We used to wait...

Lady Fharfhar  and friend contemplating their long wait...and FEELING  GOOD!!

Aahh, the sweet smell of toast in the morning, dripping with butter and coated in jam. Yes, lovely, you might be thinking but...? Well, dear people I'm going to take you back now to what for some may be a distant memory, when you longed for a toy, a pair of pixie-boots, the new Roxette single. To long for is not something we do much anymore (yes, I'm getting thought provokingy here. Call it my end of week sermon if you will) and I am constantly reminded by my children how the desire for something adds to the pleasure of getting (because the bizarre acting out of the ownership of the desired item is sustained for a whole lot longer when the bit of plastic crap isn't actually there!). 
This morning, amidst the chaos of getting the boys ready for their  sweat-shops and chimney work we all had a moment of mourning. Our favourite raspberry jam, made by the fair hands of the gorgeous sister-in-law that is the Great Zoe, was down to the last scrapings. Alas, it will be a long wait for the next jar, as the little kitchen star picks those English raspberries in season, off the flippin' bushes no less and carries them home on her donkey (okey, that is a lie unfortunately) to create pure magic in her kitchen, in a way that no shop or even deli bought conserve can match. We wait and guess what, that jam will be all the sweeter for it. 
In fact, being an unprofessional blogger/writer/academic, I am now in the throws of brain spazzing as there is so much I could say on the subject but time is short. Caspar is poorly. Asa has done a stinker and I have cakes to decorate for Leo' cake stall at school which Oscar will be giving me marks out of 10000000 for.
I don't think that can all wait unfortunately but listen to We Used to Wait by Arcade Fire sometime and those lovely singing people will remind you that the wait can sometimes be almost as tasty as Zoe' jam. (Oooh, slick end Wozza!)

Cake it up! Scores Oscar...?

Knock, knock

no-one is immune!

-'Knock, knock'
-'Hello?'
-'Hello, sir. I'm your local bright colour law enforcement officer  and I'm going to have to arrest you and lock you up for 72 years for your boring, nice, polite and quite frankly, utterly wotsit door. Say your goodbyes and get into this flourescent box please.'

Whooaa there. Don't panic and sit back down. I'm just letting you know that very soon that scary cop could be pounding down your door! Bright colours are the new Chesney Hawkes and you'd better get on my bandwagon now if you don't want to be left in old rubbishdoorcolourville. Yes, there are some Farrow and Ball colours that are lovely but I'm afraid it is all becoming a bit yawny,yawn and it is time to liven things up. So that is what my house is getting. A pea green front door and the boys are gonna flippin' love it. Not sure if boss man knows this yet but if he is keepin' up with what's going down then he is gonna be fly with my shizzle.

saw this....

changing this...

lovin' this!

.... cup o' tea?

bottom pads

"I don't know about you Big Baby, but this has got to be the hottest seat in town!" -Kevin Levin

We have some kitchen chairs that I bought at Swinderby antiques fair (http://www.asfairs.com/)a few years back. I felt rather pleased with my buy as they were 4 ercol dining chairs for not very much, which suited our budget for most things at the time so once they had crossed the threshold of my house they immediately made themselves useful. As time passed, more and more little fidgety people squirmed around on them, dropped food on them and probably even leaked a little on them but they never complained and I always felt grateful to these rather elegant but sturdy chairs for working so hard in our kitchen. Each had four legs, a back and a seat pad - hold-on, did I say seat 'pad?. And then last week,  after a few glasses of wine or more the boss man laid it bear, "Woman, you do a lot in my house but you forget to make chairs comfy. Many years of pain I feel sitting on bony chair. Big problem. You fix. More wine." Of course, I told him to take a stroll, that he was lacking in clarity and he needed to appreciate the clean design  - and have a jug of water,  but I did hear his point - a bit later. On my own. When he was snoring. 
Filling is all they needed. After 30 odd years of use, the stuffing had decomposed and some surgery was called for. I could do it, there wasn't much work involved but on passing a lovely looking studio space I doubled back to find I was looking right in on an upholsterers called 7 Upholstery  ( http://www.7upholstery.co.uk/ ) . Inside I met the two lovely people who have worked there for the last 5 years, Michael and Linda and told them of my dilemma. By the next morning I had entrusted them with our limp and sorry looking seat pads which, within a week were back in my house, all jazzed up and happy again. 
There aren't many upholsterers around that seem to work like this pair and if I had anything else for them to cheer up then I'd be down there before the old man managed to "woman" me again. It is a great space that they have and unlike many upholsterers they are tuned into the current fashions meaning even if you don't know how to revamp something, they will and you won't feel like a plonker about it.

Now go and buy some old furniture and get down there!

Linda but not Michael

"ooh, yur gonna luv this..."

(p.s. all that "woman" stuff was just done for the humour of the blog and does not reflect the true character of the said person.At all.)

lovin' those lines

Growing old gracefully - John Currin

A facial. Yes, I'm going to write a few words about this most strange of female (and occasionally mens') pleasures because for me it is always a little bittersweet. Bitter because on the few occasions I have laid my face bare to the hands of a 'therapist' half my age I have never come away with skin like moo mans derriere - when clean that is - and sweet because the simple pleasure of having the sole attention of a face polisher who is going to play you whale music, dim the lights and stroke your face for one whole hour is strangely gratifying. 
However the guilt of such an indulgence hampers the drifting off and the practical, no-nonsense, get things done side of me tells me to get myself off that bed and fix a shelf, run a marathon or get involved in world affairs. Stop wasting time and money on such vacuous female nonsense. Well, too late. Because for one hour only, the sweet, thoughtful man of my house has sent me for some indulgent ladytime in the hands of one lovely young creature at the Cowshed. 
So i'm lying on the examination/therapy table and I'm wanting to give the 'therapist' the impression of someone who regularly cleanses and buffs but instead I'm aware of my gulping in moments when she is surely thinking "she must be drifting off, I've got her, job done". 
But then come the extractions! For those who haven't experienced this Victorian ritual, it is a moment, or in my case a rather extended one, where your 'therapist' starts squeezing and no doubt squirting all sorts of debris and delights out of your pores. Now I don't think I can be alone in this when I say that the disarming nature of this procedure is the only thing that stops me from walking out. Yes, I am thrilled to know that my head is now half its salon arrival weight but I'd managed quite well before this appointment hadn't I? 
Post masks and more creams I then get a break down of all the 'work' just done and I'm starting to reach for my wallet. What potions can this white witch subscribe? I've gone from being a cleanse and moisturise once a day kind of girl to a serum queen who needs a shopping list of kit to stop my 'mature'-What!!! (36, give me a break cause I'm supposed to be enjoying this.)- skin from rapidly aging. 
And then the time comes when the 'therapist' very quietly leaves the room - do they move around like that at home too? It's making me feel very big and oafish as I stumble to pull on my tops and fumble with my dirty old converse - before you are invited to  head over to the reception and pay quite a lot of money for a very shiny, greasy face. 'How much? Oh...!(nervous smile)- no, I won't be needing the shopping list today but I might pop in next week if I'm prepared to not eat for a month'. 

I leave,walking out into the polluted streets of London, with a greasy hair line and abnormally oily looking skin and have a 5 minute moment where I think, yes, I must keep this up ... before being burped back to reality with four noisy boys whose only comment is 'what happened to your face?' Thanks though, boss man.x     

East end Girls

 girl I saw on Church St.  - 15/1/11

Balenciaga A/W 2011

Creative directors of todays large fashion houses don't have much time for the partying anymore. First there are the two main collections, then the cruise lines, probably the diffusion lines and now the more profiled 'pre' collections. Okey, it serves as a taster of what is to come but crikey! that is a LOT of work. So if you happen to be Nicolas Ghesquiere, Head designer of Balenciaga and a pretty talented man, who is constantly trying to subvert fashion' typical 'pretty me up' aesthetic, then sometimes you have to just blatantly pinch a look or two from a less glamorous part of the globe to cut yourself a break and get home early - Hackney for example. 
You would have to be a little slow on the style front to not know that  the East end has always housed London' more edgy creative scene due to cheaper rents, studio spaces and the on going art and music scene but it is fairly new to see an old Haute Couture fashion house sitting up and taking such acute notice. In fact it looks like they have been shopping here recently. Geek chic works well in Hackney but I'm rather chuckling at the thought of the Vogue woman walking around in a complete 'Look', at the cost of around £2000, when she would do just as well to visit Dirty Blonde on Church Street like 'Mary' in the illustration above and come away with about £1940 in change. It is nice to know that sometimes, in fashion, it pays to be poor!