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

It's exactly one month until Christmas and I'm trying to resist the temptation to marvel at the passage of time. I usually prefer to wait until December before I really go completely bonkers, but there's no harm in laying the groundwork a bit early. The 25th of November is a perfectly respectable date to start planning ahead for some festive cheer.

When it comes to heralding the coming of Christmas, I'm a traditionalist. Don't even talk to me about Starbucks red cups. It's a miracle of modern marketing that drinking an overpriced coffee from a disposable cup sold by a tax-avoiding mega-corporation has somehow come to embody the season for a worryingly large segment of the population.

(Top tip: if you want a wintery hot drink that actually tastes nice, forget the pumpkin spice crap and try the Scots pine and smoked salt hot chocolate that Urban Angel are serving up at the St Andrew Square Scottish market, or have a hot toddy from the Royal Dick instead. Delicioso.)

If it takes more than a Christmas-themed beverage to get you in the mood, here are three things you can plan right now that will have you feeling more festive than a dog in a Santa hat come December, according to this fool-proof formula: doing something fun + helping other people = warm fuzzy Christmas glow.

1. Buy a tree + help the homeless

We've been buying our Christmas tree from Caring Christmas Trees for years and would never buy it from anywhere else. The quality is lovely, you can pick it up at a time that suits you, and the profits go to a wonderful cause.

The trees aren't cheap, but guess what? CHRISTMAS TREES ARE EXPENSIVE. One year, we thought it would be cheaper to buy our tree from one of the slightly dodgy-looking roadside sellers, which sold trees by the foot. It ended up costing exactly the same, the quality was rubbish, and the money went straight into someone's pocket instead of going towards helping Edinburgh's homeless. Where's the Christmas cheer in that?

If you live in Aberdeen, Dumfries, Dundee, Perth, Edinburgh, East Lothian, Fife, Glasgow or South East London, I can't recommend Caring Christmas Trees enough. We've volunteered as tree distributors with them for several years, so here's a little inside info: most of the trees are a good 6-10 inches taller than they say they will be. If you're torn between two sizes, go for the smaller one. You'll get extra height for your buck (except with the 4 foot trees, but what they lack in height they make up for in girth, being practically spherical). You have to order in advance, so buy your tree now.

2. Learn a new skill + support independent businesses

Those of you on the East coast can join in the fun with Pyrus, run by creative geniuses Fiona and Natalya. They have classes on various dates in December, held in gorgeous venues in Edinburgh and East Lothian, where you can learn to make wreaths and garlands and even go out and pick your own foliage. Full details and booking information here.

3. Sing carols + help people with breast cancer

I love carols. Love love love them. The one sad thing about getting married in July was that we couldn't have 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing' and 'O Come All Ye Faithful' as our wedding hymns. Apparently it's a bit weird to want Christmas carols at your summer wedding. Whatevs.

To compensate for this tragedy I try to sing carols at every possible opportunity, so obviously I had to buy tickets for Carols by Candlelight at St John's Cathedral in support of Breast Cancer Care. If there's one thing I love nearly as much as carols, it's candles, and if there's one thing I love more than either of those things, it's supporting people affected by breast cancer. Done deal.

Londoners, fret not - there's a carol concert for you, too. Breast Cancer Care are also holding a carol concert at St Paul's Cathedral, and they've only gone and got Simon bloody Callow to do a reading. I'm totally not jealous, though. Not even a little bit.


So, there you go. Three easy ways to get into the Christmas spirit. I'm interested, what is it that triggers that festive feeling for you?  The John Lewis Christmas advert? Your first glass of mulled wine? The compulsory appearance of sparkly dresses in every shop window? Please don't say the red cups.

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Image: Ling Design charity Christmas cards, £2.99 for 6 from John Lewis (bonus points if you noticed the Christmas tree, the wreath, the carol singers and the dog in a Santa hat).

If you know anything about Edinburgh, you know it has literature in its soul. What you may not know is that it also has literature in its masonry.

Here are three places in Edinburgh where words have leapt off the page and into the world, listed in ascending order of obscurity.

1. Canongate Wall

2. Makars' Court

3. A random office building

This is a city of shifting light, of changing skies, of sudden vistas. A city so beautiful it breaks the heart again and again.

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I love fireworks. Fireworks have the same magical power as roller coasters to instantly make me a child again. It's that feeling of giddy wonder, of marvelling at the ingenious lengths man will go to for no reason other than pleasure. Plus there's a delicious tingle of fear on top. British adults of my generation have seen enough episodes of 999 to know that fireworks are no f*ing joke.

In honour of Bonfire Night, here, for your viewing pleasure, is the best fireworks display in the history of the world. You might have seen it before, but you can never, ever see it too many times. It's what happens when you accidentally condense a 30-minute fireworks display into 50 deafening seconds.

Enjoy.

OTHER RIDICULOUS THINGS YOU MIGHT ENJOY:

→ The worst-trained dog in the world
→ The best thing anyone's ever done with a carnation
→ A GUINEA PIG wearing a SOMBRERO
→ Another high-brow post


Image by the beautiful, talented and generally lovely Lucy Stendall.

Nearly a decade ago, Edwin Morgan wrote a poem called For the Opening of the Scottish Parliament, 9 October 2004. 

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“As a visitor, when you step on to the Tunnock’s production line, the smells alone make you smile – baked biscuits, warm chocolate, toasted coconut – and the sight of row upon row of white mallow Tea Cakes entering the chocolate enrobing machine brings on a sort of vertigo as you resist the urge to rush forward and dive in.’”

Everything about this Tunnock's article, from the extremely cool graphic layout to photo captions like "Mallow heaven: Tea Cakes after their quiffs have been removed and before their chocolate bath," is completely charming. The only problem is that all I can think about now is biscuits.

The big question is: Tea Cake or Caramel Wafer?


Cards by Gillian Kyle. If one designer of confectionary-based products isn't enough for you, Nikki McWilliams does a very nice selection of biscuits too. Nom.

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I think we all know by now that I'm fond of a bit of poetry. I don't really know much about it - the last time I attempted any kind of proper literary analysis was over a decade ago - but I admire and enjoy it, and really, isn't that the point?

So, obviously, I am very into these free downloadable posters from the Scottish Poetry Library. Not only do I love the graphic type and candy colours, I love the very idea of printing poetry off and sticking it on your wall, like it was a Romeo+Juliet-era Leonardo DiCaprio poster.

I'm tempted to download "A tiny radiance" for the space above my desk, but I feel like my boss might take it the wrong way. I also can't get over the description of poetry as "the breast milk of language." Indeed.


If you prefer pictures to words, Pugly Pixel shared a link a while back to a new project from the Rijks Museum, which is offering free high-res downloads of artworks from its vast collection.

In order to help you narrow down which pieces you might like to download, the museum offers a 'Master Matching' service, which is kind of like a Cosmo "Which Sex and the City character are you?" quiz except infinitely classier. Instead of suffering the indignity of categorising yourself as a particular type cocktail or shoe  ("Practical flats? You're so Miranda!"), you're invited to select your favourite Dutch city (who doesn't love Maastricht?) and ponder whether you were a hermit or a queen in a past life (hermit, obvs). This, ladies and gents, is my idea of a good time.

Update: I took my own advice.


Poetry posters via the Scottish Poetry Library. Porcelain plate circa 1778-1782 via Rijks Studio.

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I went to a wedding industry event in London last week, as one does. It was glamorous, gorgeous and very full-on. It's tempting, when you live in Edinburgh, to think that only the dregs are left behind here; that all the truly creative, talented, exciting people skip off to London at the first opportunity. (In fairness, that's because lots of them do.)

But yesterday, that theory was disproved. In fact, it was so thoroughly crushed beneath the weight of Edinburghian awesomeness that there is nothing but a sad heap of tiny theoretical crumbs left.

This is just a wee sneak peek into a shoot that I styled this weekend, in collaboration with a whole troupe of talented local folk. It was ace. Forgive me if I jump up and down and squeal for a while. Lots more coming soon, if you can bear it.

How was your weekend?


(On a tenuously related note, every time I see the words "sneak peek" I think of the bot tirelessly roving Twitter and correcting every person who spells it "sneak peak". It's called Stealth Mountain, because it's a sneaky peak.)


Photography: Lauren McGlynn Photography | Floral magic: I Heart Flowers | Dresses: Rowanjoy | Jewellery: Black Box |Venue: Timberyard | Hair: Milk | Makeup: Amy Irving | Design layout inspired by Breanna Rose

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.

Today, I had the pleasure of doling out advice to an Alabama couple planning an Edinburgh elopement, for East Side Bride. I've waxed lyrical about my love for ESB before, so I won't bang on about it. Suffice to say, she's ace, I'm honoured, my post kind of ended up being about five million words long.

If you'd like to read my recommendations for a low-key, hipster elopement to Edinburgh (and let's face it, who wouldn't), I'd encourage you to go and read my post right now. And if you know of any other top secret, badass venues hidden away down Edinburgh's back lanes, I'd love to hear about them. The current ratio of country houses to murder-ridden caves in the Scottish wedding media is just not good enough.


P.S. If you're visiting here from ESB for the first time, I should probably plug the wedding stuff. But truthfully, I think you might prefer the posts filed under 'Don't be a dick'.


Image: shot by David Wickham and styled by Bijou Bride for Vogue Italia, via Love My Dress. I like to imagine this is how our Alabama bride will emerge from her plane upon arrival at Turnhouse. Totally feasible.

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

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

I haven't been sure what to say about Mull. In all honesty, I find other people's holidays excruciatingly dull, and I'm always reluctant to inflict the full details of my own on anyone who hasn't asked about it, or who isn't directly related to me and therefore has no choice. "Oh, you went somewhere beautiful and had a wonderful time? How nice for you. I was at home, cutting my toenails and watching three-year-old episodes of Don't Tell The Bride. Want to see five hundred pictures of my week?" I try to stick to the highlights reel; a few snaps, a couple of pithy remarks, and leave it at that.
We sat outside in sunshine, plucking plump flesh out of little pink shells. Sweet mussels, squat lobsters, salty haddock, all freshly caught and landed just yards away. We breathed deeply, laughed freely, ate constantly.

So, I'm back from Mull, and I have to tell you: it was SENSATIONAL. I take back every bad thought I ever had and every snarky comment I ever made about spending my precious week of summer holiday in a cottage on an island in rain-sodden Scotland. The sun shone, the birds sang, the cows gave Smidgen the stink-eye; it was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that I couldn't possibly bring myself to tarnish the experience by doing something as sweaty and unpleasant as running. I was on holiday.  I think we can all agree that holidays are not for running. Holidays are for eating. And drinking.

But time and athletic pursuits wait for no man, so on Sunday I duly donned my pink t-shirt and ran my race. That's right: RAN IT. It wasn't exactly a fast time by international standards, but given the lack of training and week of holiday excess that directly preceded it, it wasn't bad. As I crossed the finish line, I was beaming. Who needs training?

Ha. Ha ha ha.

Believe me, I'm not smiling now. I'm hobbling. Every time I stand up, my muscles pop and shriek. I keep letting out inappropriate moans in the office. It's getting awkward. I'm shuffling around the place like the only single man at the seniors' disco. So apparently training isn't such a terrible idea after all. Who knew?

When I've recovered full use of my limbs, I'll be back with a thrilling rundown of our holiday (in short: eat, shower, eat, spectacular scenery, eat, drink, eat, drink, sleep, repeat). Until then, I just want to say a heartfelt thank you to all of you who supported me, sponsored me, shouted at me (Ellie and Penny, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you) and generally reminded me the world is full of good people.

Thank you. From me, from my mum, and from all of us affected by cancer.

Bored of holidays to gorgeous, sunny places? Tired of the same old delicious food and crystal blue waters? Sick to death of strolling hand-in-hand watching the sun set on yet another balmy, tropical evening? Yeah, I thought you probably were.

That's why, just for you, Fin and I have decided to forget all of that travelling-to-new-and-exotic-places crap and stay right here in solid, dependable Scotland. Who cares about sunshine! Sunshine is for losers! I never liked it anyway!

No, I am NOT protesting too much. I am also totally fine with the fact that I sent Fin and his friends to the supermarket to get supplies for our group trip to a cottage on the Isle of Mull and they came back 90 minutes and £160 later with nothing but booze and Doritos. Totally. Fine. With. It. (Sorry about that noise. It's just my teeth grinding.)

Our plans are pretty loose at the moment, so any suggestions for things to do in Mull and Iona are welcome. Suggestions for things to do in Mull and Iona when it's almost certainly going to be raining are actively encouraged. On the list so far: drink a lot of booze, eat a lot of Doritos, under no circumstances watch any horror films set in isolated locations.

Not on the list: the internet. This unfortunately means I'll have to cut back on my usual hectic blogging schedule (my, how times have changed), but I'm sure you'll cope.

Have a fabulous week, folks, and if you're off somewhere sunny and glamorous, well, try not to be too jealous of me. I know it will be hard. If you're very lucky, I'll bring you back a midge.



{Neenah + Andy's engagement shoot by Kristen Marie Photography in Seattle. I can't help thinking I'd feel right at home in the Pacific Northwest.}

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;
Naething could resist my Nancy;

I have absolutely no intention of wading into the whole Scottish independence debate on here. I spend my life uncomfortably wedged between a fervent nationalist (my mother) and a staunch unionist (my husband), so the only sensible course of action here is for me to sink gratefully into a warm bath of indifference. It's a self-preservation thing.