Merry and Bright

I hope you are feeling marginally happier about Christmas than these guys.

In fairness, I'd be pretty pissed off if someone forced a Santa hat on my head and took pictures of me, too.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas, filled with love, laughter, Chocolate Oranges and weird-looking dogs. That's what I'm hoping for, anyway.

See you on the other side (*coughMYBIRTHDAYcough*).

Top 20 Dogs Dressed as Santa via Stylist.co.uk, thanks to Linsey.

Nosy Bitches

Hmm, how to explain the Nosy Bitches? The easiest way to describe them would be a random group of women who chat on twitter, but that would make it sound tragic, so let's call it a network of smart, interesting, funny ladies who originally found each other through the A Practical Wedding community (which is, by the way, scientifically proven to be awesome) and who continue to offer each other support, advice, hilarity and cake through the medium of social networking. Does that sound any better? Probably not. Let's move swiftly on. 

So the super-stylish Ms Bunny organised the first ever Nosy Bitches Non-Denominational Gift Giver. This is essentially a Secret Santa, but shhh, don't tell them I said that. Inevitably, being the Joiner that I am (hello, In Her Own Words and APW Book Club and Any Other Party and Blook Club and and and...), I signed up. Because who doesn't need an extra gift to buy/make and send internationally in the middle of December? Not this girl!

Well, people, let me tell you. The Nosy Bitches are called that for a reason. They know things. Over the last few days, my twitter feed has been packed with incredulous tweets as, one by one, the recipients received thoughtful, meaningful, utterly perfect gifts and asked, without irony and without exception, HOW DID YOU KNOW?? 

The answer, of course, is BECAUSE YOU PUT YOUR WHOLE LIFE ON THE INTERNET FOR EVERYONE TO SEE. Which might be slightly worrying, if it weren't for the fact that there are presents. Presents make up for a lot. And the present my Nosy Bitch sent to me is no exception.

Before I tell you what it was, let's examine the evidence. 

EXHIBIT A: LIKES GREYHOUNDS.

You might not be aware of this, but I recently got a dog. I may have mentioned it once or twice. I'm not sure.

EXHIBIT B: LIKES VINTAGE STYLE

Much as the word "vintage" makes me squirm, I am on record as having a bit of a thing for classic silhouettes and period style. If you were to take a peek at my pins, the sharp-eyed might notice I have a bit of a thing for fashion illustration, like this beautiful watercolour, and if you're a serious, hardcore stalker, you might have clocked the reproduction vintage poster in the background of that picture of Smidgen up there. You might also be sitting outside my house right now. But let's hope not.

EXHIBIT C: LIKES PEOPLE POSING WITH DOGS

Like here, and here, and here. Oh and let's not forget here.

So, let's recap. Likes greyhounds. Likes vintage style and fashion illustration. Likes people posing with dogs. Hmm, if only there was some sort of vintage-style fashion illustration of a person posing with a greyhound sitting under my Christmas tree...

Can you actually believe it? It's so perfect, it's almost creepy. I love it. Thank you so much, Ariel. I am honestly, truly touched that you thought of me and what I might like, and didn't just shove some hole-y knitting and some chocolate in an envelope like I did (I'll tell you what I made for my Nosy Bitch when I know she's received it I've recovered from the shame of my crappy knitting). 

I've written before about internet relationships crossing over into our real, everyday lives. Having this package appear and sit underneath my Christmas tree for a few days, until I finally caved and opened it last night (what? It's meant to be non-denominational, okay?), felt very real to me. It was a tangible, visible reminder of how far I've come in the last 11 months of blogging and how many kind and generous people I've met, whether in person or otherwise.

I hope to be back with another post some time before Christmas but, until then, I hope the next few days are as calm, peaceful and filled with joy as they possibly can be.

{Images: 1. Typewriter by What Kristen Saw taken at the Lovely Pigeon Christmas Event 2. First posted here 3. Gemma Milly, first posted here 4. Me and Smidgen by Lauren McGlynn 5. By me, clearly.}

Dear Passive-Aggressive Neighbour

Writing the words "Please" and "Thank you" in quotation marks kind of defeats the purpose.

Just thought you might need to know that for future neighbourly notes. You're "welcome."

Love,
Your Neighbour Who Is Now Secretly Plotting To Train Her Dog To Crap Beside Your Car


{Image via Passive Aggressive Notes}

Babies ≠ Pets

One of my dearest friends has just announced that she and her husband are having a baby. Cue high-pitched squeals and the immediate perusing of etsy for all the little tiny baby things. Even though sometimes it feels like I am surrounded by babies, thanks to all you amazing internet ladies who make motherhood look fun and even - gasp! - kind of cool, in fact she is the first of my "real-life" friends to get pregnant, so excitement levels are through the roof.

"I can't believe she's going to have a baby," I said to Fin, for the millionth time since we got the call.

"I know," he replied.

A pause.

"Kind of makes getting a pet look a bit less impressive, doesn't it?"

Yes, Fin. Yes it does.

{Image by Jamie of a desert fete}

Naked as a nightclub in daylight

"The difference between Chinese medicine and Western medicine is the dissection versus the observation of the thing in motion. The difference between reading a story and studying a story is the difference between living the story and killing the story and looking at its guts.

"School! We sat in English class and we dissected the stories that I'd escaped into, laid open their abdomens and tagged their organs, covered their genitals with polite, sterile drapes, recorded dutiful notes en masse that told us what the story was about, but never what the story was. Stories are propaganda, virii that slide past your critical immune system and insert themselves discreetly into your emotions. Kill them and cut them open and they're as naked as a nightclub in daylight."

From Eastern Standard Tribe by Cory Doctorow

When Maggie O'Farrell spoke at Fringe by the Sea, she talked about her love of poetry, and mentioned how glad she was that she had studied English literature and not creative writing at university. In order to be able to write a novel, she said, it was important to know how to take one apart, examine it, and then carefully put it all back together again.

Naturally, having studied neither literature nor writing but rather something significantly less poetic, I was a little dismayed by her advice. Oh well, too late to go back and change it now. I had the option to study English, or music, or even creative writing. I applied for and was accepted onto courses in all of these subjects at reputable institutions. But by that stage, after thirteen solid years of education, I just wanted to be able to read a book and not be constantly bothered by wondering what the meaning was, what the author was really trying to say. For years, I had been too busy analysing writing to do something as pedestrian as enjoying it. So I chose instead a subject where the words I was analysing were so dreadfully dull that there was no chance anyone could ever actually enjoy them anyway, and in fact the process of analysis at least served as a distraction from the relentless monotony of the text.

Somehow, though, as the years go on, it's easy to forget that there was a reason behind my decisions. It's easy to feel guilty for reading carelessly, for fun, with no thought to the higher aim or purpose of the writer. And it's oh so easy to add "Not having an English literature degree" to the list of Reasons Why I Could Never Be A Writer.

But last night, when I read the words above, I was struck anew by the simple truth that there is nothing wrong with reading, or writing for that matter, purely for pleasure. In fact, you know what? I think that may be kind of the point.

(Yes, I did just use the words "genitals" and "naked" in the same post. Twice. Bring it on, spammers and weirdos. Bring it on.)

Excerpt from the second page (boom!) of Eastern Standard Tribe by Cory Doctorow, which made its way to me via the excellent Book Crossing project. Image from Day and Night, a series of photographs of Berlin nightclubs by day, on Finding Berlin.

Things my father has taught me, Vol. 1

1. How to play my first ever tune on the piano.

2. Always to question the statistics you hear on TV.

3. That it is possible to function in a room where only 10% of the floor space is visible (but that maybe it would make for an easier life just to tidy up a little bit).

4. Which is the best seat on a roller coaster.

5. That life isn't complete without a little adventure.

Happy Birthday, Dad

xxx

(Yes, my family is full of December babies. It can be an expensive month.)

{Top image by Lillian and Leonard. Bottom image taken in Cairngorm Car Park, April 1969-ish. Some things never change.}

Things my mother has taught me, Vol. 1

1. That poetry can be funny.

2. How to make a mean macaroni cheese.

3. That singing along to a good song is one of life's great joys.

4. The importance of small acts of kindness.

5. How to rock a sheepskin coat.

Happy Birthday, Mum

xxx

{Top image first seen here. Bottom image from my fun picture-taking day with the wonderful Lauren McGlynn. You can see a couple more on her blog here, along with the first of her series on how to take better photographs, and I'll be back with more next week.}

Keeping it real.

Last night, two friends who we hadn't seen since the wedding came over for dinner. Before long, we found ourselves talking about the wedding; what an amazing day it was, how much fun we all had, how there was a bizarre one-day plague of greenflies on the beach but how it didn't matter in the slightest. They looked through our photos, all 600+ of them, because they are superheroes, or too polite to say no.

We shared stories, trading them back and forth between us. My favourite anecdote was one that had completely slipped from my mind. 

It goes like this.

The packed dance floor heaves and swells. As the song comes to a triumphant end, a woman picks up her heavy white skirts and wades awkwardly through them towards the bar. Unsurprisingly, she doesn't get far.

"Oh my god, Kirsty! You look amaaaazing!! I'm having sooooo much fun! Are you having a good night?!"

"I am," she smiles, sparkly-eyed, emitting that ubiquitous bridal glow. "It's been the best day ever."

A pause.

"But it's also the first time I've experienced sweaty shins."

If you're in favour of keeping it real when it comes to weddings, or if you know someone who is getting married or who is married or who one day maybe might get married, or if you just give a shit about supporting people who give a shit, you need to be participating in the Great APW Book Buy of 2011. I'm not even joking. Buy this book. Today. Now. You won't regret it.



{Wedding pictures by Lillian and Leonard}

December just keeps getting better!

I WON A COMPETITION!! You have no idea how exciting this is for me. Especially when all I had to do was retweet a tweet, which I totally would have just done anyway, because the lady in question is awesome. 

My prize was a pack of ten prints by the very talented Becky of Bexphoto, who also blogs at Olive Dragonfly and has been a supporter of my wee blog for aaaages (see, here's her first ever comment! Oh yes, I remember you all, you little de-blurkers). I was lucky enough to chat with Becky at Any Other Party and she made my night when she "recognised" me at the bar. I felt like a celeb, for approximately five seconds, until I blurted out "aaaaah, hiiiii, so glad there's another Scottish person here!". Not cool.

I chose her Scottish landscape set (just look at those moody skies - swoon), but her Underwater set is pretty gorgeous too. A nice little stocking filler for the aspiring marine biologist in your life, perhaps?

Thank you so much Becky! I can't wait to get my grubby little mitts on my prize. Now I must dash, I'm off to continue my winning streak by buying a euromillions ticket. If you never hear from me again, you'll know what happened.



{Gratuitous and completely irrelevant picture of hot Neville, aka Matthew Lewis, from here. Image of Black Rock Cottage, Glen Coe by Bexphoto.}

It's heeeeeeere!

FINALLY. I've been itching for the festive season to officially start for a long, long time, but somehow December has snuck up on me and I can't quite believe it's that time of year again. I haven't even got myself an advent calendar/advent candle/hand-crafted super-duper advent extravaganza yet, and as for Christmas presents... well. The less said about that, the better. I do have some sparkly boots though, so don't go thinking I'm *completely* unprepared for the festivities.

I am stupidly busy at the moment, but my Christmas present to myself (oh and birthday present. Did I mention it's my birthday in December too? No? It is. Two days after Christmas, in fact. You might hear me mention it once or twice. Or a million times. One side-effect of having a birthday so close to Christmas is that I feel the need to bring it up at every opportunity, lest anyone should come even remotely close to forgetting it. Or - even worse - wrapping my birthday presents in Christmas paper. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THAT?) is to devote a little more time to blogging for the rest of the month. I'm not all that far away from my one-year bloggiversary and I don't want to limp halfheartedly across that threshold, dragging my pale, lifeless blog along behind me like a shrivelled limb, oh no. I want to skip across it wearing sparkly boots and singing Christmas songs. Even though it will be January by then. Whatever.

In this spirit, I am so excited to be hanging out with the lovely Lauren McGlynn this weekend and hopefully taking a few pictures of the newest and most photogenic member of my little family. I might even be in some of them too, and if you're VERY lucky (and I don't look like a total weirdo in them), you might get to see them. Merry Christmas.

Anyone else getting into the Christmas spirit? No? Just me...?

 

(That isn't Smidgen in the antlers, by the way. Not yet, anyway. You know how I feel about dogs wearing clothes.)

Image: Punchline by Derek Potts

Reasons why November is a rubbish month, Part 27

Am I the only person who finds Movember extremely disconcerting?

I'm 90% certain I was in a meeting with Freddie Mercury this morning.

Hurry up and be December already.


{Freddie with Jane Seymour wearing what can only be described as The Most Intense Flower Crown Ever, via Awesome People Hanging Out Together}

Let this be a warning.

Would I have found this so funny before I became a dog owner?

I reckon I still would.

I also reckon Smidgen is never going to be allowed off her lead ANYWHERE, EVER. I  mean, can you imagine???

I hope that those of you who celebrated Thanksgiving had a delicious time, and that your trousers still do up. Those of you lucky enough to be heading to a certain bash ce soir, have a fabulous night. Give the gorgeous Anna a high five from me. 

As for me, I'm taking my sparkly boots on their first ever outing. I may be unable to walk tomorrow. But it's worth it, because they're sparkly, and it's Christmas (sort of. Okay not really. Whatever).

Happy weekend, peeps.

Pink Stinks

A confession: I actually quite like pink, if it's a nice pink (hello, blog). I also carried on playing with Barbies for longer than anyone who hopes to have a normal social life reasonably should, only giving up when the potential embarrassment of being found out by my friends was finally greater than the joy I found in making up stories and creating outfits and designing floorplans all over my bedroom carpet with precarious rows of books as walls. 

But I also read those books, and rode my bike, and wore green dungarees and red wellies and nobody accused me of not being feminine. I played with Barbie; I didn't aspire to be her. 

I don't have a daughter, or any immediate prospect of one, but even I can see that there is something badly wrong with the way in which little girls are targeted and defined by today's media. There's pink, and then there's Pink.

In the sheltered, calm waters of the blogosphere (or at least the corner of it that I frequent), it's tempting to believe that the tide is turning. I see intelligent, stylish parents raising their daughters with respect, imagination and more than one colour of clothing, and I feel some measure of hope for my own hypothetical offspring.

But apparently, the rest of the world is lagging behind a bit. More than a bit, in fact. Just look at this. Ugh, and this. Sigh.

All is not lost, though. I have been following the Pink Stinks campaign on facebook for a while, and I was delighted to see their new website has just launched this week. Their campaigns not only highlight the pinkification (what? It's totally a word) of little girls, but also challenge the underlying stereotypes and blatant sexism that sneaks in behind it. They first caught my attention when they forced Sainsburys to back down over gender stereotyping (they labelled a fancy dress doctor costume "Boy", and a nurse's uniform "Girl". I mean, come on). By the looks of the shiny new Pink Stinks website, they are headed for even bigger things. I defy you to watch the promo video on the front page and stop your jaw from dropping. It's not possible. 

Far be it from me to lecture parents on how to raise their children. I'm finding it exhausting enough just trying to keep a dog alive. But not even dogs are safe from this ruthless gender stereotyping. Just look at poor Smidgen:

The Pink is spreading, ladies. WE HAVE TO STOP IT.

1. Doutzen Kroes shot by Karl Lagerfeld (yes, really) for Harper's Bazaar, April 2008. 2. Me, shot by a responsible adult, presumably. 3. Smidgen, shot by me. She loves it really...

Hi.

Shit. Can you believe it's been two weeks since I last posted?  

Remember when I went on holiday that time, and I got all those people to write amazing guest posts for me while I was away, because I couldn't possibly leave the blog unmanned for a single day?

Yeah, I don't know what happened either.

I'm pretty sure this post is in breach of The First Rule of Copyblogger, but it's all I've got. Here are some pictures of Smidgen to make up for it. I'll be back with more soon, I promise.

(She says hi too.)

{Top image: Scrabble art print, $22, The Light Fantastic, who also offers really sweet free wallpapers and who I've just noticed is based in Edinburgh, Indiana! Who knew there was an Edinburgh in Indiana?! Is that really exciting, or have I just been spending too much time hanging out with the world's laziest dog? Actually, don't answer that.}

Calling all Weegies

This weekend, my mum and I are going on a jaunt. We are hopping on a train out of Edinburgh, waving farewell to its stairways and spires and air of refined elegance, and heading west. Back to the city where she was born. The city where I came of age, met my husband and learned the finer points of comparative constitutional law. And drank. A lot.

Every time I return to Glasgow, I take personal offence at things that have changed. How dare they replace the places I used to go with new places where new people go? Who do these new people think they are? Don't they know it's my city? What do you mean I don't live here any more, what does that have to do with anything? Why are you asking me to leave? Please can I finish my cocktail first?

The sad truth of it is, I simply don't know it any more, not like I used to. Glasgow is not the kind of city that sits still, gazing wistfully out of the window as it awaits your return, perhaps doing a bit of embroidery to keep it occupied. Glasgow moves on. Glasgow gets a makeover. Glasgow is snogging someone else before your train has even left the station.

So, I'm asking you for help. Glasgow people, what are your favourite weekend haunts? Anywhere we really ought to go, any hidden gems we should seek out? What are the cool kids (and their mothers) doing these days?

To narrow it down a little, we will be staying in the West End (old habits die hard) from Friday to Sunday and will be mainly focusing on eating, drinking, chatting, shopping, eating, wandering and drinking. 

At least some things haven't changed.

{West End Map by Alice Dansey-Wright via They Draw and Travel}

One week to go.

*DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY SMIDGEN. OR ME*

We've bought the books. We've bought the bed. We've bought the toys, the bowls, the waterproof coat with tartan lining (because apparently greyhounds feel the cold and apparently I am the kind of person who coordinates her outfit with her dog's). We've taken her for walks, smuggled her cubes of cheese and generally made a fuss of her in the hope that she won't be too utterly traumatised when she realises she will have to hang out with us all the time. FOREVER.

This time next week, there will be a furry bundle of bones snoozing on our couch, with nobody but us to look after her, and I'm kind of shitting myself. Over a dog. She's not even a puppy. Seriously, you baby people, I am in awe. How does one ever feel prepared? Do you read a million books on every tiny aspect? Do you cross your fingers and hope for the best? Do you simply believe it's never actually going to happen? 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't see the dog as a bit of a practice run. Here's hoping we don't fuck it up too badly.

{You really don't see enough greyhound-themed fashion shoots, in my opinion. Tanya Dziahileva shot by Jean-Daniel Lorieux and styled by Marie-José Susskind-Jalou for L'Officiel Paris, October 2011, via mode.newslicious.net}

Hang the DJ

There is nothing, repeat nothing, more cringingly awful than people quoting song lyrics as if they are deeply meaningful works of literature. It  is painfully, toe-curlingly embarrassing. When a friend who shall remain nameless told me that, overcome with love one day, she texted her boyfriend the lyrics to Chasing Cars, a small part of me died inside.

But if I were ever to make an exception to this rule (and I won't, but if I were), it would be for Mr Steven Patrick Morrissey. The man is a genius. He's also a bit of a pompous twat with borderline racist tendencies, but a genius nonetheless. What's more, he's the Hubster's favouritest favourite ever. 

The Smiths are known for being, well, a bit glum. A bit moany. Lines like, "for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows, it would be the first time," don't exactly help to alleviate that impression. But trust me, it's not all just depressive whining. Some of it's angry, some of it's thoughtful, some of it's even - whisper it - funny. ("I was looking for a job, and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now." I mean, COME ON.)

And some of Morrissey's songs are the best love songs ever written. Fact.

Not the "oh, you're so beautiful and everything's so perfect, I want to hold your hand and gaze lovingly into your eyes and frolic through soft-focus fields forever and ever" kind of love song. I'm talking about the gritty, honest, this-is-what-love-really-feels-like-and-it's-sometimes-quite-shit kind of love song. 

I'm talking about lyrics like, "Boot the grime of this world in the crotch, dear, and don't go home tonight. Come out and find the one that you love and who loves you."

Lyrics like, "You're on your own tonight, with your triumphs and your charms, while they are in each other's arms."

Lyrics like, "I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. There's a club if you'd like to go - you could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry and you want to die." (Erm, okay, that one is kind of depressing.)

Lyrics like, "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die. And if a ten-tonne truck kills the both of us, to die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine." (That one is so good, the awesome Celia has it framed above her bed, and Fin and I had it printed in the back of our orders of service on our wedding day, despite my aforementioned hatred of lyric-quoting.)

And then there's my favourite Smiths line. Maybe the best Smiths line ever.  This line:

"It's so easy to laugh. 

It's so easy to hate.

It takes strength to be gentle and kind."

Boom. Told you Morrissey was good.

Tell me I'm not the only Moz fan lurking in the blogosphere. Or tell me I'm wrong and the lyrics to Chasing Cars are in fact a sophisticated expression of the power and and simplicity of love rather than a pile of cheesy meaningless crap.

(Sorry, Nameless Friend, if you're reading this. Nothing's changed, I still love you. Only slightly less than I used to.)

{Amazing Penguin Classics/Smiths posters by Hunting Bears. Why is the Ask one sold out? WHYYYY??}

I carry your heart.

When I first saw this picture on Pinterest, it took me a few moments to figure it out. But when I did, it touched me so much. I love imagining some young man, scissors in hand, tongue out and brow furrowed in a perfect picture of concentration, carefully cutting out his sweetheart's face. Was it to fit in a heart-shaped frame, or was it just a moment of whimsy? Did they marry and grow old together, or did they quarrel and part, leaving the picture crumpled and torn, a literal broken heart?

I carry a picture of Fin in my wallet that was taken nearly ten years ago. I see it ten times a day, but rarely do I look at it. Oh, he looks so young in it. I still remember when the picture was taken. I know who he is talking to, just out of shot. It has faded over time, been transferred from purse to purse, become imprinted with a decade's worth of coins and cards and grubby receipts. I know I should really replace it with something more recent, one of our wedding photos maybe, or one that Lucy took, and yet I resist. There is something lovely about that first bit of love, when you are young and sparkly and new.

I hope they did marry. I hope that young man carefully tucked that picture somewhere safe and carried it with him wherever he went. Carried it in his heart.


(Incidentally, Fin has a picture of me in his wallet. It was taken just as we were saying our wedding vows. One of the kids he works with, on seeing it, announced loudly that "Fin's wife is really hot." I love that kid.)


{Image is, I believe, from Even Cleveland but I haven't been able to find the source. If anyone is any the wiser, do let me know.}

If Goldilocks bought sparkly boots...

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?

UPDATE: east side bride just posted about these sparkly boots. I am so ahead of the game.

{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.}

Secondary Breast Cancer Awareness Day

My local supermarket looks like Barbie's wardrobe has exploded all over it. Everything is inexplicably pink. For a moment I'm confused, until it clicks. Ah yes. It must be October. 

October, for those who are colour blind or live in a cave, is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I feel oddly ambivalent towards it. On the one hand, it's a cause close to my heart. On the other, I'm very well aware of it already thank you very much. I do not need a vomit-inducing ocean of pink to remind me. And I feel like breast cancer has an unfortunate tendency to hog the limelight - and the funding, and the research - to the detriment of other, less glamorous cancers. As if there's anything glamorous about any of them.

But today, for one day, I will put my misgivings to one side and shout from the rooftops, because today is the second ever Secondary Breast Cancer Awareness Day.

I've written a little bit before about how it feels to have loved one with secondary breast cancer (the short version: it feels crap). What makes it even harder is the extreme learning curve that hurls you upwards into a confusing world of metastases and taxotere and stages and prognosis and a million acronyms that you have no hope of ever understanding. At first, I thought my mum just had really bad luck. Imagine getting bone cancer when you've already beaten breast cancer! Then, later, I learned she actually had breast cancer in her bones, and began to understand just how unlucky she really was.

(By the way, if you're still wondering what exactly all this secondary breast cancer stuff is all about, allow me to direct you to this wonderful comic. Its creator's wife was diagnosed last year with Stage III breast cancer and he sums up in a few lines and letters what a hundred detailed booklets and websites can still fail to make clear. Also, this one. Weep.)

I'm not saying it would have been better if I'd known secondary breast cancer was a possibility. I would probably have spent the decade between my mum's primary and secondary diagnoses worrying about every ache and twinge, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. But it's scary how many women who have had breast cancer don't even know what it is or, more importantly, what to look out for. And on a purely selfish level, it would be nice, once in a while, not to have to explain to a well-meaning person that words like "cure" and "battle" and "better" don't actually help. Secondary breast cancer requires a different kind of positive thinking.

The bigger issue is that primary breast cancer - its prevention, its treatment, its care - dominates the fun runs and the research budgets and the public understanding of what breast cancer is.  It can sometimes feel like the medical community has turned its back on secondary sufferers, preferring to concentrate its precious resources on the victorious finality of a Cure, instead of on the slippery and amorphous concept of Control. Yet many women who have been treated for primary breast cancer will one day have to face the sadness and terror of a secondary diagnosis (we don't know how many, because nobody is even collecting this data), so isn't it time we started paying attention to them too?

So, today, I would be ever so grateful if you would share this link - like it, tweet it, +1 it, print it out and stick it on your notice board, I don't care. Breast Cancer Care is a wonderful charity for all people affected by breast cancer. They have made a big difference to me and my family and they really deserve our support. 

Thanks team.

{Top image: collage by Nathalie Boutté via Journal du Design via Anna's Pinterest. Thanks to Trisha and Kayce for the xkcd links.}

Swoon

There is a distinct autumnal chill in the air. The brief warmth that flared up at the end of last month has fizzled out as quickly as it appeared, and Autumn is well and truly upon us, necessitating the purchase of cosy winter coats. So what better way to pass a wet October Saturday afternoon, for a girl temporarily without a husband and with absolutely no plans, than sitting alone in the darkness with nothing but her wildly beating heart to keep her company as a tragic love story unfolds across a silver screen?

No, I did not go to see Johnny English Reborn. I went to see Jane Eyre. And I adored it.

From the muted colour palette and spine-crushing corsetry to the restrained passion of the central performances, everything about it is beautifully understated. I was utterly spellbound from start to finish and actually continued to wander around in a dream for a good two hours afterwards. So much so that, as I strolled through the shops in a cinematically-induced dwam, I found myself inexplicably lusting after dresses such as these: 

I can't imagine why.

And the lusting didn't end there. I hesitate to admit this, but I don't think I've ever read Jane Eyre, nor have I read Wuthering Heights (oh, the shame), so I spent much of the first half of the film trying to remember which of them was the crazy-first-wife-in-the-attic one. That question was answered soon enough, and promptly replaced by far more pressing issues: namely, where can I find myself a Mr Edward Fairfax Rochester and can I get him to run away with me immediately?

Byronic heroes are a bit of a weakness of mine (in literary terms, you understand). One only has to glance at a list of typical traits to understand why. "Intelligent and perceptive". "Self-critical and introspective". "Mysterious, magnetic and charismatic". "Seductive and sexually attractive". "Having a troubled past or suffering from an unnamed crime". Hello, bad boy. Mix in a bit of period style (floppy hair, billowing sleeves, offensively long sideburns) and SWOON.

I frequently find myself indulging in full-length romantic fantasies involving whichever brooding antihero has most recently leapt off the pages of a book and swept me off my metaphorical feet. Hell, even Edward Cullen would do in a pinch. Two souls yearning for each other, smouldering declarations of love, some sort of unexpected tragedy and maybe a bit of riding around on a horse looking manly. Isn't that what a perfect romance should look like?

Well, maybe.

But what happens after the last page has been turned, the last frame has faded from the screen? Most of these epic, tortured romances culminate in a wedding, an engagement, or some similar declaration of everlasting love. Cue passionate snoggage and ebullient strings, as the camera pans away across the windswept moors. The End. Except it's not the end, is it?

I find myself wondering what sort of a husband Rochester would make. Would he leave his friends and drive across town to let me in when I forget my keys? Would he randomly send me a link to over 200 quotations about dogs? Would he remember to put the bins out?

When I first met my husband, he had, or so I thought, a touch of the Byronic hero about him. He didn't go to classes, which of course meant he must be a sexy, rebellious outlaw. He wasn't overtly flirtatious with me, which of course meant he must be a brooding, enigmatic brute who was secretly in love with me. He even had some pretty serious sideburns, which meant he was, well, stuck in the 90s, but you can't have everything.

I now know that he was, in fact, just a little lost when it came to his degree, and to crazy girls who followed him around like a sad puppy, and to facial grooming. Fin has never told me he wants me for my soul - I'm pretty sure he wants me for my macaroni cheese. When he proposed, it wasn't like this. It was like this.

Because married life is not a romantic novel, much as I might occasionally dream it to be so. It is a nothing more than a series of days, strung together like a row of pearls. Each one is subtly different - some glow a little brighter, some are dulled by the patina of time - but, from a distance, they all look much the same. It is in the uniformity and in the whole, not in any one component, that the real beauty lies.

Marie recently quoted Jeffrey Eugenides on marriage. He wrote, "to be happy you have to find variety in repetition", and it's lingered with me since. I think there is certainly some truth in it; swooning won't last forever. Frankly it would just get exhausting. And from what I've experienced so far of marriage, the small daily acts of love are worth a thousand grand gestures or passionate speeches.

But even a married lady is allowed to spend an occasional rainy afternoon swooning over a hot man in a pair of breeches, no?

Dresses by Louche, available at Joy. All images from Jane Eyre