17. 12. 09

A Girl Wants...

A dress with a deep sweetheart neckline.

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I am spotting a new trend and I love it already - The Deep Sweetheart Neckline or DSN. I've been lucky enough to see my recent trend spots confirmed: Arran Jumpers (now on ASOS!) and over the knee socks (Pretty much everywhere! as well as OTK boots)

So DSNs? Think stunning cuts, sharp edges and crisp boning with a wink of cleavage. The DSN is versatile which gives it huge promise. On leather studded dresses? Tough girl femininity. On floaty chiffon? Flirtatious chic. What sets the DSN apart from normal plunge necks, is that the boning allows for variation in shape and structure. They can be squared or rounded, peaked or pinched. The ultimate plus side? You don't have to shop at Bravissimo to wear one. Genius.

At the moment I'm totally crushing on Lipsy's DSN's. All I need to do now is win the saturday night lottery draw. Fingers crossed. Failing that? Well, it all rests on two words: Dear Santa..

09. 12. 09

A Girl Wants...

Hassle-free shopping.

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I confess. I am a bonafide shopaholic. What started as an interest in fashion has kind of morphed into this burning itch which must be satisfied, no its worse than that, its more like a physical pain verging on a coronary, which must be treated. When you walk past a shop window, do you ever notice that the mannequins started winking at you? Sometimes, if you've had a particularly trying day, they might mouth words at you through the glass, "Come in! Look at this patent, flouro-green, tartan lined bomber jacket I'm wearing! You absolutely have to buy it!" It's only when you've made the purchase that you realise the severity of the situation. You exit the shop and look up: "New Look", the shop name reads. Your first thought? Justification. Things could be worse. I mean New Look does have its moments of a la mode (emphasis on moments). When you dare to review your purchase you notice a flyer pushed inside the bag; it's advertising a teenage disco convention for 13-16 year olds. That's when you realise that you've just purchased an item from New Look's junior range. Life seems truly hideous.
Yes, shopping takes advantage of the weak, but to add insult to high street injury, shopping is also a financial drain. We live in a world of plastic. No cash? No worries - just slap it on the plastic. Sometimes, I wake up and find myself standing in Topshop, confirming a price (around £200), typing my PIN into the machine, pressing enter and watching the screen change from: "PIN confirmed" to "authorising" to "please remove card". It's so quick and so easy and so incredibly horrific.
Thing is, I would never give it up, despite the negatives. Shopping is a part of who I am, and when I go home with my flouro-green bomber jacket, I can at least sleep at night knowing that I've done some good - that's one less gag-worthy jacket New Look junior has to sell...

30. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

Starbucks Eggnog Latte on tap.

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This christmas it's all about the Eggnog Latte. Yes you heard that right, Eggnog. I've always been a sucker for Starbucks' christmas flavours. Normally Gingerbread Latte hits the top mark with Dark Cherry Mocha coming a close second. But this year Eggnog is my guily pleasure. It seems ingenious really, why has noone thought of it before?
I asked the young Starbucks man behind the counter today, "What exactly is in an Eggnog Latte?" Of course, I expected a hard-sell description, "That would be, warm milk, an indulgent egg-brandy mix, home-made custard and a sprinkling of warmed ground nutmeg. Would you like cream on top?" Instead he hit me with reality, "That would be, custard powder, dried egg yolk, stabilisers and glutinising agent." My face fell slightly and I think he noticed. I tried to lift the mood by adding, "So no alcohol then?" He just replied, "No...there isn't"
I took my Eggnog Latte away that day, drank it and enjoyed it, emulsifying agents and everything. After all, who am I to judge a good tasting beverage? When it comes to Starbucks I fall into the trap every time. Custard of the fresh sort, or custard of the dried sort, I'm not bothered, but I am ready to crank it up a gear. Eggnog Latte allow me to introduce you to Hip Flask...

24. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To praise the LBD.

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Its a common scenario. You've just rushed in from work. Your flat is a mess, your wardrobe is a mess and you are a mess. You've got to be at this drinks party in a London bar (of the swanky type) in under an hour. Your eyes flit from the shower, to the pile of dirty laundry, to your make up dashed across your dressing table. The makeup is in such a mad disarray that you question what exactly happened the last time you used it - did it insult you? You pick things up in a fluster: tooth brush in one hand, hair spray in another. You ambitiously clutch a MAC mascara between your lips even though you know it's gone gloopy and leaves your lashes looking like tar. But what to wear, what to wear?!
Then you see it. It's jauntily hung up in your wardrobe. Your good faithful, your weapon of choice in the face of danger. You throw it on. Suddenly the room starts spinning and when it stops, everything seems to have been put back into order. Your makeup has even crawled its way back into your makeup bag. At least you think it has, but does it really matter? The point is, you look incredible and nothing else seems to matter any longer. A sweep of blusher, a stroke of mascara and a blotting of nude, matte lipstick and you are ready. You walk out of the door, slipping into your black heels and grabbing your leopard print clutch. You make it to drinks and everyone comments on how good you are looking. Thing is, you don't need to be told and that's the beauty of it all. The dress speaks for itself. You make a mental note to wear this dress more often, but you find that you never do. Its a love hate relationship. When you have all the time in the world to get ready, you loathe it. When you have minutes to spare, you love it. But that's the appeal and that's what keeps you coming back to it again and again...

21. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To say thanks for her 2 blog awards!



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Recipients are asked to: 1. Thank the person who gave the award to you. 2. Copy award. 3. Post it in your blog. 4. Tell us 7 things that your readers don't know about you. 5. Link 7 new bloggers as recipients. 6. Notify winners of award with a comment on their blog. 7. Keep being awesome!

The 7 things my readers don't know about me are:

1) I want what I don't necessarily need...
2) My worst habit is: shopping compulsively...
3) I have never: seen a celebrity in London...crazy right?!
4) My favourite colour is: turquoise, pink and yellow...
5) In an argument I always win because: what I want is not debatable...
6) My favourite question is: would you like a single or double?
7) I'm an only child - the benefit of this is: I don't know how to share...shame!

The 7 new bloggers I am awarding are:

1) http://themannequinscloset.blogspot.com/
2)http://ahautemess.blogspot.com/
3)http://laejfashion.blogspot.com/2009/11/killer-shoes-literally.html
4)http://secretofficeconfessions.blogspot.com/
5)http://wheredoyoushop.blogspot.com/
6)http://itsnevertoohaute.blogspot.com/
7)http://simplychicblogs.blogspot.com/

Congrats!

LC
xxx

21. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

Pick me ups. On demand.

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Wouldn't it be great if a hug in a mug really did exist? I'm not suggesting that I want, or even remotely like, Batchelor's cup-a-soup, but it would be genuinely pleasing if there was a large fluffy monster on speed dial to call whenever you needed a pick me up, of the emotional sort. Sometimes, a diet coke does the job, other times only regular, full fat coke really hits the spot. When its human attention I crave, a chat with a close girl friend usually leaves me laughing. When its human attention I loathe, I usually find solace at the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry's. But don't you notice that pick me ups always require an active implementation of some kind? When you're feeling blue, wouldn't it be considerably easier if you could wish a bar of Dairy Milk into your hand and telepathically prompt the T.V. to turn on Sleepless in Seattle? Wouldn't it be blissful if you could snap your fingers and be lying in a steamy, hot bath courtesy of Neom's organic bath oils? It is suggested that pets are therapeutic and increase overall well-being, well if thats true, why are they not given out free on the NHS?
I've decided that what I need is a furry friend of some kind, perhaps a Rufus or a Cattykins. Alternitavely, I'll just go to Sainsburys, pick up a cup-a-soup and wait for my hug in a mug to kick in. If it doesn't, I'll sue on the grounds of false advertising.

18. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

More people to go "Faux-Glow".

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So apart from English roses and Geisha girls, can it not be concluded that everyone, and I mean everyone, looks better with a tan? I think it can. In fact, one of the first things you notice about someone when they return from, say, a two week stint yachting in the Carribean (lets be honest a touch of extravagance never hurt anyone...) is their glowing ambience, their berry-brown skin and their sunkissed cheekbones. But, and this is one oompaloompa-lific B-U-T, tanning has got to be done right. I completely disagree with tanning booths. In fact, the mere sight of a tanning booth sign sends shivers to my core. Don't people realise the risks? The thought alone frightens me, and I don't know why other people feel the need to compromise health for a tan. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all about the tan - trust me. But, I think the only healthy and viable way to go about it is to embrace the "Faux-Glow". Yes, everyone, go for a dip in your bottle of Johnson's Holiday Skin. I'm a bit of a traditionalist and always opt for a good lathering of St. Tropez before I escape to the Land of Nod. But my point is, why risk death when you can get the same effects from Faux-Glow? It all seems a bit extreme for the sake of a tan. So next time some irritating, small-talker says to you, "Darling, you look amazing! You = SO tanned! Me = SO jealous! Where did you go on holiday?", I urge you to reply, ever the epitome of class and cool, "Oh Darling, the inside of a bottle of course, where else?"...

16. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

A new car. Preferably a convertible VW Beetle.

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Woody is very very special. He has a yellow gear stick, different coloured seat belts and dice in the rear window which say 'Bitch'. The dice are flourescent blue and Woody is dark green - they clash with a hideous professionalism. When I first got him, it was love at first sight. He wasn't the most flashy ride, but he had charisma, and that's more than you can say for most W-reg cars. Anyway, last week, something awful happened. Now I blame it entirely on the weather (hard to miss the incessant warnings and horrific downpour - especially when you're wearing imitation white Chanel pumps, that decide to prove their fakeness by turning an awkward shade of green in the rain). Anyway when I came back to check on Woody after a weekend away, I opened the passenger door to find a sickeningly deep pool of water filling the foot space. Woody was leaking.
I knew his age was always a factor, but at the time I was young and desperate and he could give me everything I wanted; freedom, independence and mileage. But now I've started to realise, maybe Woody isn't so good for me anymore. I mean he's had practically everything about him changed apart from his body work, he's just not the car I fell in love with. Besides, no one likes a financial leech do they? So I've decided I want a replacement...no, I want an upgrade. To be specific? A convertible VW Beetle. Not only are they adorable but they have classic, timeless style. Roof down on sunny days, roof most definitely up, on rainy ones. Woody seems a world away from the car I now have in mind.
So, Christmas list item No. 1 anybody?

13. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To be tri-lingual.

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There is something very, very off-putting about a small child that speaks in more than one language. Have you noticed that? One minute they are grinning a gappy smile and asking for lollipops, crayons and play dough (how adorable!) but when you can't provide it, that smile turns sour and next thing you know they are abusing you...in German. They seem to take pleasure in the fact that you don't understand them. This actually causes them to say it louder and more aggressively. And why shouldn't they? After all, you don't actually know German and of course, you didn't provide the play dough. I would love to be tri-lingual, or at least bi-lingual. For starters, you would never be outsmarted by said child ever again! Somewhat more romantically, you could go to Paris and speak fashion a la Francophone. You could speak the language of love, wear dark sunglasses and tie your hair in a chignon. You could say "oh la la" and be taken seriously for once. And you could pick up baguettes from the boulangerie and not feel like you are revising GCSE French. Yes, I want to have a mother tongue and another tongue. Learning a language as a language to be learnt, takes away its mystery, it takes away that "je ne sais quoi". Well, it seems that my chance for bi-linguality is past. So I guess I will just have to make do with my memories of year 11 french, Madame Frites and her endless obsession with Clementine videos. My consolation is that even if I do forget all of my French vocab, immaturity means I will always be able to acknowledge when I am, "en retard" and that in itself amuses me greatly...

11. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To reprimand the onesie and apologise to Postie.

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Last week I heard Primarni had brought out a onesie. Yes, a onesie. That is, an all in one, pyjama suit. Well I'm not entirely sure what possessed me, but I bought one. Now I am not pretending to have foreseen the pyjama suit in the fashion stakes come christmas 09, but as an owner, there is no denying it makes a statement. Yesterday morning, I donned the onesie (I was cold, it was cute - could I say no?) I had just finished doing up the poppers when the doorbell rang. I was alone, and from the grunting outside I knew it was the postman (he's a grunter). Anyway, you can imagine my dilemma. Was I ready to come out as a onesie convert? Could I pull off the confidence to look uber cool dressed as an 8 month old baby? Realistically there was only one thing I could do in such a situation. On the first shake my magic eight ball said, "ask again later". On the second, it said "yes". By this point, Postie was grunting and swearing, I made a mental note to buy him a compensatory christmas present. I opened the door, and smiled cheerily, reaching out to claim my package. Postie recoiled in absolute horror. In fact, I think he may have screamed. I knew then and there that my magic eight ball was corrupt. Postie held a chubby hand over his eyes (to avoid the glare?) as he gave me my package, mumbled something in a high pitched voice about having a lot of deliveries this morning and then legged it, almost tripping over his postbag. The onesie didn't go down too well, but on the upside if Postie never returns, I can probably cross him off my christmas list...