...because let's face it, they do look a bit like nightwear don't they? And it doesn't help that most of them are covered in ditsy floral prints in bright colours like orange and aquamarine blue because that makes them look like pyjama bottoms even more. And if you've only got little legs like mine, you're in even more danger of looking like you've just got up, or as my mum used to say, "like a sack of potatoes". Here are a few hints I've picked up to help a fashionista pull off palazzo's with aplomb.
1. Be canny with your choice of footwear. Avoid flat pumps and trainers because they'll make you look like you're ready to veg out in front of Come Dine with Me. Instead, stick to high wedges which are very this season
2. Let your palazzo pants do the talking. In other words, keep the rest of your look neutral, particularly if your palazzo's are brightly coloured (which most of them are this season). A simple white t-shirt tucked in is perfect.
3. Balance out the wide legs by wearing a fitted top or vest that finishes on the hips (or can be tucked in). They may be comfy, but looser styles of top will only add bulk.
4. If you've got little legs like me, busy prints will only swamp you. Stick to simple, elegant designs, preferably on a dark backdrop of black, brown, navy or grey.
5. Make sure they fit you. Sounds obvious but if they're too baggy, too long or sit high on the waist they won't be very flattering. Bundle them off to the dry cleaners if you can alter them; otherwise exchange them for more suitable pair.
In fact, my palazzo trousers are currently being altered by the lovely chaps at Superwash as I type this. As soon as they are ready to be unleashed to the world, I'll post a pic.
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Bluerovision
Ok, let's move away from fashion for the moment because it's time for a bit of cheese. What better way to properly embrace the music equivalent of the smelliest, strongest Camembert than by talking about the Eurovision Song Contest.
Last month it was announced the UK entry will be by boy band Blue who will be singing a song called 'I Can'. Ok, sounds promising so far doesn't it? Until you hear it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y54uuEcMYj0.
And thus here are some reasons why we won't be winning the Eurovision Song Contest 2011:
1. It's not bad enough to be good; it's just bad
2. It's instantly forgettable. I've listened to it three times and couldn't sing it back if I tried. That's a sure-fire way to test how good a Eurovision song is
3. The lyrics: It’s like rain falling down
Drops of pain hit the ground
I can’t speak
There’s no sound when you’re gone
Drops of pain hit the ground? Come again?
4. It's a sad song in a minor key. In other words, drivel
5. Sweden's entry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nfx0OMM2u0A
Maybe 2012 will be our year.
Last month it was announced the UK entry will be by boy band Blue who will be singing a song called 'I Can'. Ok, sounds promising so far doesn't it? Until you hear it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y54uuEcMYj0.
And thus here are some reasons why we won't be winning the Eurovision Song Contest 2011:
1. It's not bad enough to be good; it's just bad
2. It's instantly forgettable. I've listened to it three times and couldn't sing it back if I tried. That's a sure-fire way to test how good a Eurovision song is
3. The lyrics: It’s like rain falling down
Drops of pain hit the ground
I can’t speak
There’s no sound when you’re gone
Drops of pain hit the ground? Come again?
4. It's a sad song in a minor key. In other words, drivel
5. Sweden's entry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nfx0OMM2u0A
Maybe 2012 will be our year.
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Peckham Rye
During our mosey around Carnaby Street on Saturday we stumbled upon a tiny menswear accessories shop called Peckham Rye. Inside was a treasure trove of beautiful silk ties, pocket handkerchiefs, quirky bow ties, Hilditch & Key shirts and more. But probably the best thing about it was its owner, Martin, who happily spent a good 20 minutes chatting to us about the store and it's history.
Martin told us that Peckham Rye (cockney rhyming slang for tie) began life with a gentleman's tailor called Charles McCarthy in the early eighteenth century in Peckham Rye, South East London. McCarthy was in fact the great great grandfather of Martin himself, and the shop walls are covered with black and white photographs of him, his family and subsequent generations of the family.
The company caters to the discernible gent who appreciates impeccable quality, skilled craftsmanship and a strong sense of British tradition. Most of the ties and scarves are still woven and made in Britain, something that is rarely found today. It was very inspiring to talk to someone who is so passionate about quality and the great British heritage the company is part of.
Here is the Peckham Rye website: http://www.peckhamryelondon.com/index.php
Martin told us that Peckham Rye (cockney rhyming slang for tie) began life with a gentleman's tailor called Charles McCarthy in the early eighteenth century in Peckham Rye, South East London. McCarthy was in fact the great great grandfather of Martin himself, and the shop walls are covered with black and white photographs of him, his family and subsequent generations of the family.
The company caters to the discernible gent who appreciates impeccable quality, skilled craftsmanship and a strong sense of British tradition. Most of the ties and scarves are still woven and made in Britain, something that is rarely found today. It was very inspiring to talk to someone who is so passionate about quality and the great British heritage the company is part of.
Here is the Peckham Rye website: http://www.peckhamryelondon.com/index.php
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| Peckham Rye's information card |
My lovely new maxi skirt that swishes quite nicely
The problem with giving up something for Lent is that when those 40 days and 40 nights are over you can't stop yourself from binging on whatever it is you gave up, whether that's chocolate, biscuits or swearing. Since I gave up clothes shopping for Lent I made it my business to stock up on new clothes last week. Yes I know, last week was still Lent but my mind told me that if I ordered clothes back then, they wouldn't arrive until after Lent anyway. I could picture myself rolling around the living room among piles of pristine new clothes, congratulating myself on doing so well.
Except that the clothes I ordered ended up arriving sooner than I thought. In fact they arrived on Good Friday (which meant that it was a very good Friday indeed) and my mind told me (of course I had no control over it) that I must wear something from my new stash because it-was-a-hot-and-sunny-weekend-and-as-we-live-in-England-which-hardly-ever-sees-hot-and-sunny-weekends-I-should-really-make-the-most-of-it-and-wear-something-new-and-summery. Make sense? Plus, Vicky told me that same day that apparently Sundays in Lent don't count. Since I only found that out on Good Friday I figured I was 3 days in lieu anyway (Vicky's mum has given up wine for Lent so in view of her discovery she's has been getting plastered on Pinot Grigio every Sunday and spending the next week recovering).
So, back to my new clothes. I went a bit mad buying maxi skirts, the one I'm wearing here is my favourite:
Nice isn't it? I LOVE the print; small birds sitting on branches or happily flying around (as if enjoying the fact that they have four blissful days off work, one might say). If the print were on wallpaper or curtains it would be a bit too Laura Ashley circa 1990 but on a skirt it works well. I tried to avoid maxi skirts that are too billowy or errr, pleaty-y because they're not normally conducive to being short, but, despite have small pleats, this one seems to work. What's more, it has just the right amount of 'swish'. I teamed it with a simple black vest, black narrow belt and a quirky heart-shaped bag from Primarni.
Where the devil did we go on Saturday you may ask yourself. Well, we moseyed on down to Euston to see an exhibition called 'Dirt' in the Wellcome Collection, which - although there was a conical glass of diarrhea from the 1800s, bricks made of dust and several large blocks made of human poo - we didn't feel was disgusting enough to be very interesting. Next we stumbled upon a contemporary art exhibition in the crypt underneath an old church. The art itself wasn't my cup of tea (dirty bed sheets hanging from the ceiling anyone?) but the cold, dark crypt itself was Dickensian enough to be a bit spooky. Next it was on to the St Pancras Rennaissance Hotel for a quick pomegranate juice before walking to Oxford Circus and having a beer at Aqua, a rooftop bar. And very nice it was too.
Except that the clothes I ordered ended up arriving sooner than I thought. In fact they arrived on Good Friday (which meant that it was a very good Friday indeed) and my mind told me (of course I had no control over it) that I must wear something from my new stash because it-was-a-hot-and-sunny-weekend-and-as-we-live-in-England-which-hardly-ever-sees-hot-and-sunny-weekends-I-should-really-make-the-most-of-it-and-wear-something-new-and-summery. Make sense? Plus, Vicky told me that same day that apparently Sundays in Lent don't count. Since I only found that out on Good Friday I figured I was 3 days in lieu anyway (Vicky's mum has given up wine for Lent so in view of her discovery she's has been getting plastered on Pinot Grigio every Sunday and spending the next week recovering).
So, back to my new clothes. I went a bit mad buying maxi skirts, the one I'm wearing here is my favourite:
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| Wearing my new maxi skirt on Saturday |
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| Close-up of maxi skirt print |
Where the devil did we go on Saturday you may ask yourself. Well, we moseyed on down to Euston to see an exhibition called 'Dirt' in the Wellcome Collection, which - although there was a conical glass of diarrhea from the 1800s, bricks made of dust and several large blocks made of human poo - we didn't feel was disgusting enough to be very interesting. Next we stumbled upon a contemporary art exhibition in the crypt underneath an old church. The art itself wasn't my cup of tea (dirty bed sheets hanging from the ceiling anyone?) but the cold, dark crypt itself was Dickensian enough to be a bit spooky. Next it was on to the St Pancras Rennaissance Hotel for a quick pomegranate juice before walking to Oxford Circus and having a beer at Aqua, a rooftop bar. And very nice it was too.
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| Trying to be interested in the art inside the crypt |
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| Hovering round the entrance to the crypt |
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| Me in front of the St Pancras Rennaissance Hotel |
And while I'm posting photos, here are some of Alex because he was there too:
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| Alex in the crypt |
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| Outside St Pancras hotel |
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| Alex considering the fantasticness of a four day weekend in the hotel bar |
Thursday 21 April 2011
Why I don't want to go to the royal wedding (even if I didn't get an invite, ahem)
All this talk of William and Kate's nuptials is all very exciting of course, but I can't help but be a little bit narked that my invite seems to have been lost in the post. Therefore, I have compiled this list of reasons why it's probably best not to be at the royal wedding, just to make myself feel a bit better.
1. Deciding what to wear would be a huge headache. It needs to be fashionable but not too fashionable, smart but not boring, reassuringly expensive and not too attention-seeking. I'd head to Kate Middleton's favourite retail haunts Reiss or Whistles if I was going (not that I've thought about it or anything). An embellished shift dress and matching cardie from Dorothy Perkins probably wouldn't cut it.
2. One of the loveliest parts of a wedding is seeing and congratulating the bride but, with the rumoured 2,000 guests attenting the wedding, it's very unlikely that a pleb like me would even see the bride, much less talk to her. In fact, I'd probably get a better view from a clapped-out television in the outskirts of Jaipur.
3. The one-upmanship attending such an event holds is rather offputting. If you're not with the bridal party, a relation or a celebrity all the other guests would be looking down at you. "Who's that common person? Why does she get an invite when some of my celebrity chums couldn't even get a look-in?"
4. Ok, I don't fancy Prince William but a girl cannot help feel a tinge of jealousy that Kate is marrying a prince and will always live in a beautiful big house with everything she could possibly need, and will never need to work or worry about money again. So, watching her signing the contract that makes all this legally binding is a teeny bit more painful than watching it on telly. So there.
5. Not attending the royal wedding means I can watch it with my mates in a manner that would make the Windsors and the Middletons flinch with embarrasment. I, for example, will be watching it holed up in a pub in Devon with friends, drinking as much as I like without worrying too much about the consequences. My old work colleague Paul has organised a party whereby all the attendees are divided into two groups, one called 'William', one called 'Kate'. Whenever either of the names are mentioned during on the television footage of the wedding, the corresponding team has to have a drink. Genious! You wouldn't get the Middleton's doing that now would you?
6. Talking of the merits of television footage, I'll receive information about every possible royal wedding detail as soon as is humanly possible by watching it on the box, which cannot be said for the wedding attendees. The magic of television - and a few savvy researchers, editors and the internet - means I'll know within approximately one minute who has designed the wedding dress (will it really be Sarah Burton from Alexander McQueen?), how much the wedding rings cost, where the flowers came from, what the bridesmaids dresses are made out of, what the canapes taste like and Prince Harry's tipple of choice.
7. I won't have to squirm with embarrasment at the Sloaneys or the Chelsea gaggle trying to bag Prince Harry during the afternoon reception. And Prince Harry laughing too hard at their silly jokes. Harry, they're only after a life that involves being waited on hand-and-foot, getting paid to do very little and living in grand houses. Don't encourage them.
8. I will happily avoid the awkward-but-necessary family banter that we all have to get through at weddings, particularly if there's a line-up. Only this family banter would be even harder to stand, what with Phillip's rascist jibes and Camilla's limited conversation about gardening.
9. The huge anti-climax at the end will be extremely hard to bear. If I was attending the royal wedding I'd come home at the end and be surprised that my flat doesn't have 15 bedrooms, my maid seems to have vanished and my fridge only contains a flat Corona and Tesco Value pitta bread. Where has my Champagne and lobster gone? Oh.
10. If you're at the royal wedding, you're in a bubble and, although I'm sure it would be very exciting indeed, you won't be able to get out very easily. If you're outside the bubble, as most of us commoners will be, you have access to Twitter, Facebook, email, text messaging, telephoning (yes I've heard some people still do that)... you get the picture. That means a much bigger opportunity for gossiping about the celebrity turn-out, sharing opinions on Kate's dress, sniggering about the silly military fanfares, commenting on how dapper Harry looks in his suit etc.
So you see, it's better not to attend the royal wedding after all. Wait, is that an invite landing on my doormat??!
No.
Oh.
1. Deciding what to wear would be a huge headache. It needs to be fashionable but not too fashionable, smart but not boring, reassuringly expensive and not too attention-seeking. I'd head to Kate Middleton's favourite retail haunts Reiss or Whistles if I was going (not that I've thought about it or anything). An embellished shift dress and matching cardie from Dorothy Perkins probably wouldn't cut it.
2. One of the loveliest parts of a wedding is seeing and congratulating the bride but, with the rumoured 2,000 guests attenting the wedding, it's very unlikely that a pleb like me would even see the bride, much less talk to her. In fact, I'd probably get a better view from a clapped-out television in the outskirts of Jaipur.
3. The one-upmanship attending such an event holds is rather offputting. If you're not with the bridal party, a relation or a celebrity all the other guests would be looking down at you. "Who's that common person? Why does she get an invite when some of my celebrity chums couldn't even get a look-in?"
4. Ok, I don't fancy Prince William but a girl cannot help feel a tinge of jealousy that Kate is marrying a prince and will always live in a beautiful big house with everything she could possibly need, and will never need to work or worry about money again. So, watching her signing the contract that makes all this legally binding is a teeny bit more painful than watching it on telly. So there.
5. Not attending the royal wedding means I can watch it with my mates in a manner that would make the Windsors and the Middletons flinch with embarrasment. I, for example, will be watching it holed up in a pub in Devon with friends, drinking as much as I like without worrying too much about the consequences. My old work colleague Paul has organised a party whereby all the attendees are divided into two groups, one called 'William', one called 'Kate'. Whenever either of the names are mentioned during on the television footage of the wedding, the corresponding team has to have a drink. Genious! You wouldn't get the Middleton's doing that now would you?
6. Talking of the merits of television footage, I'll receive information about every possible royal wedding detail as soon as is humanly possible by watching it on the box, which cannot be said for the wedding attendees. The magic of television - and a few savvy researchers, editors and the internet - means I'll know within approximately one minute who has designed the wedding dress (will it really be Sarah Burton from Alexander McQueen?), how much the wedding rings cost, where the flowers came from, what the bridesmaids dresses are made out of, what the canapes taste like and Prince Harry's tipple of choice.
7. I won't have to squirm with embarrasment at the Sloaneys or the Chelsea gaggle trying to bag Prince Harry during the afternoon reception. And Prince Harry laughing too hard at their silly jokes. Harry, they're only after a life that involves being waited on hand-and-foot, getting paid to do very little and living in grand houses. Don't encourage them.
8. I will happily avoid the awkward-but-necessary family banter that we all have to get through at weddings, particularly if there's a line-up. Only this family banter would be even harder to stand, what with Phillip's rascist jibes and Camilla's limited conversation about gardening.
9. The huge anti-climax at the end will be extremely hard to bear. If I was attending the royal wedding I'd come home at the end and be surprised that my flat doesn't have 15 bedrooms, my maid seems to have vanished and my fridge only contains a flat Corona and Tesco Value pitta bread. Where has my Champagne and lobster gone? Oh.
10. If you're at the royal wedding, you're in a bubble and, although I'm sure it would be very exciting indeed, you won't be able to get out very easily. If you're outside the bubble, as most of us commoners will be, you have access to Twitter, Facebook, email, text messaging, telephoning (yes I've heard some people still do that)... you get the picture. That means a much bigger opportunity for gossiping about the celebrity turn-out, sharing opinions on Kate's dress, sniggering about the silly military fanfares, commenting on how dapper Harry looks in his suit etc.
So you see, it's better not to attend the royal wedding after all. Wait, is that an invite landing on my doormat??!
No.
Oh.
Face it
I was happily sat in the garden in the sun today when I realised I was late for my lunch date. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door. Half way down the road I realised I was naked.
No, not naked as in clothes-less, but naked as in I wasn't wearing any make up. In my rush to be on time I completely forgot to slap on some, err, slap, and, although it pains me to admit it, I felt a little peculiar. In turn, I felt a little disgusted with myself. How could I be so vain as to feel like forgetting to pop on a bit of make up meant something was missing?
It's not like I always wear bottle-loads of make up or anything. My regular daily make up includes a lightweight foundation from Pixie, eyeliner pencil, a touch of bronzing powder, blusher and clear mascara (the black stuff takes waaay too long to take off). That's it. And even those I apply sparingly. In fact, if you asked my husband how much make up I wear he'd probably say none at all because it never looks like I'm wearing any. Yet somehow I still need to wear make up - albeit a token amount - to feel like 'me'.
I thought about it a lot on the 15 minute walk to lunch. At the beginning of the walk I even tried to avoid looking people in the eye. But what are they going to do? Throw up because I'm slightly paler than usual? Nope. So after five minutes I decided to strut a little more down the Uxbridge Road, thinking to myself that this is my face. And the facts are: my face is very pale, I have some red patches on my cheeks, I have a few spots on my chin and an oily t-zone. But that's just how things are; that's me.
By the time I'd reached the restaurant I had completely forgotten I wasn't slathered in make up. And as it turns out, I didn't need any to have a good time.
No, not naked as in clothes-less, but naked as in I wasn't wearing any make up. In my rush to be on time I completely forgot to slap on some, err, slap, and, although it pains me to admit it, I felt a little peculiar. In turn, I felt a little disgusted with myself. How could I be so vain as to feel like forgetting to pop on a bit of make up meant something was missing?
It's not like I always wear bottle-loads of make up or anything. My regular daily make up includes a lightweight foundation from Pixie, eyeliner pencil, a touch of bronzing powder, blusher and clear mascara (the black stuff takes waaay too long to take off). That's it. And even those I apply sparingly. In fact, if you asked my husband how much make up I wear he'd probably say none at all because it never looks like I'm wearing any. Yet somehow I still need to wear make up - albeit a token amount - to feel like 'me'.
I thought about it a lot on the 15 minute walk to lunch. At the beginning of the walk I even tried to avoid looking people in the eye. But what are they going to do? Throw up because I'm slightly paler than usual? Nope. So after five minutes I decided to strut a little more down the Uxbridge Road, thinking to myself that this is my face. And the facts are: my face is very pale, I have some red patches on my cheeks, I have a few spots on my chin and an oily t-zone. But that's just how things are; that's me.
By the time I'd reached the restaurant I had completely forgotten I wasn't slathered in make up. And as it turns out, I didn't need any to have a good time.
Spring trends hit the streets
I’ve been a bit of a recluse lately. After Half a Sixpence I’ve spent a lot of the time catching up on work in the confines of my flat. So today I decided to meet some old work friends for lunch (Kitchen Italia, Macaroni & Cheese: slightly naughty, very nice). As I approached Westfield I noticed that the spring/summer 2011 trends that have seeped through the catwalks to the high street stores are now being fully embraced. Yes, the shopping centre was awash with floor-sweeping maxi skirts, long wide-legged washed jeans, floaty chiffon shirts, printed maxi dresses, fringed bags and flashes of bright stripes.
It was a sight to behold!
I love this time of year. It’s getting warm and people are becoming more positive, which gives them the confidence to break into the trends that have only been seen in magazines until now. Sara, who was among the friends I had lunch with, looked fantastic in a pair of blue floral palazzo pants from River Island. “I love them,” she said when I complimented her, “they’ve spent a few days squashed in my drawer and they didn’t need an iron!” How very practical! “They will be perfect for when I go to Egypt in the summer, where it’s frowned upon to have any flesh on show.” Right you are.
Do you ever get a bit breathless when you see something you love that someone else is wearing? I had that feeling today, when I saw a girl wearing an eye-catching floppy straw hair with a black ribbon with white spots tied round the brim. The rest of her outfit was simple (flared jeans and a white tank top) but that hat didn’t need anything else. I asked her where she got it from.
“ASOS.” Pause. “It was only £18!”
You can tell she didn’t want to cheapen the hat by telling me how outstandingly cheap it was, but was so bewildered herself that she couldn’t hold it in! £18! A bargain indeed.
This Easter weekend is set to be a scorcher. I can’t wait to see what trends and outfits emerge, spurred on by the confidence the warm weather of spring, a looming Royal wedding and a welcome batch of bank holidays.
Bring on the summer!
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