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...

09. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

Christmas to come early.

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Now, I have never been a christmas fanatic - cold nights, cold days, dry skin, chapped lips, sad hair...urrgh. Anyway, for some reason, i'm feeling strangely festive (you may or may not have noticed) and I am steadily veering off on a mince pie come mulled wine tangent. Is this dangerous? I'm not entirely sure...
I just can't wait to have the affirmative that christmas has come. The gareish wreaths on front doors, the log fires, the smell of Glade spiced apple candles (classy, I know), the lights, the plastic snowmen and the sound of people saying, "well you know its Christmas when the Coca-Cola advert comes on t.v."
Somewhat more childishly I can't wait to have the affirmative that it is now ok to write my christmas list. Yes, I know I'm no longer of christmas list 'age', but that doesn't mean I'm not of christmas list calibre. Let's be honest, it's nice to get presents at christmas but it's even nicer when you know what you're getting. You pick a sizeable present from under the tree, screw up your face and say "gosh, now what could this be!?" - thanks to former christmas list, you know full well that this present has the perfect consistency to be that Matthew Williamson shift you expressed a shamefully unignorable interest in and have had your "buy-me" eye on for...too long. Oh and the little rip in the wrapping? Completely accidental of course. It glints under the fairy lights and shows a sneaky bit of beading and just perhaps the corner of the Matthew Williamson label. Confirmation! Isn't it wonderful how feigning suprise is half the fun when you know the suprise to feign? After all, the delightful horror of my Grandma's "reindeer-series" knitted vest tops (I think last year was Prancer?!) truly fills my "genuine" suprise void.

07. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To bring back the dinner party.

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Is it just me or are dinner parties on a downward trajectory? The dinner party has been a practicing function for centuries, probably even millenia. I mean, Fred and Wilma held their fair share of dinner parties and they were prehistoric. Why is it that today, fun can only be had outside of the house? Clubs, bars, restaurants, cinemas...don't get me wrong, I enjoy them too, but I think the dinner party is in a crisis of facing extinction.
Is there not something incredibly charming about blue soup a la Bridget Jones, or mashed potato that failed to mash, or home made pies that lose their status of "pie" somewhere between entering and exiting the oven? I think the dinner party is the ultimate expression of individuality and you can be assured that no other will be the same. There is also something hugely relieving about knowing your clientelle. You open the door and welcome faces that you actually want to see rather being confronted by your ex boyfriend in a dingy club, who never did understand the meaning of moderation...yes you dated that.
Anyway, I say, long live the dinner party! It's an excuse to indulge in excellent company, a nice glass of red and moreish home-made puddings. At least that's the illusion my guests are under. After all, if Marks and Spencer's won't tell, who really needs to know.

05. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To have a personal masseuse.

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It has been a long, tiring day. You arrive home and open your front door and instead of being greeted by the manic flash of your answer machine or a suspiciously thick stack of letters (aka bill reminders) which have been accumulating beside your manically flashing answer machine, you are welcomed by the wave of a professional hand and a waft of aromatherapy oil: your own personal masseuse...yes!
Now this masseuse is no ordinary masseuse. This is the masseuse of all masseuses; the ultimate masseuse. Masseuse Parfait. Masseuse Parfait doesn't talk to you whilst you are having your massage (as some feel so inclined to do). Masseuse Parfait doesn't tug at your body like a demonic four year old, pulling the limbs off Barbie for fun. Masseuse Parfait has toenails which are a pleasure to inspect, after all, when you're staring at the floor, there's nothing worse than coming face to face with toes of the fungal variety. And Masseuse Parfait has hands like liquid gold. Ah yes, there's nothing better than dozing off under the watchful eye and soothing hand of Masseuse Parfait. What's even better is that MP doesn't stop until you say so, and if you never say so, then MP never stops.
You get the picture... Masseuse Parfaits all round?

04. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To be wrapped in feathers and rolled in glitter.

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I'm just feeling festive. At the moment, I can't seem to get enough of feathers and sparkle. Is that just me being ridiculously girly? Who knows. I've always been somewhat of a romantic when it comes to fashion...
Roses, crushed satin, ballet shoes, posies, netting, froth, diamonds, gold links, pearls, flower garlands.

03. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

An office job. Yes you did read that right.

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As I'm trudging my way towards the end of my university degree, my thoughts are turning towards the big, wide world of work. With the recession, jobs in magazine journalism are scarce. It doesn't bode well, does it?
All I have ever wanted is to work within four walls. In my dream office, I arrive at 9.30 and leave at 6. I have my own desk, my own MAC and my own potted plant. The air around me resonates with action, deadline and drive. I get to write all day, boss an intern around (serious pay back!) and drink skinny lattes, no cream. I meet with colleagues for lunch - one of those nouveau health places, with granary bread and hemp seeds. I attend meetings and spring board my ideas and then, on the way out, I briefly catch up with a female colleague. Female colleague tells me that Ginger Nuts and the lady down on reception were caught kissing in the lift by the courier on the basement floor. I smile and laugh because for some reason, office gossip is always more juicy than gossip in the real world, especially when it involves Ginger Nuts...

01. 11. 09

A Girl Wants...

To fly first class. Always.

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Back in the 1920s, flying was a real luxury. It was a treat to cruise in tin birds and brush cheeks with the clouds. So why today is flying accompanied with a sigh and a rolling of eyes and a big, big bottle of moisturiser? I think flying should still be a pleasure. Whilst air-stewards and stewardesses try their best, how come they never stop that petulant child digging their heels into the back of your seat and kicking creases into your new cashmere jumper? Why do they insist on making your seats so compact that you feel compelled to wear those anti DVT socks (I'm pretty sure that stands for Deathly Vile Trash). Said socks are of course made from nylon and I blame them entirely for the static hair I seem to have aquired by touchdown.
So, I say bring back first class for the masses! Flying is supposed to be enjoyable and I'm pretty sure that with a fully reclinable chair I could once again learn to enjoy cruising at altitude. Besides, with first class leg room, I could actually wear my 6 inchers on the plane without my knees being under my chin.