Waging War on the Commuting Couples....

If you are privileged enough to not need to wade through hoards of plebs as part of your expedition from warm bed to cold hard desk each weekday morning then you can probably stop reading now. I have a small rant to let loose which I'm sure many fellow commuters will relate to if, like me, they've been wound up to screaming point by the  tribulations involved in getting from A to Office whilst trying to retain some sanity, a small degree of composure and (oh please God) without breaking a sweat.

My major issue here lies in a particular sub-section of Londoners who make me feel like I would rather not 'Mind The Gap' but instead use it as a disposal unit for these most annoying of people clogging up the transport system: yes, I'm looking at you COMMUTING COUPLES.

Don't even think about it you two....

Let me just start by saying what I have been dying to let out for almost half a year now: "Fuck you, commuting couples. Go home." You have tarnished countless mornings with your sleepy, weepy dough eyed fixations on each other. I've tried to ignore you. I've looked away, read the newspaper, dug my nails into my palms in an attempt to distract myself from the fury you induce. But whatever I try, as soon as raise my head there you are, clinging onto each other with fear as 8.24am looms with the intention of tearing you away from one another for eight, whole, heart aching hours. The sad longing in your faces is too much to tolerate: as if the working day was just a cruel idea conjured up by dark, empty souls who wanted to see early morning lovers torn apart.

If it looks this good (and the train is this empty) then it's ok....

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for the love. I'm the first to fling my arms around my closest of friends as we unite for post-work drinks, and with lucky boyfriends of the past I have had no reservations about sneaking in a little public weekend smooch should the moment take us (following the obvious rules of no tongues, no inappropriate groping and ABSOLUTELY no noises. Bleugh.) My main issue here is that to enjoy any form of physical contact on the tube is simply perverted. In an environment where there is a strong likelihood of having your cheek pressed up against a stranger's armpit whilst the guy behind you 'unintentionally' gets his hand wedged up against your derriere, to flaunt your pleasure at being squashed up against your commuting comrade is just sick. Think of the productivity you could achieve if you perhaps left the house 3 minutes before your partner? You could actually read something en route to work or you could use your un-held hand to text one of the many friends who you inevitably neglect or even just indulge in some independent thoughts perhaps?

Look at how shocked Boris was when I told him about the issue. Poor Boris.

 I'm not just idly ranting here, I actually have a well devised solution of this pandemic: TFL simply need to introduce a 9am watershed on romantic interaction. Perfect. They ban petting in public swimming pools so why not ban necking on the Northern Line? It makes perfect sense - anything that could help London's worker bees to be a little less tense has got to be worthwhile. I bet Boris would love it.

 So, Commuting Couples, snap out of it and stop tripping me up with your combined width when I'm racing though Victoria or the petition will be set into motion. If I'm expected to keep my porridge down in public then I expect you to keep you tongues to yourselves.

 You have been warned.

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Finally!! Sheer - without revealing your ta-tas. Cheers Topshop.

So I'm a big fan of the sheer blouse. To such an extent that when I showed a potential top half purchase to a friend recently they actually cocked their head to one side and came back with: "Yeeeah... but it's not very you... I mean, it's not even remotely see-through."

Something I do have a little trouble with however, is how to do sheer in the daytime. Or the work place. Generally anywhere you would not usually reveal your undies. Or nips, should the climate be approapriate or the flowing of G&T's be guarenteed.This little quandry was instantly remedied when I stumbled upon this little Toppers number, for a snip at £36. Strategically placed chiffon pleating.. thank you, you clever ladies and gents at Topshop, BRAVO.

I WANT TO GET ME ONE OF THEM

Apologies for how frequently I am about to mention vomit.....

I've been cursed with the seasonal lurgy. It caught up with me sometime last week between Euston and Camden on the Northern line. A hot flush and a dizzy spell in your twenties can only mean one thing - it's that time of year again when that bastard mid-week hangover meets the Decemeber chill and the two tussle over your immune system until you almost pass out and face plant the scuzzy tube seat next to you. Or vomit into the fake Louis Vuitton belonging to the woman squashed up against you. That's pretty standard though, those things are fugly and I fully intend to make it my mission to destroy each and every one of them in this city with my seasonal chunder.

Sorry, enough vom talk....

Anyhoo, so I'm ill and finding myself confined to my flat with only a pile of magazines and the www for company. For me this means the joy of an absolute blogathon: something which is usually confined to my eat-and-you'd-miss-it lunch break, I've been scrolling through hours of outfit posts, 'inspirational imagery', belated catwalk reports and in-store tip offs. Lovely stuff. But last night as I clicked the laptop screen shut before shuffling off to bed I didn't feel such gratification from my blog viewing binge. I was actually just pretty pissed off....

Personally, I adore fashion because it's fun. Yep, I know it is the architecture of society, it's one of the most significant ways of conveying the mood of a culture and it encapsulates the aesthetic of generations, but seriously guys, when did it loose its sense of humour? Fashion taken too seriously is just painful - it bites at your ankles and chases you around the room trying to strangle you with a pair of black leather-look leggings. Minimalism is beautiful and exudes control and elegance but if I have to see another photo of a sullen faced (yet beautiful) top-knotted girl in a beige buttoned up shirt I'm going to hurl (AGAIN. And this time all over a beige buttoned up shirt, which I'll take a photo of and post on my blog. HAH.)

Also, I totally get it that a large slice of the allure of the high-fashion world is that it excludes rather than includes: nothing would seem aspirational if it was smiling and dancing and asking for hugs in every other photo. And I suppose those who do embrace fashion in the whimsical, frivolous way get sideways looks on the street because people assume that you are a freaky colour clashing crazeee. But blogging is magical because it gives anyone who has an opinion a voice - even if it only gets heard by one person, at least its out there - so why not use it to make the steely stick thin fashion world a little bit more real and a little cosier? I'm probably getting pissy over a small minority of whats out there. Maybe I just stumbled across the wrong pages. Maybe I'm just too zoned out on pain killers and I've been removed from social interaction for far too long and I'm being a massive grouch..... PERFECT - I'm off to take a photo of myself looking moody, wearing something minimal and sucking in my cheeks. YESS I'M SO IN.

Q: "Surely only mentalists would queue overnight waiting for a shop to open?!" A: "Babe, it's Versace. And I'm British."

Trying to remind myself where  I was in the wee hours.

So over the past 24 hours I have experienced a somewhat life-altering cacophony of revelations. First and foremost, that Donatella Versace's lips do in fact require their own post code. They have their own assistant, entourage and they also own a small chiwawa called Pickles....

More relevantly, I realised that it is actually possible to rationalise sleeping rough all night on Regent Street just to get your hands on a load of Versace Swag - oh the power and the sheer GENIUS of the H&M high street/designer collaboration has proved, once again, irresistible to even the most sane of fashion fans. Its reach actually extends even further beyond the many girls and boys who have been anticipating the arrival of the first ever purse friendly Versace offering, to the somehow-savvy kids who fancied making a tidy sum buying up as many items their backpacks could handle in order to sell off their finds via Ebay hours after the collection was opened to the public and inevitably, very promptly, sold out.

Paul G: A true Gent.

For a mere 11 hour stint I managed to bag a teensy bottle of free Versace yellow diamond perfume (ermm... win...?) shake Donatella's hand and conjure up: "You look amazing.... oh god I feel like crap" to say to her before almost becoming entranced by her mammouth pout and finally elbowing her out of the way in favour of reaching the studded leather section.

I also mustn't fail to mention the wonderful, rather drunken 1am visit from my dear friend Paul which made a couple of hours fly by in a flurry of blueberry muffins, loudly shouted obscenities (Paul, not me, he's a deviant) and the hilarity of trying to explain that this had nothing to do with 'Vivace' and a jumble sale at HMV... oh Paul how I do adore you.


I understand if you are still wholly unconvinced that anyone who chooses to spend 12 hours shivering on the pavement waiting for H&M to open is not more than a few currants short of a chelsea bun. But for me there was method to the madness: even after being unfortunate enough to be photographed as 'one of those hardcore fashion obsessed crazies' at the front of many hundreds of bewildered queueing Versace fans by a hoard of well turned out (and well slept, you bastards) fashion bloggers and journos feeling like I'd decayed overnight into a female version of Blackadder's Baldrick. Not the most flattering moment to be photographed. Or filmed, thank you very much Grazia... [a few of the aforementioned life-altering realisations arise here, including 'Find way to make head less peanut/potato shaped - a fringe perhaps??' and 'For christ's sake try and sound less: whoopsie daises + daddy I want a pony!' Why has it taken me 24years to realise what my own cringe-worthy voice sounds like?! Perhapas a slap of make up wouldn't have gone amiss here either. Lesson learnt. View the vid here. but be warned: I WANT, I WANT, I WANT.....]

Anyway, to sum up the reason for all this silly behaviour: I'm a hybrid of fashion curious shopaholic who can shamelessy admit to enjoying a slice of glossy hyped up fashion 'history' and a shrewd little scally who wants to make a few bucks - because MAN ALIVE anyone with a clue knows that these dresses are going to fly like a golden pheonix on Ebay - and straight to my Paypal account, thank you very much Donatella. As my Dad so wisely put it earlier on the phone, I now have to think of myself as a drug dealer: what would happen if I just took all the drugs?! (Good question, Dad. Maybe I'd have a Versace overdose, wear the clothes day and night until I couldn't remember where Versace began and I ended? I'd ruin my relationships and my career go down the gutter as soon my garish appearance would become too much for anyone to witness.. This could honestly go on and on. I don't even have the energy to go into how hilarious my Dad's choice of analogy is)

I will most likely keep my fave items, or at least the ones which I can actually pull off, but as much as I would LOVE to have bought out the entire collection and proceed to wow at every xmas 'do' in the coming six weeks with a different Versace enemble, I'm desperate to make a buck, can't afford to be a romantic fashion obsessive in this case and dammit* I've put in the hard work of staying up all night on Regent Street so some Rich Banker's Girlfriend didn't have to. Ans that's fine. Maybe not so fine for you Mr Rich Banker, but you can afford it, so shut up. 

Bringing home the Bacon.

After all, there'll always be the opportunity to buy it back, perhaps a little tired and worn, in 18months time when the much anticipated collection ages into mere cast-offs. And then I'll treasure whatever bargains I get my mits on knowing that their spanking new predessors were my meal ticket for a couple of months - and nothing looks better than big old smug smile....

NOW, THE IMPORTANT BIT, HERE'S WHAT I PURCHASED:

Pink studded Silk Dress that Donatella herself was wearing Thursday morning....

THE jacket - it's even better in the flesh... it's velvet and so bright and colourful it could give you a seizure.

Softer than butter Leather dress with gold studs. This dress is basically THE SEX.

AMAZING dust bags free with each item. You could actually just wear one of these they're that puuurdy.

Oh and full on VELVET hangers. Yum.

(*Somewhat irrelevantly, I'd just like to add that I read The Graduate to pass many of the hours... which is perhaps where I've picked up the use of the antiquated curse word 'dammit'. Much better than the 'c' word anyway...)

Life's a bitch and then you.. cry.

Like many girls with a penchant for the finer things in life, I have always had an insatiable love for Mashed Potato. The billowing mounds of buttery goodness have seen me through the toughest of times: providing comfort during my early uni days when life's problems were solved by a bag of Asda instant, the remnants of a pot of Bisto and a kettle; adding a glistening silver lining to many a failed Atkins attempt and, of course, being the crowning glory of so many Sunday Roasts. My relationship with mash has not not always been entirely 'lump free', however.


I was probably a bit of a weeper as a kid: growing up on a field in sunny Sussex, not used to many disappointments in life and perhaps a tad over-sensitive. Frustration and anger sought me out one very unremarkable Sunday afternoon when I was dealt a large helping of unsavoury news: mashing potatoes were OUT OF SEASON?! The moment the news sunk in so did my heart, and hot unwelcome tears began to pump into my face: the now so familiar feeling of my lips and eye lids uncontrollably swelling up as I tried to stop what I knew was inevitably about to erupt. In an attempt to defend my eleven year old self - new potatoes honestly are not comparable to the old classics: there is nothing fluffy or indulgent about a new potato. It's like trying to substitute Scarlett Johansen for Marilyn Monroe. Ludicrous. Still, whatever degree of justification I can scrape together, I did cry over potatoes. I wept, sobbed and snotted through loyalty to a root vegetable. This is what crossed my mind last night as I felt a small embarrassed tear try and prickle it's way to the surface whilst on the tube home, following what I can only describe as an absolute 'shitter' of a day: life can't always be mashed potatoes... sometimes, life will trip you up, kick you up the arse and deal you out an unwelcome helping of newies. But to let it get you down, when there are actual real, relevant problems and issues happening to far less fortunate people in the world, would be equally as ridiculous as I was that fateful Sunday. So I gulped back the frustration and anger and managed to hold it together. At least until I got home, and found a cupboard bare of Bisto. Ah yes, and now for the Gravy metaphor of life.........

Girl...?

So, something really quite peculiar has arisen. Contrary to the title of this blog, it appears that I am no longer redundant! Please join me in playing the link below and doing a wee boogie around the room....

That song is suprisingly long... apparently Kool and The Gang are capable of marathon celebrations!

Just in case you wanted to know how funky I got during the last four minutes and fifty nine seconds... check out the link below, which a friend recently drew to my attention on account of the gent featured having 'stolen my moves'....

Ok, I'm going to stop you-tubing like a 13 year old boy now.

So back to the job thing, unfortunately, there aren't actually any congratulations or well done's in order here, however grateful I am to the lovelies who have given me a good pat on the back for re-joining the realms of the employed (and those who have jumped on board for a few celebratory drinks tonight, yeehaa) because my efforts with bombarding the entire fashion and retail industry with copies of my CV and pleading cover letters didn't really pay off at all - my old job has pretty much just given me my job back.

Crappy anti-climax, I know, but however much I wish there was a more life inspiring story to tell (eg. going travelling around the world and severing all ties to society OR Lorraine Candy deciding she actually loved me bombarding her with adoration on Twitter and having to hire me at ELLE Magazine immediately...) this is an undeniably marvellous thing, and I'm rather chuffed indeed (if a little confused a bewildered) and am looking forward to lunching again with my former colleagues next week :)

As for the blog, I spose I'm keeping at it, if for nothing else then to remind me of the constantly looming threat to my job security which the recession has kindly ushered in. Also, because I love that I've found a new way of ranting and rambling, (I'm sure most people just zone me out now when I go off on one after my second glass of rose) even despite the fact that I've been accused of revealing far too much of my private life: either rendering myself completely 'un-dateable' OR providing the perfect spring board for anyone with stalker-esque tendencies... both are risks I am willing to take.

To continue in my self indulgent blogging, I will have a bit of a recap over the weekend of the things which I have proudly achieved over the past four weeks... or at least some of the things which have made it pretty bloody aweeesome to be temporarily unemployed............

1) HELLO EGGS BENEDICT!!

I really have perfected my skills at making Hollandaise sauce over the past month, which has enabled me to eat an unhealthy quantity of my absolute favourite meal of Eggs Benedict.

Here are my very best instructions if you like serving a heart-attack on a plate for brekkie too:

OK, this isn't mine, this pic's off Google. Mine would look
waaay better ;) I will make it this weekend and photograph
the hell out of it. That is if I manage not to immediately wolf
down the whole thing.

1. Using the heaviest pan possible (so it doesn't get insanely hot in 3 seconds) separate an egg yolk from the white (save the white for later and add it to the other egg you poach, everyone loves a double white) and pop it in the COLD pan with a tablespoon of cold water. Whisk together and turn up the heat just a teensy bit. The trick here is not to just scramble the yolk, or you have disaster-eggs-benny which is heartbreaking.
2. Then, as it goes all frothy and saucy looking, add little bits of butter, bit by bit, waiting for each bit to melt before adding the next. It can take about half a stick of butter (this is clearly not for the calorie timid) and it's best to use unsalted, unless you want to speed up your heart attack ten-fold. 
3. Once it starts looking yummy, you might need to turn up the heat a little bit, as this will make it thicken up and go all dreamy and delicious.
4. Add lemon juice, to taste. I sometime pop in a cheeky drop of vinegar, cos I like my eggs benny to have a twang. 
5. QUICK NOW - Sauce off hob, split an English muffin, get it down the toaster and poach 2 eggs (plus one extra white, you lucky tinker you)
6. I like mine with smoked salmon, cos that's the posh kind of bird I am, but you can use ham, bacon or spinach if you're a veggie. (Interesting factoid: with salmon it's actually called Eggs Royale, with spinach it's Eggs Florentine and with Bacon it's Eggs Benedict - nice eh?) 
7. Now you just need to assemble: Muffin - Salmon - Eggs - Hollandaise - and, of course, Black Pepper.

VOILA - YUM IN YOUR TUM... Ooooh I'm mega hungry now.

I have to head out now, it's the weekend and celebratory drinks certainly are in order.

I can't express how over joyed I feel to have weekends back - everyday might have been a weekend before, but it seriously was getting old. Oh and I have my beloved Friday's back, oh how I have missed you!

HAPPY FRIDAY EVERYONE!!!!!!