find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you… now tell me about hundreds of things -saki
Aah yes, the virtual bookshelf. Not certain as to what purpose it serves exactly, apart from showing off one’s cultural and literary references. And I would have preferred something which could showcase more accurate book covers. But that could just be me being too lazy to type the ISBNs of the actual editions sitting in my ‘to read’ pile.
You can find the actual (virtual) bookshelf here.
It was a brief, forgettable foray into the deep, dark, shark-infested waters of commerce. Enjoyable? Yes, for the sheer exhilaration of twisting and turning your mind to something new. But there were long, long hours, constant, unrelenting stress, a vague presentiment of big brother always watching, and the presumption that juniors were there to be shouted and sworn at.
“You don’t seem suited for this environment,” I was told.
I should ruddy well hope not! I thought as I departed, thanking my lucky stars for this narrow escape.
After all, it’s a big, wonderful world out there and life’s too short to put up with toxic, uncivil environments.
Photo of Melbourne taken one summer’s evening.
…have never looked this sexy.
It might be a bright, balmy mid twenties summery day in Melbourne but by golly, I wouldn’t mind a freezing New York-style snowstorm just for an excuse to pull on some of these gorgeous silk ribbed grey stockings.
Photos from the a détacher Fall 2010 RTW show at New York Fashion Week.
Ten vintage book cover posters that would adorn the walls (and shelves) of my (currently, theoretical) flat.
Get them at good online poster stores everywhere.
A few months ago, Garancedore wrote about a French photographer she met in New York. A chap who, as it turns out, was carrying a wonderful secret known (prior to Garance’s blog) only to himself and his wife.
You see, his wife had embroidered a heart on the inside of his shirt pocket. Garance doesn’t say, but I’d like to think it was his left breast pocket, close to his own heart.
More prosaically (handsome French photographers being in short supply in this sleepy, suburban part of the world), I made a similar discovery as I cleaned my childhood toys for storage. Under her apron and floral dress, my old Raggedy Ann doll was also hiding an embroidered heart. Which I’d forgotten all about. Probably embroidered by her maker, whom I’ve never met, but still no less lovely.
Aw.
Happy Valentine’s Day, and a Happy Year of the Tiger, all!
Ahh, Toast Spring 2010.
I’ve got to get me to South America and/or Cuba for that dreamy, steamy, nostalgic, photographic vibe.
Huzzah! My very own Coralie Bickford-Smith Penguins!
(I rather suspect these volumes featuring the very moral Ms Eyre, the March sisters and my favourite Austen heroine, that meddling, spoilt Ms Woodhouse will be admired more often than read.)
She loves corsets, has played Lucy Honeychurch (who “If [she] ever takes to live as she plays [the piano], it will be very exciting both for us and for her“) and lives in a home connected to her partner’s by subterranean tunnel.
The gloriously kooky, porcelain-skinned Helena Bonham Carter from here.
A Turtle's Salon du Thé 
