Blackberries sweet from the bush give sustenance during a walk down footpaths in Hertfordshire
Leek and sweet potato risotto give sustenance to friends joining me for a birthday gathering
Lemon butterfly cupcakes in posh silver cupcakes give sustenance to hungry parents, down for the weekend to choose a wedding venue
It seems that the added bonus of betrothing oneself to a boy is the knock-on effect of betrothing oneself to his family. Despite the tenuous connection while we are still unwed, I am claiming myself auntie to the Boy's nephew, born on August 29 after two days' labour, a failed epidural and the final intrusion of a ventuose suction.
Agony indeed.
However, the beauty of childbirth is maintained in the fact that this is now long since forgotten in the squidgy brilliance that is Jamie George, seen here posing for his first dealing with the paparazzi at the tender age of six days old.
....chancing upon the only surviving windmill in Hertfordshire while driving around the villages...
...savouring the fleeting final days of summer on the patio...
...settling into our new home and its fabulous period features...
....getting used to an electric oven in time for the birthday baking extravaganza...
...acknowledging that shooting into a lit window is pointless but revelling nonetheless in my reading seat in the bay window...
Let’s be honest, I’m unlikely to ever be in a position to ring up Damien Hirst and request he produce me a piece of artwork specific to my requirements. Though I live in custom-made frocks, they’re custom made by me, which isn’t really quite the same as Chanel Couture. I am, however, in a position to commission jewellery, and am now the proud owner of a beautiful pair of earrings, specially commissioned to my specifications by an upcoming designer, currently touring the land as part of the Dazzle exhibition.
My sister’s 21st birthday party had a very specific theme of ‘A Hint of Pink’. I and the other 80 guests, were under strict instructions that we were to wear a hint and not a lot of pink, lest we divert attention away from the birthday girl. I wracked my brains for details to coordinate with my black and white frock.
While I love the pearl and oxidised silver bracelet stocked by mirror mirror, it was slightly beyond my purse strings. I contacted Abigail Percy, the extraordinarily talented young designer-maker, to see what she could do. She sent me a beautiful ‘hasty scribble’ (her words) of suggested designs and I selected the elegant simplicity of a single pearl drop on a handmade fitting.
They arrived just in time, no thanks to striking postmen, and I felt quite the belle of the ball.
The process was smooth and enjoyable and I highly recommend thinking outside the box when looking at contemporary jewellery designers’ work. If you like their general style but can’t quite see what you want, contacting them for a discussion is free and could result in a truly unique and beautiful piece.
Thanks, Abigail, and I look forward to doing business with you in the future.
I love this poster. By all accounts, this government poster from the early 1940s was found in an attic and reproduced by a small print company. It is now on sale at the V&A, Etsy and many other outlets in a variety of hues and framing styles to suit any interior and has even graced the chest of Rupert Grint in its t-shirt form.I love this site.
Bonkers name, gorgeous stuff.
All images from I Need Time to Think About Wildlife.
A 1950s natural sapphire and two brilliant cut diamonds in a platinum setting on a white gold band.
I think I may just be the luckiest girl in the world.
Yesterday was rather eventful.
The extraordinary weather conditions affected me only minorly. The Boy had invited me up to St Albans for the evening to house-hunt for our relocation out of the city. Trains and tubes ensured that I arrived hot, bothered and not a little un-gorgeous.
He greeted me at the station gates with a bunch of flowers: totally unlike him, the last bouquet I received was for my birthday two weeks after we started seeing each other.
We viewed the three houses and in an instant decided upon a gorgeous period cottage with what can only be descirbed as remarkable flooring.
Without further ado, we signed on the dotted line.
He had booked dinner at a restaurant on Market Street, chosen for its name: the elusive Marrakech that we have never quite managed to holiday to. This delightful and delicious restaurant compensated for the time being. The Boy was rather more talkative than usual and kept asking about the weather outside, as he was sat with his back to the window and feared more flash floods.
He suggested a little walk after dinner and we strolled to St Albans Abbey, sitting on a bench looking up at the ancient facade.
'New jobs, new house... shall we do something else new tonight?'
He took out a little box and opened it.
'So, do you like it?'
It was stunning.
I sat, stunned, and nodded.
'Will you be my wife?'
It's delicious, exciting, scary and incredible.
When he brings his camera back from work, I will, of course, show you everything.
This morning, a queue formed outside the Museum. Zaha Hadid has been getting some excellent press, but this was not the cause.
The new Anya bag (limited edition, this time from Asia and therefore in Green or Grey) was released and a queue of over 50 giggling girls patiently waited until 10am when the shop opened. They purchased their bags (strictly one in, one out) and then went to the back of the queue. This was where the problems started. People had brought hats, changes of clothes, pulled their hair up, with noisy protestations that they had not just purchased one and deserved to get another. There was ‘Why are you selling one to this girl who’s just going to sell it on ebay, when I’m actually going to use it?’ Then go get a fibre-mesh carrier from Top Shop and use that.
The crazy crazy loons seem to have given no heed to reports following last time’s scrums that these bags are not organic cotton, are made by below-decent wage workers in the Far East and are shipped crazy distances upping the air-miles and carbon footprint of these righteously non-eco bags.
Eco – schmeco. Can do better. x
We dined like kings (one pescatorian, one carnivorous)
We fled the rain, which miraculously disappeared the minute the car was packed...
Anglesey was pretty...
...but the drive through Snowdonia was dark and forbidding.
We got home safe, though, and promptly replace the chain to hang the victorian mirror junk shop find...
Happy holidays....
After months of waiting and acres of negative press coverage, I am delighted to claim an end (at least in this household) of the disaster that is MTAS.
In three weeks' time, the Boy will begin his new job training to become a Paediatrician. It's not quite the GP route he had planned upon, but he has always enjoyed paeds and we think he might be able to step sideways into general practice in a few years' time.
Best of all, the job will be commutable, which was for a long time, an absolute uncertainty.
Ah... the sweet relaxation of stability and future employ.
I think I'll go have a long bath...
Just before I begin my new job, the Boy and I are taking a much needed break (generously bestowed upon us by his A&E rota) of 6 days away. We are going to the small island on the North Eastern coast off Wales called Anglesey, where nestles a caravan owned by family friends and thus, free! That is basically its most attractive feature.
Having said that, last year, we cliff-walked, thrifted, dined and barbequed for three days and it was very pleasant indeed. I even got me a sunburn from a three hour walk in a boob tube.
As the weather continues to persist from the heavens, something tells me that this holiday will not be quite as felicitous, weather-wise. I therefore give you:
What to pack for a week in a caravan with little hope of sunny excursions or outdoor pleasures:
Any other suggestions received before Monday gratefully received.
Wish me luck!
What an eventful few weeks!
Two weeks ago, a flamenco class at the Barbican saw my excessive stamping (an attempt to impress the rather scrumptious workshop leader) give me a damaged foot that has yet to heal. A&E confirmed no bone breakage but the limp is refusing to budge for now. Needless to say, the workshop leader remained unimpressed, particularly when I failed to keep up with the introduction of arm movements to go with a footwork routine. I stayed at the back, pretending to help the little children. Remedial flamenco for one?
Then, a flurry of activity on my dissertation left me slightly winded but rather smug, right up until I hit a wall of writers' block and my tutor refused to answer emails.
Not to worry, I just baked.
And baked.
And baked.
It wasn't all for the boy, although he has been attempting to make some pretty impressive dents in the leftovers.... No no, this was for the fete. A blinding success considering the noxious weather, which managed to hold off all morning until completely calling off play at the respectable time of 3.30pm, by which point we'd made over £1500. Absolutely incredible considering the fine drizzle that interrupted us on occassion... You can see more photos here, and read up on us in the local press here.
More recently, it has been a busy few days at the Barbican working on their fabulously inspiring children's poetry in schools project, culminating with the Can I Have A Word gala tomorrow. Dropped into the Panic Attack exhibition on my lunch break, to be suitably shocked, hurrying to the shop quickly after to console myself in pretty handmade cards and jewellery, picking up an engagement card for my happy friends, who have finally done the deed on their annual pilgrimage to EuroDisney. I'm sensing a themed wedding: perhaps a red and white spotty dress a la Minnie would be the way forward?
Final week of dissertation bashing until Sunday, then a week in the sunny/windy/remote/cloudy/rainy/isolated/peaceful/rural Anglesey awaits.
So in need of breathing space it's untrue. Will bake me a storm, put it in a tin and drive with the Boy for 8 hours. I can't wait.
In front of Barbican Big Screen at Liverpool Street Station.
It wasn't quite Glyndebourne and our picnic was rather impromptu, but the film was perfectly watchable, washed down with a swig of Prosecco...
Apparently Literature Noir is the new name for a line from Literature Clothing. I can't find anything about either company online, but I do love a good frock. All of these are utterly delicious, sexy and a little bit dangerous, which is, after all, what Film Noir was all about...
Images from Ready to Wear Autumn/Winter 2007/8 at vogue.com
