Where The Hell Is My Leg?
9 hours ago
Monday, 7 May 2012
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
New Years Resoloution 1: Feb 1st. (Blog More)
After 9 days…which felt like 9 leap years…worth of library time, pretending to revise for my honestly, very difficult and important, big-girl third-year fashion school exams
(Q1: define ‘a skirt’. Q2: draw and colour your favourite skirt…etc, etc)
it feels really fucking great to eventually make yourself feel really fucking horrendous by ruining your body, soul and mind with alcohol, dancing and stomping around in second hand Doc Martens.
Which are juuuuuust a tiiiiiiiny bit too small for you and render you a toxic, babbling cripple for the next few days.
Fun was had in an institute for the deaf, in an ex Belgian embassy and in various hip hop happenin’ spots around the classy, cosmopolitan, almost continental streets of Fallowfield.
The drizzle on the ice cream of indulgent weekend joy was definitely the honey rum that I ‘forced down’ on Sunday evening post-roast. All the way from ‘the island of doom’, El Hierro.
(Q1: define ‘a skirt’. Q2: draw and colour your favourite skirt…etc, etc)
it feels really fucking great to eventually make yourself feel really fucking horrendous by ruining your body, soul and mind with alcohol, dancing and stomping around in second hand Doc Martens.
Which are juuuuuust a tiiiiiiiny bit too small for you and render you a toxic, babbling cripple for the next few days.
Fun was had in an institute for the deaf, in an ex Belgian embassy and in various hip hop happenin’ spots around the classy, cosmopolitan, almost continental streets of Fallowfield.
The drizzle on the ice cream of indulgent weekend joy was definitely the honey rum that I ‘forced down’ on Sunday evening post-roast. All the way from ‘the island of doom’, El Hierro.
Sunday, 8 January 2012
All the carbs before bargs (then we'll bake some more later...and get some red too while we're at it)
Weeee he hell how time flies when you're having fun.
Since deciding to run away from the pressures of third year, back to morocco, to live peacefully as a mountain goat hearder, life has never been so sweet.
I havent had but a passing thought about my blog, or any internet access really, except when I set my pretties, the goats, to mug iphones off passing tourists.
Nah, NOT REALLY! ha. ha.
Ive just been sitting, in classic heritage me style, on my country-fair-prize-piggish posterior, being too boozebrained and sugar-highed to register the niggling reminder at the back of my brain to update...for more months than ever before. Not that i'm apologising to anyone, though, as it would be about as pointless as a lady gaga concert in an empty cave (if a gaga falls in the woods and there is no one around to hear her....etc)
The term and festive reward season have, however, been of quite some note.
Despite still residing in outer morden-golia, the arsepit of London, things have been pretty glitzy, .
New Year's brat pack escapades were, oh so completely RAD, dude. A definite fine and sophisticated personal moment being me marching up to the dj and showing my somewhat modest ('fashionable') breast in the face of the dj, causing a momentary loss of concentration in the booth and plunging the pub into a couple of seconds of party silence, the reason for the whole boobless episode being simply for the reason of showing off my tears for fears badge. Because, despite his ill concealed 'bafflement', i knew he really, really was simply amazed by it.
Here's a picture of TFF, really ringing home the fact that some 80's fashion really, really will never, ever be vintagey-kool ever again.
Thank fuck I hadn't spent my entire paycheck inside the shop I earn it, though, as that night...turned to day....turned to night...turned to day, again, was, um, rather fucking expensive. DM's for ten bob though? Dior blazer a score and ten? DM if i dio, mate.
Roses are brown and wrapped in cool foil wrappers, parma violets are...violet, we all love sweets. This much is bloody gospel. However, sometimes, hidden away like the freaks of nature that they are, baking fetishits cluster to discuss at considerable length, the merits and demerits of the best ways to soften butter, best ways to grind an almond, and the frightful cost of icing sugar in this modern hell we live in, whilst shoving baked goods in their mouths. As an uncercover mole, I burrowed into their sick, seedy, sweet scented world for three hours last saturday, to be taught how to produce macaroons, without the aid of voodoo and fairy dusts. Results were suprisingly light, fluffy, delicious, smooth and marvellous, despite me having had far too much wine and too little sleep the night before, and feeling and looking the opposite of all these attributes.
With all this day partying, moneyspending, languishing and cake eating, just call me Cherie Craptoinette.
Since deciding to run away from the pressures of third year, back to morocco, to live peacefully as a mountain goat hearder, life has never been so sweet.
I havent had but a passing thought about my blog, or any internet access really, except when I set my pretties, the goats, to mug iphones off passing tourists.
Nah, NOT REALLY! ha. ha.
Ive just been sitting, in classic heritage me style, on my country-fair-prize-piggish posterior, being too boozebrained and sugar-highed to register the niggling reminder at the back of my brain to update...for more months than ever before. Not that i'm apologising to anyone, though, as it would be about as pointless as a lady gaga concert in an empty cave (if a gaga falls in the woods and there is no one around to hear her....etc)
The term and festive reward season have, however, been of quite some note.
Despite still residing in outer morden-golia, the arsepit of London, things have been pretty glitzy, .
New Year's brat pack escapades were, oh so completely RAD, dude. A definite fine and sophisticated personal moment being me marching up to the dj and showing my somewhat modest ('fashionable') breast in the face of the dj, causing a momentary loss of concentration in the booth and plunging the pub into a couple of seconds of party silence, the reason for the whole boobless episode being simply for the reason of showing off my tears for fears badge. Because, despite his ill concealed 'bafflement', i knew he really, really was simply amazed by it.
Here's a picture of TFF, really ringing home the fact that some 80's fashion really, really will never, ever be vintagey-kool ever again.
Thank fuck I hadn't spent my entire paycheck inside the shop I earn it, though, as that night...turned to day....turned to night...turned to day, again, was, um, rather fucking expensive. DM's for ten bob though? Dior blazer a score and ten? DM if i dio, mate.
Roses are brown and wrapped in cool foil wrappers, parma violets are...violet, we all love sweets. This much is bloody gospel. However, sometimes, hidden away like the freaks of nature that they are, baking fetishits cluster to discuss at considerable length, the merits and demerits of the best ways to soften butter, best ways to grind an almond, and the frightful cost of icing sugar in this modern hell we live in, whilst shoving baked goods in their mouths. As an uncercover mole, I burrowed into their sick, seedy, sweet scented world for three hours last saturday, to be taught how to produce macaroons, without the aid of voodoo and fairy dusts. Results were suprisingly light, fluffy, delicious, smooth and marvellous, despite me having had far too much wine and too little sleep the night before, and feeling and looking the opposite of all these attributes.
With all this day partying, moneyspending, languishing and cake eating, just call me Cherie Craptoinette.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
