Here is a picture of my face, to prove I'm still alive. It was taken at my sister-in-law's wedding, just eight days after the baby was born. An hour later, I found myself sitting topless behind a filing cabinet in a sweltering catering office, breast pump in one hand, glass of champagne in the other, trying to avoid flashing my in-laws through the window. Motherhood is so glamorous, you guys.

Since then, in case you were wondering, I've chopped all my hair off again, thus definitively answering the 'pixie or bob?' question. At least for now.

I was reading through my blog the other day, as one does, and it seems I have a bad habit of leaving questions unanswered. Fascinating questions, such as which nappy bag did I eventually get? (This one.) Did I ever finish the wee grey hat? (Yes!) Did I ever learn the Marseillaise? (No.) Which coat did I buy? (This one, and I'm very excited about the cold weather returning so that I can throw it on over my leggings-and-baby-dribble uniform and feel vaguely stylish again.) What's the baby's name, for God's sake? (It's Flora, but she's better known in our house as Bumps McGumps. Don't ask.)

Now that I'm on a roll, here are some more fascinating questions about myself that I'm going to answer, lifted from this post by the wonderful Moz. I know you're all sitting there breathlessly anticipating some mundane facts about my life, so here we go.

Question 1: How tall are you?

5'8". Shorter when I'm sitting down.

Question 2: Do you have a hidden talent? If so, what?

My family will mock me for this, since I'm a famously untidy person, but I'm actually a very efficient tidier-up. I can turn a messy room into a reasonably presentable one in the time between someone ringing our buzzer and arriving at our front door (and have done. Often. Just don't look under the couch).

Question 3: What’s your biggest blog-related pet peeve?

There is no excuse for bad grammar.

Leaving the hob on all afternoon.

Then putting a plastic tupperware box down. On the hob.

I have no idea how to clean melted plastic. Maybe I'll just stop using that hob.



Waking from a thick, black, unplanned sleep to find the baby lying where I'd left her on my chest, her fat cheeks cold to the touch. I've never felt panic like it. Seeing her wriggle, then realising that Fin had been awake and alert and watching over us the whole time, did nothing to stop my hands shaking.

Falling asleep at the wrong moment has never been so terrifyingly easy.



Watching a High School Musical spin-off from start to finish because I couldn't summon the energy to change the channel.

Secretly enjoying it.



Image: Natalia on Flickr

You know what's more fun than a kidney infection? A kidney infection that is not, in fact, a kidney infection but actually secret appendicitis! Wheee!

By the time I was rushed in for emergency surgery, after a month of feeling increasingly not so hot, my appendix was officially "obliterated". That's the word the consultant used in my notes. It was so far gone, he couldn't even find any bits of appendix left, just rampant infection as far as the eye could see. Of course, being a day shy of 31 weeks pregnant added a layer of spice to proceedings. The moment the doctor told us there was a significant risk the baby would need to be delivered while I was being operated on was memorable.

And yet, here we are, nearly two weeks later. One appendix out, one baby still in. It's a sturdy little thing, it seems. Its mother, not so much.

I'm beginning to feel like the punchline of some great cosmic joke. Losing a parent in pregnancy isn't enough, I have to lose a random internal organ as well? Can't I just get fat ankles and haemorrhoids like any normal pregnant person?

Hopefully this will be my last unsolicited medical update for you, and normal service consisting of meandering rants, impractical shoes and dogs in silly hats will resume shortly. At some point, there may even be a baby. There bloody better be, after all this.


Panni Malekzadeh, 'Feelings', 2012 via The Morning News

The second most middle-class moment of my life occurred last night.

My pregnancy yoga instructor, in attempting to help us to calm our swirling thoughts, encouraged us to picture ourselves as "coffee grounds slowly settling to the bottom of a cafetière."

PREGNANCY YOGA. CAFETIÈRE METAPHORS. Good grief.


In case you were wondering, the number one most middle-class moment of my life was the time I googled "Can dogs eat quinoa?"

(They can.)


Karolina Kurkova shot by Norman Jean Roy for Tatler Russia May 2014. Title inspired by this post of yore, which I really should repost over here sometime.

This past weekend, Fin, Smidgen and I were meant to be going on a very glamorous caravan trip to Pitlochry. Instead, I spent four days and three nights in Greece, soaking up the sweltering temperatures, being waited on hand and foot and barely getting out of bed the whole time.

Oh, wait, did I say Greece? Sorry, I meant hospital. The other parts were true though.

Fortunately it wasn't anything too serious, although a horrendous kidney infection feels pretty fucking serious when you're in the middle of it. I'm really hoping my hospital nickname of "septic lady" doesn't catch on. The best part was that I was put on the maternity ward, because of the whole being pregnant thing (the baby was completely oblivious to my plight, by the way), meaning I spent four days of writhing agony in the company of labouring women and newborn babies, who are, of course, notoriously chilled out.

On the plus side, the midwives were absolute angels. Getting admitted to hospital is probably an extreme way to get a free preview of your future maternity care, but I liked what I saw. It's definitely an  extreme way of getting out of a caravan trip to Pitlochry. Sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I mention this only because I've exhausted all other avenues of sympathy, but I'm still stuck in bed for 80% of the day and need entertained. At least it's my own bed I'm stuck in now.

How was YOUR weekend?

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Image: Greek car park from Cara's Instagram. Bet they don't charge you 6 quid to park your car there *cough* Edinburgh Royal Infirmary *cough*

I've decided. I'm going to learn the words of the Marseillaise.

I think this every year, when the Six Nations rolls around and all the other countries are droning out their mirthlesss dirges at the start of each game before being obliterated by the triumphant, bloodthirsty, powerful song of the French. This is the year I will actually do it.

Knowing the words of the Marseillaise is the kind of pointless achievement that appeals to me. It says I'm a glamorous, jetsetting francophile (the same impression I've been trying to cultivate with my swanky new French coat), who also has enough spare time on my hands to sit around and acquire obscure knowledge like the foreign-language lyrics to national anthems of countries that I don't even live in. There are very few occasions where knowing the words of the Marseillaise will be useful, seeing as how I'm unlikely to play rugby for France any time soon, but to be able to whip it out of my pocket at just the right moment, well. Won't I look like a smarty pantalon.

(I should clarify that I'm only aiming for the first verse and the chorus, not the fifteen verses that apparently exist. I might be crazy, but I'm not crazy.)

I've set myself the target of learning the words by the end of this year's Six Nations. I don't actually know when that is, since I don't actually know anything about rugby and usually like to avoid watching Scotland embarrass ourselves at sport if at all possible (it's not always possible), but I should probably get cracking. Da da da da la patriiiiiii-uh da da da da daaaaa, da da da. Yeah, needs more work.


Speaking of watching my fellow countrymen humiliate themselves in internationally-televised sporting events, I'm VERY EXCITED about the Winter Olympics. ALL CAPS EXCITED. Despite the fact that it's basically just one big sliding competition, the Winter Olympics are vastly superior to their summer counterpart. The quirky human interest stories! The ridiculous outfits! The very real risk of severe and permanent injury! I love it.

My love of the Winter Olympics goes way back. In pride of place above my childhood bed, I had a poster of Hidy and Howdy, the official mascots of Calgary 88. In 2002, Fin and I first locked eyes across a crowded bar in which there were not one but two people in fancy dress as gold-medal-winning British curlers (neither of which was us, sadly). I screamed when Alain Baxter won his medal, wept when he lost it again, was flabbergasted when Lindsey Jacobellis did this. Just the other day, my dad emailed me to let me know that a British woman came fourth in the Olympic slalom in 1968, because that's how my family rolls.

Of course, the downside of watching the Winter Olympics as a British person is that we are just so chronically bad at them. Sure, we win the occasional medal in an obscure sport, but where's the downhill gold? Where are the glory days of Torvill and Dean in matching purple chiffon? I suppose you can't blame us for doing badly at the Winter Olympics, since we don't really have much of a winter - or a summer, come to think of it - but it gets depressing after a while.

Maybe I'll support the French instead. At least I'll be able to sing along.

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Images: 1. A French women's rugby team, source untraced 2. Competitors in the Ladies Figure Skating competiton at the Winter Olympics in St. Moritz, Switzerland, February 1928, via Olympic.org

Today is the third anniversary of my first ever post. I had intended to write something funny or profound or at least interesting to mark the occasion, but I couldn't summon the energy. So, instead, here is a spectacularly awesome gif by Laurene Boglio, the queen of spectacularly awesome gifs.

Once, when Fin and I first moved in together, to our tiny little flat with a sloping roof that meant he could only stand upright in 50% of the floor space, I burst into the living room wearing my black, slightly saggy gym swimsuit and, out of nowhere, proceeded to give him the worst rendition of the Single Ladies dance that has ever happened. It was, as you can imagine, hilarious.

That hasn't really got much to do with anything, other than I seem to have misplaced that youthful, exuberant silliness, both in real life and in blogging, and I'm not sure where it went. Might have to send out a search party.

In the meantime, thanks for sticking with this blog for the last three years. That applies to myself, too.

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Full title: Things I've Been Obsessing Over Instead of Worrying About Actual Problems Or Contemplating the Incontrovertible Truth That Everyone I Love Is Going to Be Dead One Day.

Because distraction is the best policy, right?

1. My coat

It's my 30th birthday today (see how I dropped that in there? So subtle), so in honour of the occasion I've decided it's time to treat myself to a grown-up winter coat. This is the third winter for my trusty Topshop duffel coat, and while I still love it with a fiery passion, it doesn't really say "professional person and grown-ass lady." I'm pretty sure a client thought I was a messenger the other day until I spouted off some incredibly boring piece of legalese and they realised, no, I was just a lawyer in students' clothing.

I had initially toyed with the idea of a leather jacket, and was sorely tempted by this handmade one from Etsy, but realistically I wouldn't wear it until spring and that's too long to wait, dammit. Then I thought a classic camel would be a smart choice, but it turns out classic camel coats are difficult to come by. Plus I'm not convinced that camel is my colour. (I have genuinely been obsessing over this, in case you can't tell.)

So we arrive at option 3: a classy but stylish grey overcoat. Simple, chic, goes with everything. After a pinning spree - I mean a serious, weeks-long pinning spree - I concluded that the perfect coat simply does not exist in the UK. To meet my highly specific requirements, I had to cast a wider net. Finally, I've narrowed the choices down to two almost-but-not-quite-identical coats.



The first one has a silky soft leather collar, which gives it a cool edge and satisfies my leather jacket cravings. It's also French, for bonus points. The second one has a more interesting texture and I love the stylised lapels. They're both nice! They're both more expensive than any other coat I've ever bought before! WHICH SHOULD I CHOOSE?

2. My Party

I have no qualms about turning 30, and I'm grateful to be able to spend today with my family, but with my mum's health deteriorating, and some of my dearest friends out of party action for reasons both good and bad, I knew this birthday was never going to be the wild celebration that I might have imagined.

However, in a moment of crippling self-pity, I decided that I was entitled to bit of birthday cheer and I was just going to have to make it happen myself. Which is why, tomorrow, I will find myself entertaining 27 people and 2 children (I suppose the children are technically people too) in our very tiny flat. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

No, it IS a good idea, it just involves slightly more advance planning than I had initially anticipated. Particularly since I spent an embarrassing amount of time devising a Betty-Draper-meets-vintage-Scandinavian-Christmas theme. Did I make a Pinterest board? You're damn right I did. Of course, in reality, the only evidence of this party theme will be inside my own head, since Betty Draper was unavailable and I don't live in Sweden, but that's beside the point. At least my invitations are on message:


Because this gathering is taking place immediately after four days of not being at home, not being able to shop and not being able to fit anything in the fridge, it is proving a bit tricky to cater. Undeterred, I have made several dozen different lists and I'm feeling confident. Ish. As long as there are ample quantities of rum-spiked mulled cider, people won't really care what I feed them, is my theory.

Might need to make a few more lists, just in case.

3. My Man

Five days to go, people. He's coming back.

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Images of the glammy lady: Barefoot Blonde

What is that makes a place feel like home? Fin and I lived in our last flat for nearly three years, but we never felt as comfortable there as we do where we are now. On paper - and who am I kidding, in reality - the last flat was much nicer. It was newer, it was bigger, it was comfier. It had two bathrooms and neither of them had a beige bathroom suite, which is more than I can say for our current flat. Being inside our bathroom now is like being inside a biscuit.

So why do we feel so at home here? The location is better, I'll give it that. The city centre is easily walkable and there's a huge, wild-ish park right on our doorstep. We're right at the cul of a little leafy sac, so it's always quiet. It's the most peaceful spot I've ever found in this moderately bustling city. I don't know if that's it, though.

We've somehow managed to make this place feel more ours. Like the last flat, this one's furnished with someone else's crap cast-off furniture, but unlike the last flat, none of it's lilac. Is there a worse colour than lilac? I don't know if there is. Maybe chartreuse, but it's a close one. (Here's proof, if proof were needed, that lilac couches are a Very Bad Thing).

Our living room now is filled with warm colours, layered patterns, natural textures, candles, wood. The artwork on the wall is there because we love it or it means something, not just because it happens to have lilac in it. It has carpets on which Smidgen and Eeyore can do their crazy dance instead of skiting across shiny, dust-gathering laminate.

It's just comfy. It feels like us. It feels right.

I mean, don't get me wrong. It's small and weirdly shaped and the bathroom really is hideous. I would never buy this flat (or the one currently for sale downstairs), much as I love where we are. But I don't know if I'd buy somewhere else, either.

Someone asked me the other day, if we had the money, would we buy a home of our own. My honest answer is that I don't know. The thought of moving again gives me the chills, and not in a good way, but I don't think it's just laziness that makes me hesitate.

When it comes down to it, I don't think my feelings have changed much since I wrote this post back in 2011. Buying property just doesn't look like everything it's cracked up to be, especially since I've seen friends unable to sell those starter flats that seemed like such a good idea a few years ago. And now that I've figured out how easy it is to make your walls look pretty with some wrapping paper and a cheap frame, I care even less about my ability to paint the walls a crazy colour. (Seriously, Cavallini gift wrap looks so good in this Ikea frame that I've started hanging one in every room. Top tip.)

Sure, it would be lovely to have somewhere we could call our own. In my dream world, it would probably look something like that picture up there, and it would be on a hillside with a burn bubbling past, and we would have a pet alpaca called Jorge, but do I need that to feel happy? Do I need it to feel comfortable? Do I need it to feel like I'm home?

I don't think I do.

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Image of Emma Campbell's Kenyan home shot for The World of Interiors April 2012

So, Paris. We went, we came back. It was good.

Je m'appelle Kirsty. J'ai quatorze ans. J'habite à North Berwick en Ecosse.

A few years ago a friend of mine threw a fancy dress party, the theme of which was "dress up as what you wanted to be when you grew up." Most of us at the party were lawyers. Funnily enough, nobody was dressed as one.

1. She only has one name.

Most racing greyhounds have two names, a racing name and a pet name (I met one recently whose pet name is Steve, which is probably the best name for a dog I've ever heard in my life), but Smidgen has just been Smidgen her whole life. I think they knew from the start that competitive racing would never be her strong point. Of course, as an international greyhound of mystery, she has many aliases, including Smidgers, Little Smidge, Smidger McGidger, Smidgeroo, Smidgester, McGidge and Midgen (this last one coined by my adorable Chinese sister-in-law and only ever said in a Mandarin accent).

2. She has the sleep pattern of a pubescent boy. 

She sleeps all the time. ALL THE TIME. On the couch, on the rug, in her bed, in Isla's bed, on our bed, in the car, on a person, on a pile of dirty washing, on a pile of books, lying down, sitting up, on her side, on her back, legs curled up, legs sticking up like prongs, eyes open, mouth open, perfectly still, twitching madly after dream rabbits, barking, puffing, whining, always completely, 100% asleep.

3. She has a bald bum.

4. She's not well-trained.

5. She's a cold-blooded killer.

6. But she's also a big softy.

7. She's picky.

8. She is, however, surprisingly comforting.

9. She isn't really a rescue dog.

10. Today is a very special day.

Exactly four years ago today, Smidgen was born. Exactly two years ago - on her second birthday - she came to live with us.

Happy birthday, Smidgers. I'm honoured that you've decided I'm worthy of your affection, even if you mostly like me because I let you sneak into our bed in the morning and leave expensive chocolates lying around for you to eat. I promise not to make you wear a hat this year.

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All images by me for Daily Smidgen

I don't get much time to myself these days. I'm either at work, surrounded by lawyers; in North Berwick, surrounded by family; or at home, surrounded by Smidgen (greyhounds have a limited concept of personal space). Being with Fin is almost like being alone - after 11 years together, he is so much a part of the fabric of my life that he's more like a very friendly cushion than a separate human being - but sometimes a girl just needs to be alone with herself and her weird habits. Not even the friendliest cushion wants to see you picking the dead skin off your feet.

My personal list of strange solo behaviour mainly revolves around taking otherwise normal activities to an extreme level. If I have the flat to myself for an evening, I'll listen to the same song on repeat twenty times. I won't just watch one episode of Mad Men, I'll watch seven. I'll try on outfits for imaginary social occasions until every item of clothing I own is strewn across the bed and the wardrobe is nothing but an empty wasteland where wire coathangers go to die.

The weirdest thing, though, is the edible portion of the evening. Well, I don't think it's weird, but Fin disagrees. That's why I wait for him to be working late, or out at a support group for people whose spouses compare them to soft furnishings ("Doctor, doctor, my wife thinks I'm a pair of curtains!" "Pull yourself together." BOOM BOOM), before creating my number one guilty pleasure meal.

This top secret dinner-for-one follows the same simple theory as the rest of the evening: why stop at one unhealthy ingredient? Essentially, it consists of a mountain of pasta, slathered in olive oil and covered with a generous handful of grated mature cheddar. On top of - not beside - this steaming mound of carbs and fat sits the crowning glory: a crisp, golden chicken kiev, oozing pre-made garlic butter. To really take the fat-fest to the next level, I like to drizzle the garlicky oils from the baking tray over the whole thing then eat it on the couch, preferably in front of my eighth episode of Mad Men.

As meals go, it's childish, lazy and absolutely terrible for me, but oh, if it isn't delicious. I would feel worse about it if I didn't know that Fin's go-to meal for one was macaroni cheese from a box. Vom.

Does anyone else have a gross meal that they secretly love? Tell me I'm not alone here.

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Image from The Knotty Bride. Warning: that link contains adorable puppy pictures. Just so you know.

When I was a teenager, I kept a diary. I haven't looked at it in years, firstly because I'm not 100% sure where it is (a situation with extreme awkwardness potential, given that my brother now sleeps in my former teenage bedroom) and secondly because I know the first page contains some godawful emotive ramblings inspired by a visit to Culloden and I don't think I could cope with the crippling embarrassment of reading it.

If I could overcome these hurdles, though, I don't know that re-reading my diary would paint a particularly accurate picture of those years. My diary-keeping habits followed a set pattern. When I was wallowing in some overblown friend-related drama, or filled with unrequited yearning for the wise-cracking boy in my physics class, I would churn out pages and pages of painfully unselfconscious warblings. When, on the other hand, I was calm and happy - which was most of the time, because my friends were mostly lovely and physics boy quickly succumbed to my charms - I had no interest in writing. I was too busy doing.

Lately, with blogging, the pattern seems to have reversed.  2013 has been a profoundly crap year for me with one thing and another, and the month of October wins a gold star for being the Crappest of Them All. But instead of spilling my guts, I clam up. This is a public space, and I prefer to keep my dirty washing in the huge untended pile in the middle of my bedroom, where it belongs. And since all my washing is dirty at the moment (this is no longer just a metaphor; I really need to do some washing), I blogged precisely nothing in the entire month of October. Not one word. I think that might be a personal record (of lameness).


I am the queen of procrastination. I can put off anything, anytime. This blog is just one of many aspects of my life that have been put on the back burner while I deal with some Hard Stuff. But the time has finally come, my friends, for this to stop. Or rather, for me to start. Start writing, start thinking, start pulling myself out of the slump in which I've been wallowing.

To that end, I am going to attempt to drag this blog back to life with my bare and bloody hands, by going from one extreme to another.

This November, I am going to attempt to publish a blog post every day.

EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

This harebrained scheme was inspired by a few bloggers I know who are participating in the Blog Every Day In November challenge. There's a prompt for each day, which I'm going to use as a vague guide, but I can tell you right now I have fuck all to say on the subject of "National Stress Awareness Day" (6th November), among others, so I will probably go off-piste a few times.

In all honesty, I'm not expecting to manage every single day. Fate may well intervene - work is extra busy just now, my mum hasn't been doing that well of late, and the end of November might as well be the end of the century if my ability to predict what might happen is anything to go by. All I can do is try. So here we go.

Wish me luck.


(Those of you who subscribe by email, I apologise for what I am about to do to your inbox. If it's any consolation, you're my favourites.)

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Images:1. Globo by Daniela Dahf Henriquez 2. Friedrich Kunath, Untitled, 2009

Tomorrow I embark on an aggressive programme of relaxation and beautification the likes of which the world has never known. From massages to manicures, facials to fake tans, even a brief but thrilling foray into acupuncture: my spa attendance in the next three weeks will represent a 10,000% increase on the whole of the previous three years. It's going to be... intense.

Stylist magazine (Emerald Street's big sister) is compiling a list of the top beauty treatments in the UK and I selflessly volunteered to help with the reviews. Hey, what's a fledgeling freelance career for if you can't indulge in a few perks now and then? It's free, I'm Scottish, this was always going to happen.

Between now and the beginning of June, I'll be leaving no hot stone unturned in the name of journalistic research. Sunshine will burst from my every pore. Soothed muscles will cover my bones like jelly over ice cream. My skin will be so radiant, people will have to wear sunglasses just to look at me.


How lovely, you might think. What could be more relaxing? I'll tell you what could be more relaxing. Not trying to cram seventeen spa therapies into a full-time working week could be more relaxing. Not having to drive to Perthshire and back the day after a hen do could be more relaxing. Not building a spreadsheet of opening hours versus length of treatment versus distance from office versus fickle salon owners' availability could be more relaxing.

What's that noise? Is it the sound of the world's tiniest violin? I know, I know, I shouldn't complain. In truth I can't wait, fickle salon owners aside. The first time I ever had a massage I felt like I was walking on air; every massage since has been an attempt to recapture that euphoric high. So far, as is often the case with these things, it's never been as good as the first time, but maybe my forthcoming massage marathon will be the answer. Or maybe it will release a noxious cloud of toxins into my body and make me horribly ill. I guess we'll find out.

Are any of you lot closet beauty addicts? I have to say, you don't seem the type (said with love, since I myself haven't darkened a beautician's door for months and I like to think I'm not a hairy troll). How about acupuncture? I generally prefer to put my faith in modern medicine, but acupuncture intrigues me. There must be a reason it's survived so long. Plus, porcupine chic is so in right now, darling.


Images by Nirrimi Firebrace

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Two years ago, in a characteristic flurry of motivation, I wrote a life list. I then abandoned it so comprehensively that I took it off the blog entirely as part of the redesign process. I've crossed off a couple of things since writing it, but nothing that felt like a huge personal achievement: being a bridesmaid (amazing but outside my control); going whale watching (I booked some tickets then turned up and went on a boat! Go me!); reaching a (fairly low, let's be honest) comment milestone on this blog. So far, so meh.

Last week, I crossed off a big one. A whopper.

I got paid for something I wrote. Paid in actual money. For something I wrote with my own hands.

Don't worry, this isn't my really long-winded way of telling you I'm going to start doing sponsored posts or anything equally unpleasant. As of last week, I have taken over the helm of Emerald Street's guide to weekend happenings in Edinburgh and Glasgow from my friend Zoë, who has upped and moved to London.

I'm not a big magazine girl, but I have a lot of time for Emerald Street and its big sister, Stylist. It's hard not to love a respected publication that tweets things like "LEAVE OUR MUFFS ALONE" and sparks a run on name necklaces spelling out "Feminist." Even Vagenda approves. Plus, it's free. BONUS.

And the icing on the cake? Emerald Street's signature illustrations are produced by none other than the lovely Francesca Waddell. So it's smart AND pretty. The magic combination.

I'm still finding my feet, so those of you who subscribe to Emerald Street (if you don't, and would like to, you can do so here), I would love your feedback as the weeks go on. If you think my recommendations aren't diverse enough, or I have too much of an Edinburgh bias, or I just sound weird and/or crazy then please, please let me know.

As for those readers who have the misfortune to live outside the glorious central belt of Scotland, fear not. I won't be spamming you with Emerald Street stuff, although I may occasionally tweet recommendations that don't make the final cut. The upside for you is that more writing, for me, usually means better writing all round.

Things are about to get interesting.


All images by Francesca Waddell

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I cut my hair off. Who am I to argue with the popular vote? But part of me wishes I'd waited until it was actually, as opposed to nominally, spring. Specifically, my ears and the back of my neck are less than thrilled. Brr.

Speaking of the popular vote, we're agonisingly close to finishing the final season of the West Wing and I know we're supposed to care who wins the election but OMG WHO CARES ABOUT THAT WITH ALL OF THE ROMANTIC TENSION OMG OMG. How the hell did people cope, watching this unfold over weeks? I am beside myself with excitement. If you haven't seen it, what are you waiting for? And if you have seen it YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT. (Sorry, the West Wing has a tendency to bring out my all caps.) There's a faint whiff of Grey's Anatomy lingering in the White House corridors these days, with all of the snogging. There doesn't seem to be much governing going on here, people.

I doubt that sort of thing goes on over at the Scottish Parliament. At least, I hope it doesn't. Let's just say there aren't many Holyrood couplings I'd be quite so happy to watch on screen. The mind boggles.

For those of you who might not be fully up to speed with your Scottish politics, we have a referundum coming up next year to determine whether Scotland should remain part of the United Kingdom or become a fully independent country. Facts and figures are being hurled at us from all sides already, but neither camp has yet addressed my primary concern: what about Eurovision? I don't know if I'm ready to face a future where Scotland's finest musical talent has to slug it out in the semi-finals against the demented warblings of some former plumber from Azerbaijan. It's time for the campaigns to stop fretting about taxes and national identity and start getting into the serious issues.

Just as long as they don't start snogging.


P.S. On a completely unrelated note, I added some new pictures to the portfolio. Thanks, Lauren!

Image: Frank Egel Photography. Just to be clear, that's not me. In case there was any confusion. Ahem.

And we're off again. This time up to the frozen north for a few days, where I will almost certainly be striking poses in designer skiwear and prancing around in the snow on ponies. Because that's just what people do in Aviemore.

My family has a timeshare up there, a little two-roomed flat with bunkbeds and a pull-out couch. It's far from glamorous, but it's close to my heart. We've been going there since I was little. I remember one year, my dad built us an igloo beside the car park. It suspect it was more for him than for us.

For a few years I stopped going, bored of the long drive up the A9 and the unpredictable Scottish weather. But Fin and I started going up there together when he was learning to ski, and it's become something of a spring tradition.

One of my favourite things about having a timeshare is the year-on-year comparison. Every year, for these same two weeks in March, the little flat is ours. Some years the hills are white, their edges smudged against a flat grey sky. Some years are spent huddled on the couch watching the rain drum against the windows. Last year, we had glorious sunshine. We ate sandwiches on benches and lay on a beach, shivering slightly, in the way only the British can. The year before that, there was too much snow to ski.

Right now, it's -5°C and snowing. That has to mean we're due glorious sunshine next year, right? Maybe?


Happy weekend, folks.


Images: 1&4 Free People November 2012 via Fashion Gone Rogue, 2&3 Koray Birand for Vogue Spain Joyas via Design Scene