Good Deeds

Whilst Selfridges always has a place in my heart there is no doubt that I am a little bit in love with Liberty. I think it started with their Tea restaurant (that has sadly departed although I got to have a champagne afternoon tea with Maddison before it did. Sick amounts of food, light on the wallet). 

It has then continued as they always stock lovely quirk and I love me a bit of quirk. Until the start of this year they stocked the most beautiful wallets from a NZ designer. I was obsessed with them. Every time I went in I'd stand and um and ah over them before deciding £120 was too much for a wallet when I had a perfectly serviceable UO one. 

Then I got a fake Marc Jacobs one (all the culture of the Philippines was not lost on me, no Siree). And then it was stolen. I'm quite zen about it now. I still lament the loss of

1: A photograph of me and MonsieurB looking quite, quite Chinese. He always hated it. I wouldn't be surprised if paid someone to nick my wallet he hated it that much

2: A fortune cookie fortune that read, "You are extremely attractive to the opposite sex"

3: My Nandos card that was one stamp away from a whole chicken

The rest is replacable. The above is not. 

Whilst surfing ASOS last night I found they are now stocking said beautiful wallets. Still for £120 but reduced to £77 in one of their current and numerous 25% off sales. I decided to check out the main site for myself to see if I could get it any cheaper. Low and behold my favourite (and limited edition) is in the sale. Probably because it was designed in 2006 and she really needs to get rid of them. 

I duly added it to my cart for 28 euros and went to pay. But Paypal done a messy and charged me 28 US dollars. Which is much less than 28 euros. I could have mugged off an independent designer whose work I've coveted for 3 years. I could have. But I didn't. I emailed her and asked her if Paypal had fucked up or if she was being extra generous. Guess what Paypal is evil.

She said in her email though, "Thank you so much for your honestly and letting me know about this fault". And that was a nice feeling. So yeah. Then a work colleague gave me a hug for being a good person. Then I walked out of the office and bitched about how much I hate this girl who wants my desk. So much so that she actually comes around to my desk on a daily basis and blatantly asks me to my face when I'm going to be leaving. She is a massive, massive twat. (And the world is right again).

Also. I really want that Bart Simpson bustier. More than life itself. But I reckon I could get Illustration Monkey, I mean MonsieurB, to do a better Bart than that and then I can do some rinky dink attachment to a H&M special and Voila - $40 saved. Which is probably how much it would cost to do it myself. But you know. Let's not dwell on that. 

Bon Anniversaire/HOW MUCH?

This weekend MonsieurB and I spent a late 30th celebration few days in Shoreditch House and general fancypantsness. Generally it was lovely apart from MonsieurB throwing a very small strop because I am a BadGirlfriend. I'd disagree. Would a BadGirlfriend book The Ivy so he would SHUT UP saying how a good girlfriend would book it for his 30th? No. She would not. So I'm a QuasiBadGirlfriend. Which is fine by me. 

And briefly:

-> The staff in Shoreditch House are incredibly rude. And they need to put their cups and saucers in the dishwasher more often

-> I was an actual GLUTTON the whole weekend but it's not every day you get to eat perfect ox cheek or have roast potatoes with burgers of have a three course meal at The Ivy which is amazeballs from start to finish. 

-> I was mainly a BadGirlfriend for getting drunk, coming in at 4ish am and insisting I wasn't drunk and then drinking red wine in bed. When MonsieurB had to be up at 8ish am. And not telling him I would be back late. In my defence I assumed he'd be in bed so didn't text him. Yeah. I'm a QuasiBadGirlfriend. 

-> Which means the AP knickers that have Love, Honour and Disobey embroidered on the back of them sum up perfectly our relationship. 

Bacon Lube

For the pork lover in your life - or not in your life as the case may be.

 via Jezebel

Update

So you can get an idea. I'm sat here in my pretty dress and shoes on. They match perfectly. I have greasy hair and look like someone's mental old aunt. 

NOW the sartorial dilemma is to tight or not to tight. I say not tight as if I wear black tights I'll look I'm off to a funeral. If I wear a coloured tight I'll look like The Saturdays. Yeah. Funeral over Saturdays every time. My sister says black tight. But I'm fashion forward. So I'm going to go not tight and realise that 

1: It's just one fucking night

2: There will be no photographic evidence of said night

3: No one cares anyway

4: If it was my wedding it would be a different matter entirely

So my meltdown is over. And the more I look at "those fucking boots" as they are now known in Mademoiselle/Monsieur/B land the more they will go with in my wardrobe. I've already put them with a lovely pencil skirt. Perhaps it's time I had one pair of not completely whackjob mental shoes. Just the one. 

Savage Beauty

How amazing is the cover of this book? Inside is just as good.

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This can't be possible....

So that award I was nominated for? It's not long until I get to put in to reality the, "sincere smile, genuine hand clap", thing I've been working on for the last few weeks. Obviously I've had to tone it down from me tipping over a table whilst screaming, "WHAT THE FUCK?", but I think I've got it all sewn up. 

What I do not, however, have sewn up is the shoes that I am going to wear. I purchased a beautiful pair of crushed blue velvet ankle boots from Topshop only to be told by my mother they don't really go whilst my sister says she likes them. Fashion quandry. So I decided to scrap the shoes (i.e. not return them just yet as I love them but know that really I don't need another pair of shoes but they might just got at some point) and go back to the drawing board. 

I saw the above in Vogue. They're from Reiss which is so far removed from my fashion radar it's basically one of those crazy US helicopters they used to catch Osama. They were online for £150 which is a mammoth amount of money but this is a code red here. Obviously they were sold out in my size so I tracked down the last four pairs in my size in London. Two were at Westfield and two at the flagship store by Selfridges. Seeing as MonsieurB is working on Carnaby Street at the moment (impromptu visits to show how much I love him and NOT to go to AP woooo) I sent him an email with an exciting list of things to buy me (it was the 20% off event and I had a work quiz to go to that I couldn't bail on. Plus I got to say the words, "Sexual chocolate. They play so fine don't you agree?"). 

Conditions were perfect. He couldn't fuck it up. I left my name with the shoes. He just had to go and get them. At 1832 I had a missed call from him. At 1838 I returned said missed call and this was the call

Him: Well I hope you really wanted those fucking shoes

Me: Why?

Him: They were two hundred cocking pounds and they're non returnable

Me: What? Are they faulty? Why did you pay MORE for faulty shoes?

Him: No. They're the right size, they're new, they're just non returnable. 

Me: That can't be right. Statute dictates you can return them. Look I've got to go I'm at a quiz.

And then I had a fucking melt down. I'm not sure if I even like them that much. I only bought them as I assumed I could return them. And my mum said they'd go with my dress. I'm not sure if you've noticed but I'm kind of still having a meltdown. 

Ebay it is then. 

I also found this lovely bracelet whilst having a melt down. It's the co-ordinates of a town called Love in Barbados. So much lovelier than tacky shit with love written all over it. And pretty too. 

And I want this Charlotte Taylor top because it has lobsters all over it. And then I could wear it to work and make loosely linked jokes about having crabs. 

Naughty China

I'm sort of obsessed with china and tea sets. And I'm sort of obsessed with filth. So when my two of my sort of obsessions collide how excited do I get?

Find it on Etsy. 

Hello Winter.

I hate shopping for coats. Actually hate it. It's stressful beyond belief. A coat has to be practical. Something I definitely am not. And a lot of my purchases are lovely and colouful but not practical at all. 

My mother was compelled to bring me coat shopping on Saturday. I ended up buying the Whistles Barry Belted Coat which I can't be bothered to do a screen shot of and the set up of the Whistles site is such that you can't link it. So if you can be bothered to google it you now have all the information at your fingertips. 

But now I'm not sure. It's black. Which isn't very me. But then I do have bright red hair. And a fluro pink scarf. And a teal hat with a massive bobble. Perhaps a bright coat would be a bit mental. 

But then I found the above on ASOS. It's Barbour though. I hate people who wear Barbour coats. It's like they took a wrong turning off the M1 and ended up in London and not Somerset. Or something. Oh and it's £269. And I'd probably end up looking a lot like that girl. And she's not too sure is she? 

Things that make you go *sigh*. Or me, more specifically

Yesterday

MonsieurB: I flipped out at Stuart Baggs today. 

Me: Careful. He has a whole field full of ponies. He might set them on you *cue hilarious laughter. mainly from me*

Today

I log on to Facebook to find that his busy job is a rouse. I know this because there is concrete evidence of him dicking about and comparing his foot size to other people's in the office. What's more terrifying is that this is exactly something my sister would do. And then put on her imaginary blog's imaginary offshoot blog, "Tiny feet, bigger feet". I swear. She's an unstoppable blog juggernaut.