We'll take a cheese fondue, please

Did anyone else watch We'll Take Manhattan last night? The much-hyped BBC Four dramatisation followed David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton as they shagged their way around New York in 1962. Somehow, they found time in their busy sex schedule to squeeze in a bit of ground-breaking fashion photography and to single-handedly bring down the British class system. There was also a teddy bear. And a lot of hairspray.

I'm still not sure the film really explained what made this shoot so iconic, other than something complicated to do with the film format and the controversial inclusion of a rusty fence. To be honest, I was too distracted by our leather-clad antihero's jolly Dick van Dyke accent and Karen Gillan's gravity-defying hair to pay much attention to what was going on. Although I did notice some nice use of light (see, I'm learning!).

However, I am assured that Bailey and Shrimpton were quite the cool couple in their day. So you can imagine my excitement when I spotted this little detail:

That's my girl! Because what's the first thing you're going to pack for your once-in-a-lifetime modelling tour of Manhattan with your married lover and the fashion editor of Vogue?  Why, your knitting bag, obviously. Told you knitting was cool. I like to think she's knitting a snood for one of her dogs (two sheepdogs, an Airedale, a Schnauzer and a German Shepherd, apparently), but sadly my hypothesis wasn't confirmed. We'll never know.

In other news, tomorrow we are jetting off on a little adventure of our own. The French Alps probably couldn't be less like Manhattan if they tried, but I still can't wait to spend some quality time there with the Hubster, my family and huge quantities of cheese.

I'll be back in a week or so, bone-weary and goggle-tanned. À bientôt, mes amies.

{Top image: Jean Shrimpton for British Vogue shot by David Bailey (who else?). Bottom image via the BBC.}

Ae fond kiss

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 

While the star of hope she leaves him? 

Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; 

Dark despair around benights me.

From Ae Fond Kiss

Robert Burns wrote this ode to unrequited love in 1791 (read the rest, and a snippet of scandalous backstory, here). As with all of Burns' best bits, his words are lovely to read, but better to listen to, especially when sung by the incomparable Eddi Reader.

Tonight is Burns Night, which means haggis for tea. To those of you who might balk at the idea of eating haggis, I have three things to say:

1. It's delicious.

2. What exactly do you think is inside a sausage?

3. Did I mention IT'S DELICIOUS?

Don't worry, though. If you really can't stomach it, vegetarian haggis is also, fortunately, delicious. Fun fact: my dad's friend invented vegetarian haggis. That's right, I move in exalted circles.

Anyone else celebrating Burns Night? And does anyone else get really quite upset when people cross their arms at the wrong bit of Auld Lang Syne, or - horrors - sing "for the sake of"...?

P.S. If haggis and poetry aren't your thing (in which case, we need to have a serious talk about our friendship), might I recommend this old but hilarious post by an altogether different Burns.

P.P.S. Thanks for all of your comments yesterday. You're the best.

Images by Chloe Aftel from this beautiful polaroid wedding over on east side bride.

One year.

It comes on like an itch. A niggling voice whispering in my ear, "You could do that".

Shyly, almost furtively, I set up an account. Tentatively play around with names, a header. Decide both are shit, close the browser, write it off. No, I can't do it. I can't.

The voice persists. You can. 

I fixate on the name. A blog needs a name. I scribble lists in bed. Score them out on the bus, bludgeoning every tiny, blossoming idea with the blunt force of my insecurities. Stupid. Lame. Been done. 

If I can't think of a name, then I won't have to write anything, and then there is no possibility of it being rubbish.

Of course, a name comes upon me suddenly, uninvited. Sneaks in before I can crush it, and takes root. Now there is nothing left but me and an empty screen. Damn it. 

Guess I'd better write something.

Hitting post for the first time is agony. The second, the third, only slightly less so. I spend so much time carefully crafting these missives to the world but apparently the world isn't interested. The disappointment is immense.  I was right. I can't do it. Nobody is reading.

Until one day, miraculously, somebody is. Soon there are comments, and tweets, and sweet sweet emails, and hey, would you look at that: I'm a blogger.

199 posts, and counting...

I know the whole world isn't reading (although it's surely only a matter of time?), but YOU are. And to you, you who left me that amazing comment, you who bought me that drink that time, you there on the hunt for fake ponytails - especially you - I would like to say thank you. Thank you for this year. It's been kind of a big deal for me.

And thanks, too, to that whispering voice. Turns out I *can* do it. Maybe I ought to listen to you more often.

(I know, I'm gushing. Shut up. It's my party and I'll gush if I want to.)


Print by Parada Creations

Oh, shit!*

How did I manage to forget about the one massive, all-consuming thing that happened this weekend??

Smidgen got worms. WORMS. INSIDE HER BODY. Until some of them were, erm, no longer inside. Which is how we found out about the worms.

Bleeeuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhh.

After one of the most disturbing googling sessions of my life, culminating in searching "why do dogs need their anal glands expressed" (top tip: do not click on that video), I now know that they were roundworms, because they "look just like a piece of cooked spaghetti".

So yeah, probably never eating spaghetti ever again.

{This is the only picture I could find that could even begin to convey the grossness of what went on this weekend. From here. Hope none of you were having spaghetti for lunch.}

*Pun fully intented.

A productive weekend

You remember that damn snood I've been knitting for weeks? Well, this weekend I finally finished it. Hooray! I'm a bit embarrassed to admit how proud I am. But just look at it, all grey and snuggly and perfect. Perfect from certain angles, anyway. I hope winter lasts forever so I can wear it all the time! And no, please don't remind me I said that when it's snowing in July.

If anyone wants to whip themselves up something similar, I used about a ball and a half of this wool in 'Wren' and I'd be happy to share my completely made-up and not-remotely-professional pattern. If I can remember it. Just email me.

(I'm not pregnant in that picture, by the way; that's just how I stand. Ask Lauren.) 

In other weekend news, I packed for my ski holiday. Oh, I didn't mention my ski holiday? Yeah, I'm going on one. With Fin, and my parents, and my brother and his girlfriend and his friend and his girlfriend and a van full of wine. I suspect we'll need it. 

We're not actually leaving until next weekend, but my dad is driving said van all the way to the French Alps  this week with our bags and skis and snowboards (and wine) onboard, thus saving us approximately ten billion euros in easyjet baggage fees, so we had to pack this weekend. This makes a change from my usual packing procedure, which consists of making endless lists of all possible holiday capsule wardrobe combinations until it's midnight the night before departure and I'm desperately cramming damp clothing into a bag because I've been too busy making lists to actually do anything productive, like washing.

Actually, that's pretty much exactly what happened this weekend. It just happened six days before departure instead of six hours. Whatev, I still call that an improvement.

So, that was my weekend. How was yours?

Dear Fashion Blogger

"There's no time like the present to start wearing wetsuit inspired dresses"?

There is no time, EVER, to start wearing wetsuit-inspired dresses.

Let me tell you, I spent a lot of time in a wetsuit during my teenage years, and I am not going back there. I don't care if "the super tight fabric makes for perfect body contouring". It also makes for the stench of rotting dolphin in your airing cupboard.

(Not literally. It's not like I was out harpooning dolphins in my spare time. And anyway, harpoons are so last season.)

What's next? High-heeled flippers?

No. Just no.

Love,

Blogger Who Refuses To Take Nautical To The Next Level

I really wanted to find a way to work Zena Holloway's dreamy underwater fashion photography (possibly the only occasion where a wetsuit dress and flipper heels might actually be appropriate) into this post, but I couldn't, so you'll just have to take a look for yourselves. Happy weekend, people.

{Michael Kors Resort 2012 Collection via Fashionologie. High-tide heels by Paul Schietekat via Metro.}

The pedants are revolting!

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.

But there is one thing that never fails to ruffle the calm waters of my disinterest. One thing guaranteed to have me leaping to my feet, dripping with righteous indignation. This one thing can be summed up in eight short words:

"England" and "Britain" are not the same thing.

One more time, for the folks at the back:

"England" and "Britain" are NOT. THE. SAME. THING.

Those of you who live on this fair isle will I hope be reasonably familiar with this concept. Those of you who live in other places, places where pants are trousers and sunshine is more than a bi-annual occurrence, well, I understand that the United Kingdom has a unique constitutional arrangement and not everyone in the entire world is educated about it from birth (more's the pity). But oh good lord, whenever I hear people referring to England when they mean the UK, it drives me crazy.

To be clear: I say this not as a patriot (although I am quite fond of our soggy little nation, and it hurts me to see it perceived as just another English county), but as an irredeemable, incurable pedant. 

Seriously. It's like a disease. Whenever someone writes or says something that I know to be factually incorrect in even the smallest respect, I find it physically painful to keep my corrections to myself. My husband will confirm that it is my most irritating trait. And not in an endearing way.

At least I'm aware of it, and I am *trying* to get better. I almost got into a disagreement with one of my closest friends over whether it was James Murdoch or Rebekah Brooks who announced the News of the World closure to its staff. Even though I knew the answer (hint: it wasn't the redhead) and even though there was a computer sitting there winking at me, flashing its search engines, offering to prove me right, I somehow managed to restrain myself and just... let it go. Because does being right matter more than being a friend? No. Probably. No, definitely no.

(Although apparently I didn't really let it go, since this happened in July and I'm clearly still bitter about it. And now I've flaunted my rightness all over my blog. Like I said: incurable.)

So who has incurred my pedantic wrath this week, I hear you cry? Well, it was none other than the goddess that is Meryl Streep. Usually, Meryl can do no wrong in my eyes, but after winning a Golden Globe for her portrayal of Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady, she made sure to thank, in her speech, "everybody in England" for letting her "trample all over their history".

Oh, Meryl. Meryl, Meryl, Meryl. How could you let me down like this? You seem like an intelligent woman. You've just spent weeks living in this country. Worse than that, you were here giving what could be the defining performance of your career as one of the most notorious leaders this country has ever had. How is it possible that you still don't know what this country is called? Margaret Thatcher was not the Prime Minister of England. England does not have a Prime Minister. England no longer has a parliament. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland does. LOOK IT UP.

And, breathe.

There is another possibility, of course. Maybe Meryl's speech was really a clever allusion to the fact that, even though Thatcher decimated Scotland's industrial communities, put a fifth of its workforce out of a job within the first two years of her administration and imposed upon its people the most unpopular tax in Scottish history, her Conservative government never actually won a majority in Scotland. So we do technically have the people of England (well, okay, mainly the posh ones in the south) to thank for that. (Thanks.)

In which case, Meryl, by all means - trample away. I'll even hold your giant skirt for you.

Images: Site of the National Mining Museum of Scotland at the former Lady Victoria Colliery near Edinburgh, by LDN Architects.

Hypothetically speaking

Those of you follow me on Pinterest might have noticed my pins taking a slight swerve in direction lately. Actually, more of a major detour. A one-way ticket heading back up the tracks, destination: Weddingville. 

It's not for me, though. It's, um, for a friend.

FINE, it's for me. Although there is, in fact, a friend. One who is trapped in that curious limbo that you might call, if you were so inclined, a pre-engaged state. So I offered to create a wedding inspiration board for her, one her boyfriend wouldn't see. Just to give her a few fun ideas, a bit of fluff and nonsense to brighten a dark January afternoon. Keep it light, keep it fun. If I happen to spot something in my internet wanderings that looks like it might be to her taste, I'll stick it in there, no big deal, nothing too heavy.

That was three days ago. I'm currently on 110 pins, and counting.

From hairstyles to dresses to invitations to colour schemes to flowers to artfully-arranged tree branches dripping in candles, I cannot seem to stop.

I've been trying recently to curb my interest in all things wedding-y, after someone told me it was "time I got over all this wedding stuff". In fairness, the comment that incited this display of tough love was something along the lines of, "[sigh] Every time I hear 'In the Bleak Midwinter' [gaze wistfully into middle distance], part of me mourns the winter wedding I never had". They had a point. I needed to let it go. Stop playing the if-I-were-getting-married-again game, stop second-guessing my choices, stop indulging in hypothetical wedding planning every time I think I see something more stylish, more meaningful, more beautiful.

So I restricted myself to only the bare wedding essentials. Filled myself up instead with fashion blogs and lifestyle blogs and fumbling our way through adulthood blogs and I thought I was fine, I thought I was over it, but it turns out that all I needed was the merest of nudges and here I am again. Gorging myself on ribbons and lace, scooping up diamonds and dresses with greedy, grasping fingers.

It's okay though, because it's not for me. It's for a friend.

{First image via Handmade Ryan Gosling. Second image by Float Away Studios via Style Me Pretty.}

How to knit for a nosy bitch

As I've mentioned a couple of times, I've been attempting a bit of knitting recently. (Sadly, while I wait for Smidgen to shed enough hair for me to start spinning it into yarn, I've been having to make do with the non-animal-hair variety.)

A couple of you have asked what a snood is, which I thought was a bit strange, until I discovered that before the late 80s (when the snood as I know it, a tube-like scarf thing, became all the rage in North Berwick), THIS is what a snood looked like:

Um, no. That is not what I'm knitting for myself. And it is most definitely not what I knitted for Smidgen. I don't even know how that would work. Where would her ears go? What would the other dogs say? What would she wear it with? No. What I knitted for Smidgen was this:

I know. My skill as a knitter is dazzling. Behold the slightly wonky hole for her lead, the "rustic" ribbing, the body language that manages to convey shame and disgust in equal measures. In fairness, it could have been worse.

As for myself, I'm aiming for something like this...

...but I'm not going to get my hopes up too high.

This sudden, fervent obsession with knitting is quite a recent development in Operation Be More Creative. It all started when Zoë of Conversation Pieces and I decided in a moment of crafting madness to sign up to a knitting class. After a difficult and prolonged process involving muddled needles, panicked tweeting and An Unfortunate Incident With The Dog, we finally coaxed into being two perfectly imperfect hats (mine resplendent with an incredibly dense and heavy pompom. It's the pompom equivalent of a black hole).

I have never been so proud:

The hat in action. Isn't she beautiful?

Buoyed by my early success, I decided for my second project to knit the present for my Nosy Bitches gift recipient (who I can finally reveal was the lovely Trisha). Her favourite colour is purple and I think she has kind of an alternative vibe going on (she was a blue-haired bride!), so I picked up some purple yarn and got to knitting swearing unravelling knitting.

Can you guess what it is?

No? How about now?

Really? Still no? Okay, try this on for size:

Ta-da!

What do you mean, "are they legwarmers"? Of course they're not legwarmers! That would be completely ridiculous! Who would want a pair of legwarmers?!

They're handwarmers.

Which is, of course, not remotely ridiculous.

I did kind of write on the card what they were meant to be. Just, you know. In case. Obviously played the Scotland card too, to make them seem a bit more authentic and Celtic-y. As though maybe Trisha might read the card and think, "Oh, that must just be a special Scottish knitting technique. Those holes are probably intentional. Those crazy Scots. Probably drunk*."

I deliberately haven't posted a picture of me modelling them, because they make me look like I've got a broken arm. Or the wrist equivalent of a cankle. But I have seen a picture of Trisha rocking them, and they look ace on her, so that's some comfort.

If you fancy making some for yourself (and let's face it, who wouldn't?) I found the pattern here. I went for the pattern without a thumb-hole, because, well, I don't know how to knit thumb-holes yet. Tube-shaped things and pompoms are the entire extent of my abilities.

Pompom legwarmers, anyone?

*Possibly true.

{Images: 1. tinpotlil on etsy. Is it wrong that I kind of like that dress?? 2&3. Hairnet-snood things: source unknown. 4. Me. 5. Laark chunky knit snood. 6. Lauren McGlynn 7-10. All me. Obvi.}

Back by popular demand

Nina put in a request on Twitter for more pictures of Smidgen, and seemed surprised when I was like, OKAY THEN! Do you guys honestly think I need much encouragement to post pictures of the cutest greyhound in the history of greyhounds*? Come on. You know me better than that.

So, above, we have yet another photo of Smidgen sleeping. Apparently, opening Christmas presents is exhausting. Also, FYI, I totally knitted that. It's a snood. For the dog. Lord help me, what have I become?

Smidge getting her pose on. Yes, she has two different coats. Because apparently *that* is what I've become. 

This is pretty much her facial expression for the entire time she is (a) in a location other than our flat, and/or (b) in the presence of anyone who is not me or Fin. She's "shy" (for which, read a total wimp). Awwwww.

Okay so Smidgen isn't technically in this picture, but let's get real: there is no way Fin and I would be going for a walk at dusk in the middle of winter if it weren't for her. She might not be in it, but she's in it.

Wow, this walking business is sooo tiiiring. (This is seriously how she sleeps.)

And finally, her favourite spot in the whole house. She likes to poke her nose over the back of the couch and make big, sad, starving-puppy eyes at us in the kitchen, until we take pity on her and give her a nibble of whatever we're making. Unless it's pork, in which case there are no puppy eyes sad enough to outweigh the vile, toxic stench of the farts that would inevitably follow. That's dog ownership, folks. G.L.A.M.O.R.O.U.S. 

(You might also want to admire our Christmas tree in the background, which I officially declared The Gayest Christmas Tree in Edinburgh. It even had disco balls on it, and the word "NOEL", which in the absence of a proper Ë could just as easily be a reference to Noel from Hear'Say as a nod to the festive season. I kind of miss it.)

*I have no way of verifying this.

Pinspiration

Are you on Pinterest?	→	No
↓		↓
Yes	Get on it
↓		↓
Follow Courtney Cerruti immediately That is all.

(Well, almost all. For every great pinner with an amazing eye like Courtney, there are a whole bunch of crazies pinning "thinspiration", crocheted bike wheels and baby cakes. On which, see this handy little round-up. Okay, now I'm done.)

{Images all via Courtney Cerruti's pinboards. I know I should credit them all, but it's late and I'm lazy and only ten people are reading this anyway. You'll just have to look it up.}

Speaking of wearing ridiculous things on your head

I'm not sure which of them is more pissed off at this situation.

Like cats? Hate cat hair? Like making shit? Then boy, do I have the book for you! Crafting With Cat Hair will tell you everything you need to know to turn those pesky fur balls into beautiful and useful objects for you and your home. I can't promise you there's a hat pattern in there, but there is definitely one for a cat-hair finger puppet. Because WHO WOULDN'T WANT A CAT-HAIR FINGER PUPPET?

While one reviewer bemoaned the lack of more complex techniques ("I was hoping there'd be other uses for cat hair, such as spinning it into yarn"), this is nevertheless the definitive guide to feline felting, fit to grace any crafter's bookshelf. Might I suggest placing it alongside your copy of Knit Your Own Royal Wedding?

(Yes, Crafting With Cat Hair is an actual, genuine book, that someone has actually, genuinely published. There's hope for us all.)

While we're on the subject of books, I spent an idle half hour over the weekend creating a little "{as seen on} a safe mooring" Amazon store, as a way to gather together all the bits and pieces I've linked to from here*. I'm not going to lie, it's a bizarre collection, ranging from poetry to Slankets, Anchorman to Retired Racing Greyhounds for Dummies. Something for everyone there, I think you'll agree.

Don't forget that, with all Amazon links, if you click on the link and then buy something, I will be QUIDS IN. I mean, the money still isn't exactly rolling in, but surely it's only a matter of time until I'm able to jack in the day job and live off the spoils of all of you people buying obscure craft books and Postcards from Penguin. In fact, thanks to the person who bought a TV the other day (um, jackpot!), there's a chance I might actually be able to afford to buy something soon.

I've got my eye on Knitting with Dog Hair.



*Yes, okay, this is a blatant rip-off of Florence Finds' idea. What of it?

{Thanks to My Spare Thoughts for bringing this great work of literature to my attention. Image: River Viiperi and cat (name unknown) shot by Pieter Henket for Guapo February 2010.}

OMG FAKE PONYTAILS ARE BACK!

You remember my abiding love for the fake ponytail, yes? Well, apparently, fake ponytails are making a comeback.

Of course, you only need to look at my blog's search traffic to know they never went away.

I wonder if a fake ponytail would work on a pixie cut? I'm thinking... no.

{All images via Hershesons}

A perfect white wine

AmeliaKayPhoto... $32.00	WhitlockandCo $34.00	matouenpeluche $16.00	beccasophie $24.00
andrea0503 $139.00	AmeliaKayPhoto... $30.00	TinyArmour $27.00	SeeLifeShine $14.00
PernillasSS $9.50	houseofismay $5.00	kittyrogers $25.00	MamaTita $50.00

A perfect white wine
is sharp, sweet and cold as this:
birdsong in winter.

Haiku by Wendy Cope

This weekend, I will be mainly:

♥ Drinking wine, which may or may not be white, and which is unlikely in either event to be perfect. Thank God I was too lazy to make any anti-drinking resolutions this year, or they would have been well and truly crushed by now.

♥ Taking Smidgen on increasingly blustery walks. What is with all this wind? Don't they know I ordered snow, dammit?

♥ Frittering away the hours making pretty grids of all the things I want to buy on etsy. It's kind of addictive - I've made four in the last two days. So far, I've managed to refrain from actually purchasing anything, but it's only a matter of time.

♥ Reading the wise and funny words of Wendy Cope (I like to think of her as the blog's Official Poet). I picked up her latest volume when my mum and I went to see her read in August, but I've only just sat down to read it, and it's heaven.

♥ Knitting a damn snood.

How about you?


'Birdsong in Winter' etsy treasury imported into Blogger using the Treasury tool by Red Row Studio, via DDay. Haiku from Family Values by Wendy Cope.