So, if recent reports are true, the IT bag is once again in fashion and you can kiss goodbye to your investment pieces in favour of one hit wonders. How disgusting. A bag is for life, not just a season guys. My mother’s blush pink Bayswater has seen no fewer than four YEARS on the back bowed elbows of two generations, and with a little leather polish and a lot of love, the bag does good. So what do a few biro marks matter, the odd scuff or lost screw? I don’t see what’s so wrong with things that last. For someone so utterly engrossed in the frivolous world of fashion, I for one find it excruciatingly frustrating having more than two bags on the go at one time. Where’s my lip balm, my oyster card, my wet wipes and the hundreds upon thousands of receipts/shopping lists/sweet wrappers that I hold so dearly to my heart and cart around with me on a daily basis (the weight of which must equal a small baby marsupial…or possibly two)? I’ll tell you. They’d be spread about in ANOTHER past season bag, that’s where. Probably lurking, dejected, at the back of my wardrobe, plotting it’s dramatic re-entry to my life, where upon it scatters said lip balm (now old), oyster card (now replaced), wet wipes (dried up) and hundreds upon thousands of receipts/shopping lists/sweet wrappers all over my floor right when I don’t need it to. PAH. I don’t need that in my life, no siree. I’d rather stay devoted to my happy balding Bayswater and 2.55 if it’s all the same to you. Having said all this, I’ll happily lust after your filthy one season stand IT bags if you can’t hack monogamy accessory relationships! An IT bag must be three things; extravagant, divine and, most likely, colourful. They are the prick teases of the fashion world, so don’t expect your love to last long. Mulberry Alexa clutch £430 Deerskin Miu Miu bag £970 Judith Leiber beehive £4320 Marc by Marc Jacobs bag £385
So, I finally caved and got the gorgeously kooky Chanel transfer tattoos. And when I say finally, I am aware their release was barely two minutes ago but, believe me, that was a long wait!! I have blogged about these temporary beauties before, and was all up for getting them, but after a lot of hassle being put on the waiting list (Harrods: "I'm sorry, we don't do a waiting list.." Me: "Well, why don't you start one and whack my namesake on it?" Harrods: "...OK") and a rather cutting article from Lisa Armstrong damning them, I curbed my enthusiasm and contented myself with biscuits and things. But there I was, wandering through Selfridges, when I saw the utterly fabulous pop up Chanel shack a la S/S 2010 and before I knew where I was, I was perched on an unstable stool whilst some lovely lady sponged some cute little swallows on my blades and chatted to me about life, the universe and everything Chanel. The nice assistants will apply a tattoo or two on for you if you like when you buy your tattoos from there. At £49, they're about the cheapest slice of Chanel catwalk you're going to get. And, they're VERY fun. Go on, festoon yourself with them.
My poor mother has come down with a cold, and embarked in the age old tradition of my family; when illness strikes, snuggle under a blanket with a cup of tea in front of QVC and giggle, through your Lemsip haze, at the dross they try to sell. The sad thing is through all our sneering, we’re usually engrossed by one product ten minutes in and onto the phone pronto to order some sort of life changing magic sponge. Thankfully, the product that caught my mother’s attention the other day was a lovely little collection of OPI nail polishes, inspired by Alice In Wonderland, and I wait excitedly for the postman to arrive with them! Excuse my pun, but the world’s gone mad as a hatter for Alice In Wonderland products and I, for one, could not be happier. Tea parties, white rabbits and dashings of insanity…. What’s not to like? Not usually a fan of all things bling unless they come with a carot rating, I was entranced by the sophistication and quirky nature of the Swarovski collection to celebrate Burton’s latest film.
Give me a bit of sunshine, and I’m onto the cider, ready to make daisy chains and all up for doing a cheeky little jig to Paul Simon. Out in my little floral tea dress last week, I realised it was still BLOODY cold and had to leg it back to the flat to pick up my fur coat; the perfect remedy to nippy elbows and knees in the deceptively sunny Springtime. Note: fur is not for the faint hearted, especially if you are around a big department store, e.g Harrods, when a bunch of protestors, i.e PETA, decide to take against you and shout profanities, for example ANIMAL MURDERER, as you make a break for the tube. Now, you might think to yourself, there speaks a girl of experience. And you’d be right. Oh, the hilarity. Moving swiftly on, sometimes I pop in to Topshop and think to myself, what the dickens are they doing. And other times I load up those massive black mesh bags with enough outfits to suit and boot Sleeping Beauty, Flora, Fauna and Merryweather for a full 365 days. And it is good. Topshop usually snares me into such a mindset this time of the year, so I’m avoiding their flagship store, feeding my credit cards to the dog and harmlessly browsing online. Here’s what I’d be skipping about in if I hadn’t just spent the best part of £50 on contact lenses. Ah, the gift of sight. Lucky me. Weirdly enough, I bought the red bowed shoes from Topshop a good year or so ago, and am pleased to see they’ve bought them back. They are THE most comfortable shoes. Lovely. All images from www.topshop.com
So, I said I was back from my bloggy slumber, and by jove and by golly gosh, I was flipping lying… well, I didn’t know I was lying at the time, I did truly intend to get back to my blogging ways. I could sit and write a thousand excuses as to why I was so absent, but all I really care about is this – It’s lovely though, isn’t it? Now blog, let’s try to be civil and be friends again. Link
There are no words to describe how devastated I am. The fashion world has lost one of it's most iconic and talented designers, and I have lost one of my greatest inspirations. I have been wearing my God Save McQueen scarf for comfort, and shall be laying flowers in his honour tomorrow. Karl Lagerfeld spared some rather pertinant, if a little out there, comments on the fashion world's loss; "There was always some attraction to death, his designs were sometimes dehumanised. Who knows, perhaps after flirting with death too often, death attracts you". RIP my gorgeous McQueen. I shall respect you forever.
Being a regular eBayer has hardened me into an impatient and tight pursed vintage shopper. But despite my obvious scrutinizing characteristics, I was bowled over by Absolute Vintage of E1. I'd visited once or twice, but never had enough free time to really scour the mountains of shoes and bags, and grapple for a bargain. Sure, some of the things seemed overpriced, and there were a few odd duds in the mix but overall, I'd say for a London vintage boutique, this was bang on the money. Between my mother and I, we walked away with as good as new Bally patent pumps, a vintage satchel for my boyfriend and a white mink stole, which all came to about £75. I could have gone on; there were dozens of Chanel-esque chain strap bags, Kelly bags in excellent condition, classic 1980s heels and hundreds of dresses if you had the patience to try to them on. If you have the guts to haggle and love charming unusual things, I still think Clerkenwell vintage fair is the best place to go, but for reasonably priced happy go lucky items, Absolute Vintage is more than alright. Link
I'm already over the Mulberry Alexa bag, and believe me, I was very much under it so this is drastic. Seen in the flesh, it seemed a bit nothingy, too small to be practical and the plaited strap at the top just didn't feel or look right. The £795 price tag seemed misplaced, and beside the Bayswater, the Alexa was a joke. I was a little more than devastated, but am yet to see the XXL version, so am keeping my mind open to all things Alexa. In the mean time, to curb my disappointed pangs, I am coveting this gorgeous Mulberry fairground horse key fob. I have a thing for carousels, and in the words of Mulberry, this really does play on my 'schoolgirl crushes'. £100 for a key ring might make you wince, but at an eighth of the price of the Alexa, I think I can hear my bank balance sighing in relief.
I feel like I just stepped off the couture carousel and all I can see about me is the rushing swathes of fabrics and dashings of colour that ousted Paris in the magic stakes, if only for a week. Whilst I'm still galavanting around the internet for mere morsels and scraps of fashion press of the shows (alas, the world wide web is the closest I can get to sitting with the fashion pack), I have cherry picked three designers to spoon feed into your no doubt salivating gape - after all, with Chanel dresses the colour of sorbet, who isn't left drooling?! Christian Dior
To the cantering hooves of some fantastic fashion beast (I'm guessing, at the very least, a Dior unicorn), models fidgeted their way down the kind of staircase now only evident in old Audrey Hepburn films. Cinched at the waist and booted in black leather, they tottered around in outfits so lifted from a bygone era, it was shocking. One is used to a few influences here and there on the catwalk, but to truss models up in costumes so reminiscent of the decade which really made Dior was bold. These were nothing short of amazing; red dressage coats topped off with a bouffant hair-do to rival Winehouse made way for debutants with more than a hint of Antoinette about them. Later, crushed velvet and the disheveled remnants of a perm added an obscure dollop of the 1980s in the cataclysmic mix. And then came the frock; not just any frock, but THE frock. You know, the one your great granny only got to pull out of the dressing up box at a photoshoot not too far removed from an oil painting? Only a few fashion greats I've been witness to have really been brave enough to dabble with the old fashioned contortions of crinolines and corsetry. So the show was a bit schizophrenic, but the few consistents were ones I could give a firm thumbs up to; BIG statement teased backcombed hair, fabulous diamonds and an attitude to kill. Red is most definitely back, smeared across lips and painted on talons. Elbows out, hips back, Cartier on. My God, it was fabulous. And just when I thought I'd peaked and met couture perfection, Galliano came galloping out in an equestrian suit, spanking his fashion fillies with a riding crop. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Chanel
If anything shows the decreasing circular gambit of the fashion seasons, it is the juxtaposition between this and the SS 10 Chanel show. Gone were the hay bales, the quirky clogs and the toe tappingly good Lily Allen; enter cyber Chanel, so cold and crisp and sterile I felt afraid to move out of place, despite being at a safe distance in my London flat. Everything was just so intimidatingly perfect as Lagerfeld wielded his Chanel clones about the catwalk with all the effortless maneuvers you'd expect from a couture God. Traditional tweed suits were hacked into metallic trimmed culottes, all available in a tantalizing array of ice cream pastels. To my delight, hosiery still held a dominant role, with a heavy sheen coating limbs with such gloss they looked bionic. Lagerfeld hailed the comeback of the bow, positioned coquettishly at the forefront of the girls hair in a much more stern and sensible manner than we've seen in the oversexed adverts directed by soft porn enthusiast, Tom Ford. Sequined collars and beaded hems gave austerity the much needed middle finger, as capes cocooned models in couture triumphs. But it wasn't for me; the colours were too fay and sickly for my liking, and while I have pined to snuggle up to Lagerfeld in a moment of Chanel self pity, reassurance would have come with the steely rustle of tin foil and cellophane. Does this mean I'm falling out of love with Chanel? Heavens no, my affair with Chanel is a long and fantastical one, where I give give give all my money and Chanel takes takes takesall my money. By next week, I shall be sculpting my hair into a predictably squiffy heart in homage to the couture house. Oh, it's far from over. Givenchy
Now, I'm used to a fair bit of nudity in the fashion world; it thrives off sex, a commodity universally sold. But what was overtly cheeky about the Givenchy show was the use of fabrics, for those that successfully covered up the model's modesty seemed to stop abruptly and deliberately at the navel. It seemed to say, "Why, of course you can cover flesh with beautiful fabric, but why not go sheer? Oh, LOOK... nipple!". Like I said, this was not a message I was adverse to, I just found it rather amusing, but I'll stop talking about nipples now before this post goes all lesbianic... Sculpture and texture really made the show, from feathers to spherical hats, and oversized sequins to frou frou frills. Whorish red lips and sooty eyes revived goth once more, with net overlaid dresses looking devilishly sexy. What can only be described as jade and purple disco suits stole the show, but midnight blue, black and cream provided an equally tempting palette. Pretty. ALL PHOTOS COURTESY OF WWW.CATWALKING.COM
Once upon a time there was a small girl, who liked chicken soup, the smell of brown paper and kittens with bows. She wrote on her blog almost every day, and shared the most mundane of her thoughts with the world wide web. That is, until, the wicked fashion school she attended decided to turn up the pressure and some evil snuffle gremlin CURSED her with a nasty icky plague. All seemed lost; her cold little fingers didn't dare brush against her Mac keyboard, and everything was dead. Then along came Paris couture week to wake her from her blog slumber. Still bleary eyed from her rest, she shuffled over to her uncomfortable chair in front of her laptop as her eyes goggled at all the pretty dresses, and at once began write. She was back.
It's all be suspiciously quiet here, but not without reason. Prior to Christmas, all wishes of a white Christmas and a pony under the tree were put on the back burner, for all I wanted from Santa was an internship. Before, the thought of bartering my Chanel bag brought on cold sweats and a dry mouth, but I would have given absolutely anything to know I could sit in the fashion cupboard at a prestigious magazine. Well, three months and approximately forty CVs later, and all my wishes have come true in the space of a fortnight. To think I shall be sitting at The Times fashion desk in a few months, followed up by a stint at You magazine, makes my head spin - I couldn't have asked for anything better, and with a few magazine offers in the pipeline, I am over the moon. Personal blog much? Well, it is about fashion after all, and with Material Girl airing tonight on BBC1, it seems fitting to think about the ins and outs of the industry. I type this as it is still running on the old telly jelly box, and quite frankly, it's drivel. A name drop of St Martins and filming at my local bowling alley couldn't even bring it round in my books. Programmes like this seem so eager to give substance to the perceivably trivial, but only succeed in drumming home all the stereotypes already plastered across poor fashion's forehead. Maybe we are all emotionless bitches caught up in an apparently meaningless cyclone of clothes, shoes and 'it' bags (which, for the record, we're not), but the emphasis put upon the cut throat element of business only satisfies my knowledge that I'm trying to succeed in a rather jagged and unpredictable world. Which makes me even more willing to work my fingers to the bone, grab late nights by the scruff of the neck and ensure an elated grin is forever slapped across my face. And even if I am just asked to make a cup of tea for the lovely Lisa Armstrong, believe me, it'll be the best damn cup of tea I have EVER made.
In the words of bouffant haired little Lily Allen, it's not fair and I think you're really mean. Lagerfeld, Lagerfeld, Lagerfeld. First I wanted the bag. Then the shoes. Then the pearls. Then more shoes. Then the glasses. Then, oh yes, more shoes. And now you've made me want, oh horror of horrors, temporary tattoos. I don't think I've sponged one of those babies on since I was about twelve. I remember distinctly having a rather garish phoenix plastered upon my shoulder on a hot summers day at Primary school; the colours really were so gruesome that they remain seared into my head to this day. But I'd be more than happy to turn back time and forget all the faux pas that have gone before, and affix a few classy CCs onto my person. Nape? Shoulder? Wrist? The skinny little things on the catwalk had gorgeous garters of the tongue in chic tatts about the tops of their thighs (but with the weather as it is at the moment, I doubt anyone will be seeing more than my ankle in the near future. Too. Bloody. Cold) and wrapped around their forearms. Beautiful. I wasn't so keen on the clogs, but Karl's won me over with 55 cute individual designs featuring all the symbols that Chanel is known for. Available from March, I shall be onto Chanel immediately tomorrow to put my name on the waiting list, as I wouldn't be surprised if everyone works themselves into a frenzy a la the great "Jade Nail Paint Incident" of 09. Link
A time for dieting and detox, January should bring out the most strong willed of us. Even if I was hell bent on losing a few pounds, which would be quite nice, I'm too much of a foody to cut down on calories, and too much of a wimp to bring out the trainers and star jump my way to a lower jeans size. Still, Spring/Summer promises to bring back the corset. With underwear as outerwear in full saucy swing, I'm thinking love handles could easily be squeezed and cinched, disguised under intricate lacing and stitching. Jean Paul Gaultier teams soft corsetry with tailored suits, toying with gender associated garments. The feminine, peachy silk of the corset whispers towards next season's big trend, utility luxe (which I'm unashamedly underwhelmed by; my pale complexion doesn't fare well with airy fairy wifty wofty wall flower fabrics), but the underwire of the brassiere gives it more structure and punch. Dolce & Gabbana was just my cup of tea - things were kept simple in monochrome hues with dollops of gold and rust red to interest. Coquettish lace encouraged voyeurs to think around the wrapping and what was underneath. Teamed with cheeky ruffled bed hair and a smear of blood red lippy, I can't fault this look, and the corsetry to match. Both beautiful and bizarre, McQueen trussed up nature inspired design in a man-made, factitious and fetishised corset. Rolls in the hay took a Chanel turn for the better and the prom dress got a well needed makeover. Twenty8Twelve is just love on a hanger. I could easily annoy the staff of the Westbourne Grove branch by hovering along their wooden floorboards for hours, fondling their wares. This season, denim wrapped it's way around the bust of wafer thin models, and poppered it's way past the navel. If you really can survive on meal after meal of celery, rice cakes and low fat dip, with ice cubes for pudding, I salute you. Keep powering through the hunger pangs with thoughts of Mulberry's new gang member on your mind - hello, Alexa, where have you been all my life? No, I don't mean Chung, I mean that fabulous leathery beauty in her claws. Available from the 12th of this month, the Alexa looks like the Bayswater's long lost cousin. What's the matter, Bayswater? Scared Alexa is better looking than you? I have neither the funds nor the heart to hurt my Bayswater by replacing it with the Alexa, but if anything were able to motivate me to get to the gym, it would be that. Shots of corsets from catwalking.com Link for Alexa bag
Round studs scattered all over these perfect Louboutin heels just remind me of the night time firmament - paired with a Mouret Galaxy dress and you would simply look out of this world sensational. I want them. Even as trophy shoes, I want them. PICS FROM NETAPORTER
I remember only too well a night deep in the Cornish countryside, where at approximately 2am in the morning, my then four month old cocker spaniel puppy started howling, whining and working herself into canine hysterics. My boyfriend couldn't quite comprehend the verbosity of such a tiny cute thing, but endless sleepless nights when we first brought the little teething furball home were still fresh in my mind, and I sat patiently by her basket until she whinged the night away. Because that's what you do with dogs, you stick with them. Shoes, handbags and accessories come and go, but a dog really is for life. So which category do chihuahuas come into? Too comical and ratty to be classed as 'proper' dogs by canine fanatics the world over, but so perfectly pint sized as to slip into a Louis Vuitton mesh carry case, the Mexican whippersnappers have become just another piece of arm candy, to be purchased and disposed of at leisure. You may think me cynical, but Operation Chihuahua Airlift is sadly factual enough to affirm my mournful disposition. Aboard a flight from San Francisco to NY, 15 chihuahuas become one of a series of rescue missions to transport the unwanted mutts to areas in America suffering chihuahua drought. Apparently, NY is the perfect place for them to be dispatched; many apartments won't allow dogs over 25lb to reside there, and so demand for the tiny creatures far outweighs the supply. LA's starlets could easily be blamed for the enduring toy dog craze - but let's not forget dogs frequently fall in and out of fashion. Demand for dalmatians grew after 101 Dalmatians, everyone wanted their own Lassie, cocker spaniel puppies became popular after Disney's Lady and the Tramp, and, more recently, Obama's rescue dog flung Portuguese water hounds into the spotlight. But never before has a dog come so paw-in-hand with the world of celebrity. The trouble is, in a plastic fantastic utopia where consumption is paramount, trends come and go quickly, and the poor little chihuahua needs to be as readily removable as last seasons statement heels, dogtooth garments and bunny ears (the abandoned baby of an itsy bitsy micro trend). The average life expectancy of a dog is 12 years, but many websites warn that some little chihuahuas could outrun the big guns in canine life span rates, and reach the grand old age of 18. Imagine that, 2028 and your darling Princess could still be nipping at your ankles! It's quite the commitment. Whilst the practicalities of NY living certainly seem to be driving the popularity of chihuahuas there, I still can't help but think the catalyst comes screaming from Hollywood hills, along with fake tan, fake boobs, fake teeth, fake... everything?! Perhaps all they are doing is moving the poor blighters to a different state to face the same problems. Cute and cuddly though they may be, chihuahuas are the epitome of Noughties living; inexcusably dispensable, desperate and dumped.
Every now and then I get a shopping itch. There's always that little something that my fashion heart is gagging for, and before long I'm facing sleepless nights, with my square eyes pouring over internet 'research' to source such an item; only then is the itch satisfyingly scratched. My latest crush was, rather surprisingly, brogues. I'm sure many of you are scoffing at how predictable or vile they are, or even how behind the times I may be, for brogues have been surfing the wave of resurgence for a good few seasons on the fashion circuit now. At first it was only the likes of Sienna Miller and Agness Deyn who braved brogue vogue, but with fashion's new adopted darling Emma Watson sporting a dashing blush and black pair, the high street went mad and the world and his dog were laced up to their ankles in sensible Oxfords. I took the new trend on my chin a couple of years ago, and bought a rather meek and feminine black satin pointy pair. They served me well, but received few outings and I banished them as an impulse buy with little hope of redemption. But along came my Barbour inspired jacket (I can hear you snoring, I know I keep going on about it!! Have you heard Anya Hindmarch is teaming up with Barbour this year?! HAHA I won't be the only one in wax for long, but that's another story...) and I really needed some shoes to pack the deserved punch it was aching for. Not whimpering delicate brogues, but beefy leather ones. I can't be doing with the cheap brogue hybrids on the market, I really wanted to get a smaller version of the real deal and with tiny feet like mine, I think I can just about get away with it. I am more than pleased with my purchase today of Office's finest; I was willing to fork out more but the disgusting array of toffee coloured versions made me feel queasy, and it was Office who provided the perfect pair. Teamed with my new extra extra extra skinny jeans (I need a shoe horn to get my derrière in them, but once I'm in, I'm in!), they make my calves look comparatively like toothpicks due to their charming clumsiness. Chaperoning them into my wardrobe are some quirky sheer stockings with bows up the back, and a woolly pair of tights in the sage green of Primary uniform. I think it's safe to say I am ready for 'back to school'... Picture from Office website
Today, I'm thinking how much we have to thank our fashion forefathers for. Now surrounded by a fantastic orbit of glossy magazines, endless lists of 'in' tidbits and throwaway fashion scraps, it is nigh on impossible not to gorge yourself silly on style. And why not? Beauty innovations move faster than botoxed lips, and even the stylistically challenged need not leave the house in search of a 123 guide to throwing together an average outfit; it's all at our fingertips thanks to the internet. If fashion was the food of life, we'd all be morbidly obese. But the savvy stay lithe with the continuing wave of thrift, vintage and inherited goods. Fashion just isn't fun unless you have to forage. Treasures I didn't find it, it found me... Some fashion pieces and dear homewares open your eyes to all sorts of wonderful things you didn't think were possible. I'm talking about charity shop designer rags for pennies, curiosity shop delights and inheriting dusty antiques and tarnished jewelry that, with a little TLC, turns out trumps. For me, I shall always treasure the Christmas baubles from my mother's childhood (pictured above), my beaten up £10 Chanel shoes and my late Grandmother's diamond engagement ring. Fur If you are willing to shrug off the obvious immoral connotations and don a honey coloured coney coat, you're not alone. Vintage furs are in demand, and with the current cold snap forcing us all to look to Siberia for any style guidance with enough backbone to survive frostbitten conditions, people are thinking twice about the objections they once held against Granny's old pelt stuck in the loft (after all, it's been dead a long time). Small sizes are notoriously hard to come by, but come Summer real bargains will once again surface, so if you can stick it out til then to nab one, do! Silk scarves Surprisingly versatile for something so cheap, and not even something you need to buy in mint condition. Frayed edge? Mysterious mark? Pulled stitch? Just knot it in a cunning manner, and silken sins are hidden. Scouring vintage shops and markets and you'll find store holders with massive bags of the things are two a penny, so search long and hard for one you'll really love (because trust me, with scarves, there is always 'the one') and barter. Bags Cracked crocodile, gladstone, worn carpet or Birkinesque tendencies? The satisfying sound of a vintage clasp on a bag snap reminds me I was most certainly born in an era of quantity, not quality - they just don't make them like they used to.
With temperatures plummeting to a not so balmy minus 4, all I saw was Jack frosted trees on my jolly freezing drive to Bicester Village today. One of the benefits of still being in country bumpkin county is the ability to not only get in a car (a strange novelty when I'm residing in London; black cabs don't count...) but to drive down many a duel carriage way and arrive in a town overcome with it's outlet village. If you've never been and imagine it's awful, some aspects of it are, but the bargains are tremendous. I picked up a lovely tweed Vivienne Westwood purse which I had been after (£47, down from £115) and an equally marvelous Luella patent leather credit card pochette, which shall serve me well as my oyster card holder. Perfect. LINK
Now I don't mean to brag, but how amazing is this little purse?!?! This is one of many Dorothy shoe inspired presents I received this Christmas, and I can only assume my sparkley red shoe obsession precedes me. My Blackberry has been told off for taking such a bad picture of it, because the photo really doesn't do it justice!! A glittered plastic outer covers the most darling print of Dorothy shoes and phrases such as 'Somewhere over the rainbow', 'There's no place like home', 'It's all about the shoes' etc, the inner is fully lined in purple and it's completed with a cute sparkley red shoe charm on the zip! Adorable! Of course the conventional person might use it as a fully functional purse, but I prefer to use mine to house my iPod, phone, pen and Carmex... just a few things a girl can't live without. And to top it off, it was created by my cousin! Ahh what talent! Should you want to order one of these adorable purses, with pretty much any design you want or words or anything else really, let me know... I'm guessing if you're reading this you know me personally and can get hold of me, but if you happen to be a happy stranger then just drop me a comment
With barely three hours to go before Channel 4 hosts it's final Celebrity Big Brother, I'm just in time to contribute my own predictions for the overdue finale of the tired programme. Tipped to voluntarily enter into the last four walled hell symbolic of Orwell's 1984 is Lady Sovereign and Boy George. Whilst unconfirmed and probably born from the public's optimistic musings, the internet has produced some other equally entertaining suggestions for the reality TV show; Lindsay Lohan, Jedward and Kerry Katona (though the latter has supposedly been pulled due to mental heath issues). I don't even know where to begin with this one. Whilst always denying my eager observation of the show, I never could resist casually tuning into the launch, and not ten minutes later adhering myself to the TV screen with unashamed curiosity. It used to be so difficult to drag myself away, but a few dud years and much sordid controversy surrounding the pioneering show led me to fall out of love with it. I highly doubt it'll go out with a whimper; surely Big Brother has something hidden up his sleeve to go out with a bang?! So, to watch or not to watch, that is the question. As for me, well, it'll all depend on whether I've recovered from my full on roast dinner in time... LINK
