in teetering around like Bambi, as the blood slowly pools in the balls of my feet and I lose all sensation in my toes, before tumbling head over too-high heels in front of a restaurant full of people (that's never happened to me. It's definitely not happened to me twice. On two separate occasions). Of course, "too high" is a highly subjective concept. Under four inches should do it.
♥ Be amazing. Clearly.
♥ Oh, and be reasonably inexpensive. So that rules out these bad boys.
After conducting extensive internet research when I was meant to be working, I eventually found myself perusing the offerings of a certain online catalogue store. Desperation had clearly set in - I can't say this was a website I had ever tried before. But by this stage I had narrowed my search from "generic party shoes" to "very specific style of black sparkly boots" (why do I always do this?) so I was willing to try anything.
And guess what? They had not one, not two, but FOUR black sparkly boot options. Who'd have thought it.
OPTION 1: TOO MUCH
I think we can all agree that, even for a person who likes sparkles, these are ever so slightly OTT. Unless you are looking for the perfect boots to complete your gay pirate costume, in which case, your search is over.
OPTION 2: TOO LITTLE
I do like a shoe boot, but these have a touch of the Christmas elf about them. Plus I can tell just from looking at them that they breach the four-inch maximum. Moving on.
OPTION 3: TOO WTF
I just don't even know what to say.
OPTION 4: JUST RIGHT!
Well, I hope they are, anyway. I have ordered them, in spite of having to jump through an obscene number of hoops to do so, including being duped out of a free delivery offer before being required to enter into a compulsory credit agreement for a store account. The account carries an eye-watering APR of 39.7%, which is even more shocking than those Uggs. I feel guilty for giving my business and my money to a company that plasters a bright pink "WHY WAIT?" all over its site (um, "because I can't afford it"??) but shoe shopping is HARD, and I was tired, and I knew I would pay it off and cancel the account immediately anyway.
Still. The shame persists. All I can say is, when these shoes finally arrive, they'd better look gooooood.
Anyone made any exciting Christmas party purchases recently?
Silver sparkly boots: Le Blog de Betty. The others are from very.co.uk but I can't bring myself to link to them, the irresponsible money-stealing bastards. Ooh, speaking of money *tenuous link alert* there are some super interesting comments over on yesterday's money post on Any Other Wedding. Well worth a visit.
This week, my friend and I accidentally found ourselves involved in some sort of one-off flash sale bonanza at Harvey Nichols. We were just walking by after work, we saw the crowds cramming in, we felt the buzz, we spotted the trays of free booze and suddenly we were on the other side of the glass, in with the silks and the scents and the filthy, filthy rich.
We wandered around, somewhat bewildered, glasses in hand, fingering the garments and, yes, muttering at the price tags. Raising eyebrows, pointing wordlessly at the extra zero. We encountered cliché after cliché - the young glamazons dragging older, smug-faced boyfriends along in their wake; the provocatively-dressed teenager who on closer inspection turns out to be closer to pensionable age (all those foreign holidays start to take their toll); the puffy-haired princesses spending mummy's cash; the streams of Japanese and Korean tourists loading up on handbags and wallets; endless examples of that classic Edinburgh not-quite-getting-it-right look, all money and no style.
The place reeked of wealth and entitlement, and I found it difficult to shake off a certain level of disdain for these people. The sheer decadence of it all was somewhat repellent. And yet... and yet, how I lusted after this dress:
I cannot tell you how much the picture does not do it justice. Designer clothing at its absolute best. The cut, the fabric, the details, the drape: just heavenly. There were a few items that night - admittedly a very few - that lived up to that other old cliché, the classic "I could get the same thing in Primark for £8.50" line. This, my friends, was not one of them. This had quality, class and craftsmanship written all over it.
Perhaps with these beauties? A little Cinderella chic for an otherwise understated city bride?
If I were to do it all over again (uh-oh, playing that dangerous game again), maybe I would just ditch all my family and friends, forget the meal and the band and the flowers, and just blow the whole budget on the shoes and the dress. (Actually, not the *whole* budget. I would still need the photographers, to take pictures of me wearing the shoes and the dress. Obviously.)
What do you mean, that's not what it's all about? Piffle. Waiter! More champagne!
Images: 1. Alexander McQueen, 'The Horn of Plenty' by Solve Sundsbo/The Metropolitan Museum of Art via The Guardian 2. Alexander McQueen, £1,385, Harvey Nichols 3. Christian Louboutin, £1,995, net-a-porter
Images: 1. Alexander McQueen, 'The Horn of Plenty' by Solve Sundsbo/The Metropolitan Museum of Art via The Guardian 2. Alexander McQueen, £1,385, Harvey Nichols 3. Christian Louboutin, £1,995, net-a-porter
1. Short hair rocks.
Thank you so much for all your support on the hair thing. You are all lovely... and so is my new hair! I mean, it's a BIG change and it will take a bit of getting used to (style it the wrong way and I look about as edgy as a mushroom), but overall I kind of love it.
I'll post a picture soon, I promise. Once I take one that doesn't make me look like a total moron. (Turns out a cool new haircut is not enough to counteract my stupid photo face. Sigh.)
2. Meeting new people can actually be fun!
The cool new haircut was enough to inspire me to throw on the Lady Dragons and take them on their first spin, when the Hubster and I met up with the fabulous Lauren McGlynn on Saturday. You might recall her as one of my original Lens Ladies (not, sadly, "Len's Ladies", although whoever Len is he is one lucky guy). She and her husband are the sweetest people ever and we had a great time discussing weddings, the US healthcare system, and who is the one person in history that Fin would go back in time to assassinate (George Lucas circa 1990, if you're interested).
None of my worst fears (awkward silences, being looked at like a weirdo, invitation to a swingers' party) were realised. So, yay for meeting internet friends! I highly recommend it.
3. Me and Fin are MFEO.
Back to the shoes. (With me, it always comes back to the shoes.) When we eventually got home and I kicked the Lady Dragons off my poor blistered feet (does anybody know if plastic wears in?) they landed next to Fin's trainers. That's when I noticed it: we have matching shoes! Well, fine, his don't have big peach hearts on them, but they're exactly the same colour and they're both equally awesome, so I think it's close enough. We are so clearly made for each other. Because, of course, shoes are the best indicator of relationship compatibility. Duh.
4. I need to get a decent camera. And then learn how to use it.
Have you seen the state of these pictures? Nuff said.
5. I really need to hoover.
See above.
Speaking of shoes, and George Lucas, a new men's clothes shop just opened in Edinburgh and Fin came home raving about these hideous things. Hmm. Maybe we're not so compatible after all.
And speaking of... well, nothing really, but I had to mention it - did you know there was an Anthropologie opening in Edinburgh??? Hello beautiful overpriced American goodies. Goodbye bank balance.
And speaking of... well, nothing really, but I had to mention it - did you know there was an Anthropologie opening in Edinburgh??? Hello beautiful overpriced American goodies. Goodbye bank balance.
I wasn't going to post anything today. The Hubster is getting mightily sick of me tapping away at the laptop every evening (I can't help it ok? Blogging is FUN!) and I promised him a day off. So this isn't really a proper post. It doesn't count. At all.
I just thought you might be interested to know that, after my weekend of lusting after a certain pair of sweet-smelling, heart-encrusted, retrolicious shoes, yesterday the evidently psychic Rock n' Roll Bride tweeted a link to 20% off said shoes. With free delivery. For one week only.
IT'S A SIGN, PEOPLE.
IT'S A SIGN, PEOPLE.
So, as directed by the Universe, I *may* have just bought these little babies:
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| Vivienne Westwood for Melissa Lady Dragon in Violet, |
Whoops.
One of the trickiest things about blogging, I find, is hunting down pretty and appropriate pictures to go with posts. Much as I would like to, I can't just keep filling every single post with various pictures of my wedding. Yes, Lillian and Leonard are super talented, and yes, I fully intend to wring every. last. drop. out of those photos, but eventually I will run out (I only have like 500 left).
Sometimes, I write a post and then spend hours trawling the internet trying to find the perfect picture, one that illustrates and illuminates the point I'm trying to make (do you know how long it took to find a picture of a South American military dictator wearing an outfit that made him look like Prince Harry? DO YOU?). Other times, I'll fall in love with an image (like this Hello sign) and spend weeks waiting for just the right moment to use it.
And, of course, you can't just merrily stick images up on your blog willy-nilly - there's the whole question of attribution and copyright and all that stuff which, as a lawyer, I feel I ought to at least pretend to take seriously. Then, on top of all that, I like my pictures to fit with the look, feel and, yes, colour scheme of the blog as a whole (these things matter you know. If you're reading this in a blog reader, you really should click through to behold the magnificence of the full blog effect. I spent
So, after hearing a few people waffling away on Twitter about "pinning" and "pins", once I worked out they weren't discussing acupuncture, I realised they were talking about Pinterest. I thought it sounded... (wait for it...) pinteresting. Oh I'm so hilarious. Anyway, I thought I'd give it a whirl, so I signed up. Except, I now realise, you can't just sign up to Pinterest. Oh no. You have to be invited. Which, of course, only serves to make membership instantly all the more desirable.
Fortunately, if you hang around long enough - kind of like that person at your work who nobody really likes but who it would be too cringingly awkward not to include in the after-work drinks (come on, we all know that person, secretly we all worry we might *be* that person, or is it just me...?) - you will eventually get an invitation. And lo, as of this weekend, I am IN!
I'm not entirely sure how it works yet, but I like what I see so far. So many gorgeous images to pinch, and you can click through to the source so you can credit it properly - if not the original source, then hopefully at least a path to the original, although sometimes that path can take aaaaaages and result in a lot of "via here via there" nonsense (as you can see above). Pinterest's real strength is probably more as a way to gather all your bits and pieces together in one place than as a source for new material, although if you are just looking for inspiration then the possibilities are endless.
Basically, if you see something you like, be it on a blog, a shopping site, the BBC, whatever, you just click the little "Pin It" icon on your taskbar and the picture gets automatically saved into one of your pinboards (you can have as many pinboards as you like: Fashion, Hair, Chihuahuas, Military Dictators, and so on). It's so much quicker, if you come across a lovely image that you want to bookmark, than saving it to your favourites or onto your computer, plus you can share it with others (and see what they're pinning too). Best of all, I can access it from home and, ahem, work, which is seriously handy.
If you're already on Pinterest, you can click here to follow my pins. Be warned - I've only just started, so it's all a bit random at present (latest pins include a baby dolphin, Sienna Miller's hair and a load of clothes that look like they belong to the ginger teacher from Glee. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll find some better stuff soon...).
If you're NOT currently on Pinterest, well, today's your lucky day - I have six invitations to pass on to recipients of my choosing (ooh, the power! I feel like I'm one of those evil, make-me-depressed-about-the-state-of-humanity brats on My Super Sweet Sixteen!). So, dear readers, I choose you. If you fancy giving it a go, just leave me a comment or drop me an email and I'll ping one over to you.
Happy pinning peeps!
All images found via Pinterest (duh). 1. Otto Schulze Photographers via Style Me Pretty via Pen McKinley-Rodgers 2. Maison Scotch Photography via Siddhartha via east side bride 3. Speaking of desirable... Jake Rosenberg via The Coveteur via Apartment Therapy via Katie Evans 4. Habitat via Kimvallee via Emma
Well. That last post was a bit of a tear-jerker. I'll try to keep the weepies to a minimum, promise. Thank you so much for your lovely comments; you are all wonderful.
Moving swiftly on to something marginally more cheerful; it appears that visiting all those churches in Rome has had a profound effect on me. Time to confess.
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| Purveyors of comfiness, £185, Kurt Geiger |
I've witnessed a lot of Ugg-bashing on the interwebs recently. I have heard them described as looking like loaves of bread and, on a purely intellectual level, I can't disagree. I know, objectively, that they're hideous. I was too ashamed to take mine to Italy with me and instead hobbled around the cobbles in some stylish black leather boots that are comfortable-ish... but they're just not as comfy as Uggs. I mean, can you imagine anything more comfortable than sheepskin-lined loaves of bread? (Actually, I can. I also own a pair of Moon Boots, and I love them too. Go ahead, judge me.)
Confession: I obsessively watch Grey's Anatomy.
Online, preferably the day after it's been on in America. I want Christina and Owen to come over to my house for dinner.
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| Clockwise from top: Rock N' Roll Bride, East Side Bride, 100 Layer Cake, A Practical Wedding, Rock My Wedding |
Well, you just never know when one of your friends might get engaged. Have to keep my finger on the wedding pulse. Plus it's all so pretty (or snarky, if we're talking east side bride).
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| Via su-lin's flickr |
Confession: I eat scones and jam for breakfast.
Not every single day, obviously. Just on Fridays. And sometimes Mondays. And hungover days. And the days when I don't have enough money on my swipe card at work to afford a coffee (scones are cheaper. It's like they WANT me to get fat).
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| Via fohnhouse.com |
Confession 5: I purposely watch films that make me cry.
Beaches is my number one, I know it by heart. As a little girl, when my friends and I used to play the "our parents have kicked us out because we've all had illegitimate babies so we have to live in the woods" game (I know - wtf?), my "job" was to sing The Glory of Love in a "bar" to earn money for us and "the babies". My second favourite thing about Black Swan - after all the feathers, obvs - was the reassurance that Barbara Hershey is still alive and can still rock that uptight bitch role like nobody's biz.
It's not limited to films though, oh no. Documentary about mistreatment of children in Bulgarian orphanages? I'm all over it. Novel about teenage girl whose sister dies of leukaemia? Borrowed it from the library twenty times. Programme about children whose faces don't grow properly and have to have operations but then their parents don't recognise them anymore and it's so sad you think you might explode? Oh yes, pass the tissues.
Maybe it's just me, but I feel like there's something wildly cathartic in crying over pain (fictional or otherwise) that isn't yours. It soothes the soul. Beaches might be cutting a little close to home at the moment, though. I heard they have just re-released Bambi;
that ought to do it.
that ought to do it.
Confession 6: I have a Dominos problem.
Don't tell me how many calories there are. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW. All I know is, it's called Pepperoni Passion for a reason. Mmmmmm.
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| Snoozy and blonde. It's basically me. Via danncer's flickr |
Confession: I'm a snooze pest.
Is there anything better than a sneaky wee afternoon snooze? Drifting off under a cosy blanket on the couch while the tv talks on to a silent room, or (the decadence!) jumping back under the duvet and cuddling up for a nap while you really should be doing the ironing. Heaven.
Go on, confess. I won't tell anyone.
Go on, confess. I won't tell anyone.
So declared an effervescent Austrian tour leader in somewhat ambitious English, as my friend and I were guided up the not-exactly-low-key staircase of the Vienna State Opera. And that phrase is exactly what came to mind when I first clapped eyes on these little beauties. A quirky choice for the fashion-forward, spectacularly minted bride, perhaps?
In my head, I had always imagined I would wear Christian Louboutins on my wedding day. Well, when I was five I was probably picturing something with a bit more pink glitter. And I know that the sight of a bride flashing those intoxicating red soles as she struts down the aisle is probably turning into a bit of a cliché. Even so, I always assumed that your wedding was for splurging, blowing the budget on extravagant once-in-a-lifetime purchases, indulging your wildest whims and fantasies and generally behaving like a crazy person.
In real life, my wedding shoes were from Aldo. I even signed up to their godawful newsletter to get a 10% discount. Don't get me wrong; I loved the shoes, they were beautiful, and comfortable-ish, and sparkly (my five-year-old self would have LOVED them). And of course, on the day in question, there are many more important things to think about. Like new husbands, and sandy beaches, and ice cream.
Part of me feels exceedingly sane and practical and maybe a little bit smug for not blowing on shoes the same amount of money as we spent on, say, all of our stationery plus wedding rings plus all my other accessories put together. But another part of me still feels an occasional little pang that I didn't get to rock these babies down that aisle.
I think it's partly because, if I'm honest, one of the reasons I chose my profession was because it was meant to be a well-paid profession. The really sad thing is, it is! Compared to the national average wage, I'm f*cking rolling in it! But I still don't have the money to even contemplate blowing £450 on a pair of shoes, wedding or no wedding.
Who are all these brides, these young women, in their twenties like me, who can buy these things? I'm fascinated by them. Did they snap their Louboutins up without a second thought, or were they reluctantly seduced by those elegant lines, that winking gold signature, into maxing out the credit card?
I can't help feeling that there is a serious disconnect going on here, between what we feel we have somehow been promised ("You can have it all!") and what is realistically achievable, especially in these times of economic woe (see, I read the news. It's not all shoes, you know. Well, not exclusively). Friends of mine who earn the same as me, or more, are fed up with putting in endless hours at work and getting what they perceive to be very little back.
I'm starting to think it's not about working harder and earning more, so you can finally buy those covetable courts with the sexy scarlet sole. It's about realising that what you own is not who you are; it's just what you own. Happiness does not lie in a pair of shoes, no matter how lovely.
I still wish I owned a pair, though. I can't help it. And that, my friends, is the problem.
P.S. I know I'm meant to be trying to cut down on the wedding chat, but considering it's part of why I started blogging in the first place, I might keep going for a little while longer, if that's ok with you? Thanks.
Top image: Alaïa shoe boots, a mere £1,320, Net-a-Porter. All the rest: Lillian and Leonard
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| "Yes? Please - go on." |
(If that means nothing to you, clearly 1) you are not a pubescent boy, and 2) you do not have a husband who spews forth Will Ferrell quotes like a bizarre form of Tourettes. In which case, you must go and watch Anchorman immediately. Go, now. I'll wait. Ok? Good. And speaking of Anchorman, good to know some things haven't changed.)
So, the Hubster and I are off to Rome this weekend, and I am more than a little excited. He got me the trip for my birthday (I got him a jacket for his – I totally win!). I intend to eat my body weight in pizza and lust over expensive Italian leather handbags. Obviously we will be checking out some art and history and stuff too, but not so much that it would compromise pizza-eating or handbag-lusting.
We are also going to see a football match, so that the Hubster can pretend to be an Italian football hooligan (the correct term, I believe, is an "Ultra"). I think this involves singing abusive songs in Italian and throwing mopeds at the players, but I'm not sure. Did I mention this trip was meant to be my birthday present? All I can say is there better be some seriously attractive players, or I will not be happy. I will not be happy at all.
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| Something like this would probably be ok. Via designerscouch.org |
Anyway, the burning question that has been mainly occupying my thoughts is how can I get into the players' dressing rooms what does one wear in Rome? The obvious answer is, of course, to dress as the Romans dress. But I've never been, so how do I know how they dress? I tried googling "Rome street style" but it turns out that, sartorially speaking, Rome is to Milan what Edinburgh is to Glasgow. In other words, Rome appears to be Milan's signifiantly-less-cool friend. Even The Sartorialist couldn't help me.
So, I am just going to freestyle. The main problem is that being a natural (not even highlights, honest!) blonde does limit the extent to which I can pass myself off as an Italian glamazon. There's frankly no point in trying. I might aim to pass for Scandinavian, because it's marginally more achievable and everyone knows the Scandies dress way better than the Brits. But then, who doesn't? (Well, there's the Americans. Or at least the ones that stride around Edinburgh in white running shoes and bumbags. Not a good look.)
I reckon pulling off a Rome-worthy look is going to involve wearing lots of black, and being all about the accessories. Like these bad boys:
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| Kurt Geiger Wentworth boots. Yummy. |
What, not practical for tramping around cobbled streets in January for ten hours a day? Do you not see the shearling lining? The tank-like gripped sole? Would you rather I wore these?
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| Some Carvela monstrosities. |
Now let's talk bags.
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| The luscious Mulberry Daria Satchel. |
I am in love with this bag. I'm all about the functionality when it comes to handbags, so what makes me love it the most is not the goes-with-everything shade or the buttery leather - it's the fact you can have the strap long and wear it across your body (good for foiling Rome's scooter-powered bag-stealers) or clip it shorter and make it into a shoulder bag (good for when the stupid long strap gets tangled up in your scarf for the thousandth time and you finally LOSE. THE. PLOT). It's like two for the price of one! Although, I can't help but fear that the Mulberry logo may be a tad large. Is Mulberry becoming a bit… (whisper it…) tacky? No, surely not.
And how about a quirky statement ring to finish it off? Ok then!
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| Matilda ring, from £63, Jane Gowans |
Of course, in reality, I will not be taking any of these covetables to Rome with me. Alas, the January budget (or any-month budget) will not permit such indulgences. And I am way too much of a baby to walk around in anything other than my comfiest, broken-in flats. Plus can you imagine if the scooter boys did manage to steal my Mulberry?? Trauma!
Sigh. I'm pretty sure nobody is going to mistake me for an Italian. But as long as nobody mistakes me for an American*, I will consider the trip a success. Alternative measures of success include amount of pizza eaten (by slice) and number of items ticked off in my Top Ten Things to See/Do/Eat in Rome book. I'm pretty easy to please, when it comes to holiday success. If only other successes in life were so easy to judge... but that is a thought for another day. Right now I'm off to check the weather forecast in Rome for the twentieth time and work out whether I can squeeze a few more grams out of my meagre Ryanair bag allowance to make room for an umbrella. If not, I think it might fit in the bumbag.
*Just kidding about the Americans, really. A lot of them kick serious fashion ass.
