Look what I can do!

Check out my new skill! It was my aim to learn to crochet this year, and true to my word, here are the spoils.

I took a class on Thursday in central London, which taught me the basics of how to make a 'granny square'. I can now follow a pattern and understand the basic stitches, which in turn will make it easier to understand the extended stitches such as triple crochet.

I am not one of those terribly co-ordinated people I have to say, though I wasn't going to go into this experience thinking that I couldn't do it. After almost dropping the f bomb a couple of times in class, my teacher patiently guided me through the loops and hooks that makes a stitch, reaffirmed that I could do it, and told me not to worry. By the third 'round', I was understanding that crochet is basically a formula, and by following that formula (i.e. the pattern), you'll get the desired design. So dense I no longer felt; instead, pats on the back all round.

With no wool on Friday, I was on edge. This morning, almost timing it to perfection, the God's of retail had blessed today be the start of the summer sales, therefore I bought 20 reams of wool for 50% off.  Nice one.

So here I am on a beautiful London Summer's day, enjoying the breeze, whilst watching Nadal at Wimbledon, and crocheting my granny squares.

Today is bliss.

Somewhere- Sofia Coppola- wetting my pants

I cannot sing the praises of Sofia Coppola high enough, and her latest work Somewhere, does not change this opinion.

I fell in love with Coppola through her work, The Virgin Suicides then again with Lost in Translation. I even favoured Marie Antoinette, despite less than positive reviews.

Somewhere stars Stephen Dorff, the 90s posterboy that people of my generation favoured before he got drug-haggled and disappeared (probably got fat, then decided to pull a Mickey Rourke on us and take a chance). It also features little Elle Fanning (sister of Dakota) in what looks like a role which will break through her family shackles.

Because Somewhere was written by Coppola (she received an Oscar for screenwriting Lost in Translation), I know me and this film are going to get along like a house on fire. Slow, meloncholic, serious, contemplative- throw all these words at me and they shall roll off my back. For Coppola knows how to write, perhaps because she draws upon so many of her own experiences. And who wouldn't want to find out more about the life she has led?

Somewhere will premiere at Venice Film Festival in September, then has a release date of December elsewhere. Crossing off my calendar now.

“I just knew in my heart that there was more. And I don’t know what that necessarily means, maybe it was just a yearning to live outside the parameters I lived in. I knew - particularly when I was a teenager - that I wasn’t cut out to live where I was from, where I was born.”
Karen Elson

I've re-blogged this quote, originally found on Russh.

It's something that I can relate to. I thought a lot more people felt this way, until I realised they were there and I was here. I thought we all wanted to escape. I guess contentness comes in many different forms. Like Karen, I just wasn't cut out to stay put.

Karen Elson & Jack White: Vogue US June 2010
Picture credit: Fashionising.com. Click to enlarge.

Who is she?

Imagine if you were the inspiration for this song.

The life you must have led...

Peter Sarstedt, Where do you go to my lovely?

Biscuits + Football

Today I woke up resolute to fill the day with all sorts of activity.

Then I looked at the clock, and realised Australia's World Cup match was mere hours aways. So instead, I bided my time and fixated myself on recipes that I would cook later today.

I'm not really a follower of football, though I understand the appeal of 'the beautiful game' and the emotion attached to it. The World Cup, to lean upon many cliches, brings attention not just to a simple ball game; this spectacle draws countries together, builds hope, conjures fear, delivers disappointment, delivers joy. I am a fan, and I support Australia, with England being my 'second' team. Oh, and Switzerland, though only because I drew them in my office sweep and I stand to profit.

So you can imagine my nerves this morning when the hour upon 3 was drawing closer. To occupy my mind, I pedalled down to my local shops and bought some ingredients to make delightful chocolatey mint morsels. Cooking relaxes me, it focuses me and I couldn't think of anything more I'd rather do. Especially when the outcome of such efforts turn out like the below.

So here is the recipe I used, though to be honest it definately didn't turn out like proposed. Even though I diligently converted the annoying US measurements (a stick of butter? Whatever.), at the point where the batter was supposed to resemble 'pebbles', it more took the shape of cake batter. So I added more flour. Then more sugar. It still looked like batter, albeit a little stiffer.

I refrigerated for an hour during the first half of the game (score Aus 1: Ghana 1; Kewell red carded for a hand ball, fool), then decided to roll these into balls and make choc mint melting moments. Delicious.

So after I made what seemed like 50 biscuits, the game ended. The tenseness of the match was eased when I stepped into the kitchen.

So I decided to melt some dark chocolate (with some mint essence) and coat half of these little soldiers into submission. I drowned them into the chocolate, then femmed them up somewhat (more petticoated them) with hundreds & thousands.

The other half I used as planned; I combined a couple of cups of icing sugar, with about 50g of butter and a good dollop of milk and peppermint essence. Then I beat this concoction, until it thickened and was good to ice one biscuit.

So here is the outcome. I'm home alone this week, so have over baked once again, though such is the result when I want to relax. I may take these into work, though I fear they will not travel well. We shall see how long they last.

I ♥ my bicycle

 
Images from We♥it.

Canon woop.

'I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre. I guess every girl goes through a photography phase. You know, horses... taking dumb pictures of your feet' Lost in Translation.

...so said Charlotte, as she mused through life sipping her drink at a Tokyo Hotel bar.

She could be right, though I doubt when she went through her phase, that she had the awesome tools that I now have as I go though my photography phase.

Squeals of delight could be heard throughout Londontown when I purchased the beautiful Canon EOS 550D a few weeks ago.

After doing my research (flicking through some digital camera magazines over a flat white, browsing The Gadget Show's online site, and conducting a facebook focus group*), I decided that the Canon was indeed worthy of investment.

I've since been around the neighbourhood, snapping everything in sight. I'm preferring manual focus for now, though once I understand the science behind my camera, I'm sure I'll become accustomed with the other settings at my fingertips.

I almost feel unworthy, though I know CC and I will be mates for a while. I was even thinking of getting her a friend in the form of a tripod, to take steadier pictures.

Here's some test shots from our first couple of days together.

*Thanks to Patrick, Jess and Nat who told me to go for the Canon. I know you know your shit.

Sheer delight

Intrigued by sheerness.

As the season tries to make it into Summertime, I'm sticking with the femininity of the cooler days, allowing me to show a touch of skin...


From left-right (click image to enlarge):

byCORPUS Gingham Check Sheer Blouse
£58
Available from Urban Outfitters online

Stella McCartney ruffled sheer blouse
£645
Available from Net-a-Porter

Surface To Air Jukebox Sheer Blouse
£148
Available from Urban Outfitters online

Bothered.

Forgive me if I offend anyone, though is anyone else extremely bothered by the constant media presence of Cheryl Cole, (soon to be Tweedy)?

I shamefully am aware that Cole will soon revert to her maiden name, because I read an inane article last week that referred to her divorce proceedings. And why did I drag my eyes across the 80-words of drivel found in a non-descript commuter-newssheet? Because it was there. She is everywhere. The woman who was considered the talentless one in that bubblegum girl group she is part of. The one whose accent screeches in my ears, though melts the hearts of the grannies who watch her judging a production-line 'talent' show favoured by the majority in the UK. The one who married a reportedly gay footballer, to cover- up her racist tendencies, evident when she physically assualted an African bathroom attendant in a London club. The very one that now features in adverts promoting haircare, and lip colour, whilst her family deal with drug addiction and criminal records. The one who drips herself in designer goods, though is let's face it, a bit of a chav.

My point is not to belittle this woman for being something that she is not; the majority of people who have some degree of fame are acting, playing their roles on and off the stage. I just find Cole/Tweedy incredibly irritating, both to listen to and to look at. She is considered by most accounts to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, though does this also look at the type of person she is?  Of course not.

Before/after the machines got to Cole/Tweedy

Cole/Tweedy was once a foul-mouthed trollop who got into slanging matches against Lily Cole and fancied a few gyrating moves in music videos. These days, the 27-year-old has some mighty good public relations backing her, probably on the request of her boss, Mr.Simon Cowell (who incidentally, has some major secrets to hide of his own). The cosmetic endorsements, talent-show judging jobs and album releases can all come to a swift halt, I say. Please Cole/Tweedy, crawl back into the hole where you came out of and give me some peace. You're really annoying, though to assign some blame elsewhere, I would also say to the British press, please don't give coloumn inches where inches are not deserved. Who cares about this Geordie woman? She is not befitting of your national treasure.

And yes, I do understand the irony of this post.

Norwegian Wood, the aftermath

I meant to do a follow-up post a few weeks ago about Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood, alas time got away from me.

I won't attempt to write a review, this isn't my aim.

Norwegian Wood suprised me. I did have reservations about Murakami, as I stopped reading another one of his novels about six years ago because of the pace. This novel was different. I took to Norwegian Wood like a child takes to icecream, jumping head first into its depth, loneliness, hedonism and tragedy.

I wasn't sure who I identified with the most, the central character of Toru, or the ghost throughout the novel, Naoko. Both had their meloncholies, both had their moments.

Naoko assumed tragedy from the onset, being the 'widowed' teen; her first love Kizuki committed suicide, and it haunted her throughout her young life. As too with Toru, his one true friend taken from him. Suicide and death runs constantly throughout the novel.

You needn't be able to identify with the characters or their situations to enjoy this book, though you will need to bear with the pace. The book flows like a mountain stream, though concentrates on heavier episodes with pagination indulgence. For instance, when Toru first goes to the mountains to visit Naoko, Norwegian Wood settles in its place and stays there like a dog infront of a warm fire. It sometimes made for uncomfortable reading, as I was unsure of the motivations of the newly introduced Raiko. I feel you don't get her intentions until right at the end of the novel, though even then it's not entirely clear.  

Midori, the carefree, porn-curious character forces a different side of Toru to be introduced, though I couldn't help wanting her to go away. Naoko held me entranced, even though she was so far away, suffering and enduring mental health treatments of the 1960s. Perhaps I wanted a happy ending, though Murakami was setting the story in the most obvious of directions.

Did I enjoy the novel? Thoroughly. It took me a few days to read, because I was so entranced. The character studies were so deceptively simple, that the work did inspire my own stories. Underlying the multitude of characters though, are the efforts to conjure such simplicity. And that is the irony of the novel.

A London weekend

A weekend of London.

Pedalling along the London streets, Islington was my destination. I wanted to replicate the perfect weekend I had about a month ago when I had picked up my beautiful blue 1940s skirt. Sadly, the stall was not up in Camden Passage, though the experience did provide me with plenty of opportunities to try out my new Canon EOS 550D. I love love love it.

Today I went to Present in Shoreditch. I wasn't particularly interested in the clothes they had on offer, for they were against my gender. Nay, I wanted to try the coffee that was to be made and served to me by the 2009 World Barista Champion, Gwilym Davies.

Davies is based out of men's clothing store, Present. Using Square Mile beans and a very beautiful machine, my flat white came out perfectly sized to make it a lovely combination of strength and creaminess.

I do recommend.

From there, my companion and I meandered down Shoreditch High St, only to merge right towards Mile End Rd.

My research had led me to a new vintage store in town, well new to my ears anyway. The East End Thrift Store is situated down a shifty laneway, off Mile End Rd. Hemmed in by warehouses that look like they are no longer in use, the store is packed full of vintage, divided somewhat down the middle by ladies and mens clothing.

I was attracted to this store, primarily because I had read promises of many items costing no more than £10. Incredible. London is the home of the overpriced second-hand dress, so this was something to see.

Sadly, the atmosphere in the store lacked the potential exitement that would lead you into that perfect vintage find. It didn't feel shabby chic, it just felt shabby. The concrete floor, dressing rooms that were covered by scrap material (and only three-quarters at that), the two art students who ran the store, though couldn't really care less, all contributed to a disappointing experience. The clothes would have saved the day, had they been something to coo about. Sadly, there was a reason why they started at £10. They simply were not at the quality Londoner's expect.

Of course, the store is a fair size so I would recommend a gaze as everyone has subjective vintage expectations. I wanted to find uniqueness; instead I found clothes that had either been manipulated to suit the look of the present day, or were so unappealing, the fabrics and styles look like they should be retired, not re-used.

Present
140 Shoreditch High Street
London E1 6JE

East End Thrift Store
Watermans Building, Unit 1A Assembly Passage,
London, E1 4UT