Bourbon & Pearls

Puppy Love

2012-02-20T00:02:00.012Z

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Once upon a time in a far off land there lived a Prince

and his beautiful Princess. By day the Prince took to the skies in his whirligig looking for people to rescue and by night they snuggled in front of the crackle of a log fire and munched on Welsh laverbread which had been left on their doorstep by kelpies.

One day they decided to widen their tight little circle of love to include a Cocker Spaniel puppy, the inky black bundle of love became beloved by one and all. There was just one little problem, let us call it a stone in the people's shoe, one which began as a minor irritant but ended up, over time, driving the leprous Proletariat insane with rage, until the point where rotting turnips and putrid potatoes were being hurled in the air.

The adorable puppy remained nameless, his true moniker locked behind the implacable stern face of the official secrets act. He was, insisted the Prince and Princess, 'a private pet'. His name was for them to know and the Proles to wonder.

"NOOOOOO" screamed the public. "He is the People's Puppy! We must know him and love him." My liege, have not our taxes funded his Harrod's four-poster bed? The sweat of our brow filled his bowl with the finest kibble? For the love of all that is good, regal and holy, speak to your people?

SILENCE

It was at that point that certain conclusions were drawn. Namely, if you'll pardon the pun, that the dog's moniker was not politically correct. Whilst shocking in private, it was unforgivable in public.

Personally, I predict a riot.

Tobacco Road

2012-02-17T00:02:00.003Z

Tobacco Vanille by Tom Ford, does anyone have this tantalising scent? I popped into Harvey Nichols yesterday and offered up my bare wrist to the priestess behind the counter, I felt as if I was participating in profane communion and then spent the rest of the day leching myself. Apparently it's unisex; I'd date any man who wears this, even the Unabomber.

It is redolent of 5 star hotels, Cardinals and JJ Fox in St. James's St. If only I could half the amount of 'vanille' within, it would be perfect.

Whilst at the counter my eye was caught, nay transfixed by the above advert. That's the sort of flirty joshing that makes me grateful I'm not single anymore.

" What? You want to douse my private parts with chemicals? And have me pretend we're having fun?"

It reminded me of the petrol soaked garage scene in Zoolander.

This Wilbur and Gussie coral clutch is my current lust have but goes with nothing I own so I am contenting myself with worshipping it from afar.

On a more sober note, last Sunday I dropped something off to a friend of mum's at her sheltered housing complex. I found her half asleep with boredom, she spoke of long days with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

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As I left I passed an old chap about 85 with a wheeled walker, he was sitting in the hallway waiting to be taken to church, he leeched on to me as do those who spot a porthole in a wall of deafeningly silent days.

I was caught in the gatling gun of his soliloquy.

Upon finally leaving, I said, "I'm very pleased to have met you, what's your name?" "Mr Thomson" he responded, nodding as if just saying his name had reminded him of the person he once was.

Formal, as it should be, there should be a front gate before one is invited into a person's house.

I walked out to my car in tears, saddened by the loneliness and monotony that so many older people are suffering in their final years.

I'm not a leader, I'm happiest in the background, but if anyone has any suggestions for something small which I could organise to help bring a light into the darkness for some of these isolated OAP's please email me or leave a comment.

Oh to be less emotionally labile.

I then came home to see this fellow in the paper and promptly got my weep on again.

God bless the British for loving an underdog.

Love him.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Turn Up The Volume

2012-02-15T00:02:00.008Z

My one season wonder, age inappropriate Zara dress (size medium)

YSL shoes.

Well this is something rarely seen since the days of my being perambulated around the environs of Perthshire in my navy Silver Cross pram. I'm wearing head to toe pink, baby pink.

I normally associate pink with that harlot Barbie, but now I realise there is no greater role model for women, she's been a doctor, a NASCAR driver, a paratrooper, an ambassador for world peace and in 2000, a United States President and let's not forget "the superior nylon hair".

But I parked my pink prejudice like Barbie's VW bug, and embraced this voluminous skirt which peeled to me like Big Ben.

I haven't been out in this yet, but a few people asked to see it on after I posted it on Friday. Now before the cackling anons, (who are the female equivalent of old men in dirty macs flashing for attention), take their swipe, mutton...lamb - yes, I know but think of it this way in dog year's I'd be dead. I am celebrating my genus!

Let's think pink. Up until the 1940's little Gertrude would have been swaddled in blue, these were the days when the leading Catholic icon wasn't Madonna, but the Virgin Mary, who never put a foot wrong in her blue plaster gown. Pink would have been the preserve of little boys.

"The generally accepted rule is pink for the boys and blue for the girls. The reason is that pink being a more decided and stronger colour is more suitable for the boy while blue which is more delicate and dainty is prettier for the girl."

June, 1918 Earnshaw's Infants Department

So that's pink back in my circle of trust but I'm still leaving purple to hippies, those who believe in UFO's and Satanists.

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asos

paule ka

GILES

Elie Saab

Cups Runneth Over

2012-02-13T00:02:00.005Z

They were the chemical high of the 1960's.

They came without flashbacks and astral tripping yet were later to be put on trial for everything from joint pain to fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue.

Happy 50th birthday to the silicone breast.

Fifty years ago, Timmie Jean Lindsey, a factory worker from Texas was the first person to have silicone implants sewn underneath her pectoral muscles and so raise her from a B cup to a C cup.

Opportunity just knocked on the psyche of every dissatisfied double A cup woman in the world. And let's not forget those with tubular breasts, asymmetry and the need for reconstruction. Vanity thy name may be woman but is it so wrong to take advantage of science's leaps and mounds?

The recent PIP debacle in Europe where hundreds of thousands of women have discovered that their bodies are now filled with industrial silicone used to make mattresses rather than medical grade silicone has exposed the poorly regulated manufacturing side of the industry.

Do such surgeries go against the Hippocratic Oath? I believe that women have the right to choose their own destiny but should surgeons carve up healthy bodies to achieve an unchallenged image of the 'perfect' female form? Are we not just pandering to men? Or does it have more to do with advertising filled with impossibly cantilevered bosoms? All through history fashion has dictated the desired shape of a woman's body: now buttock implants are on the rise.

Surgical Pygmalions: friend or foe?

The Platonic ideal

for some women.

Monica Belluci - (natural)

Kelly Brook (natural)

Kate Hudson

Charlize Theron

Cake, colds and coevals.

2012-02-10T00:02:00.001Z

I made this for a coeliac friend, I know; Susan Sontag would be rolling her eyes at me, but you get the gist. It was a marvel of chocolate and sugary tesserae thanks to a doily I whipped whilst out for a curry the other night. I used this recipe, thanks JC - it's not often an agnostic gets to say that.

Strolled here last weekend

The sky is Hockney swimming pool blue and the weather has been perfect but yet everyone around me has colds; touch wood, but I haven't had one for over 5 years. Neither has mater, we have seen the rheumy eyes, scabrous red noses and herpetic lips and decided, no, not for us.

We now consider colds and flu very,very non U.

Tibi

As it's winter and I tend to turn all monastic and pledge a vow of chastity from buying clothes from October though March, my passions are starting to stir.
I have spent the last few months in my grey 'jail clothes' schlumpy house wear suitable only for shuffling to the kitchen and back, amorphous garments that say nothing other than "I really hope I don't get shanked in the chow line." But soon, I shall be baring all and I want to do so in this Tibi dress, sans liquorice legs. But yet, where am I going to go in such scarlet Rorschach finery? I'd tell you what I see but you might have me committed.

Operation Palm Tree is in full operation.
I'll be here for a week in April.

But...but...but...in March

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Yes there; my happy place, my goldene medina, my Valhalla.

I don't want to come back - shhh - immigration might be listening.

This led me to the High St because of course I have nothing to wear, I haven't bought summer clothes for yonks because we don't have summers.

Oh dear, I had to do the, 'of course I have a 21 year old daughter for whom I am shopping today' psyops out in the car as I think it is punishable by hanging for my coevals to shop there.

Oopsie, my glory hole is devoid of light.

I picked up a dress from Zara, remember how I said I'm not wearing short skirts anymore? Yeah well, if there is one place where mutton can dress as lamb it's where I am headed, so now that Demi is tired and emotional I am taking the tiller for the good ship Saggy Knees in Short Skirts.

I may have found my metier at last.

(must stay away from whippets)

Off to watch my grandmother Liz in Butterfield 8, had to order it from the US but she's worth it.

Thanks for reading and commenting everyone!

French Fancies

2012-02-08T00:02:00.001Z

Marc Jacobs

It appears that Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustard seed have been busy spinning candy coloured sugar cloth for Titania's fairy queen debut on the cakewalk this spring. Or so one would think by taking a peek at all of the new arrivals online.
I feel as if I've just unwrapped a tulle bomboniere at the marriage of Willy Wonka and Alice in Wonderland.

Dresses look good enough to eat, whisked up from a magical confection of sugared almonds, fairy cakes, bubblegum, lemon sherbert, pistachio gelato and rose dipped meringues.

Mr Kipling has inspired exceedingly fine clothes but my favourite, the Marc Jacobs is just too rich for me.

Do you have room for something sweet?

Felicity Cloake

Missoni Mare

D&V photography

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Preen

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Tucker

Paulette Paris

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Dolce and Gabbana

BBC Good Food Guide

Maxmara

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

2012-02-06T00:02:00.006Z

"The fascist regime, they made you a moron, potential H-bomb"

Anyone else singing along with me? Didn't think so, like every other Panama hat wearing privately educated schoolgirl rebelling against class and privilege the summer of 1977 meant but two things: the explosion of Punk Rock and the Queen's Silver Jubilee. No street party was safe from the anarchic strains of God Save The Queen by The Sex Pistols.

Forget Proust's madeleines, the current Diamond Jubilee year has folded time and space and returned me to safety pins and bondage trousers and the heat and dust of the 1977 scorching summer. I once even went out to a party wearing a bin liner as a dress. Miss Scarlet would have rolled her eyes.

Sixty years ago today, Elizabeth awoke on an African safari as a princess and by evening was Queen when the news of the death of her father George VI was broken to her by Prince Philip. In six decades of service she has literally not put a foot wrong, although she did once doze off at a banquet.

She embodies the British character of old, what we used to be and should aspire to be now, diligent, determined and inscrutable.

So thirty years on, I say without a trace of irony:

'God Save The Queen'.

"You don't write a song like 'God Save The Queen' because you hate the English race. You write a song like that because you love them, and you're fed up of seeing them mistreated."

Johnny Rotten

Hide and Seek

2012-02-03T00:02:00.000Z

Myself at Hotel Cipriani last year

Perceived wisdom would have us put away childish things but an exemption has always been sought and secured for the annual season of hide and seek. The time is almost upon us when grown ups revert to playing dress up, when the historic stone and dark waters of Venice become a stage and every doorway becomes a proscenium.

Next weekend augurs the start of the Carnevale, the 'farewell to

meat', a carousel of sinful indulgence, a time when menacing inky black Scaramouche snouts peak around every grey stone pillar and ladies swoosh silken gowns over worn down steps whilst hiding their true selves behind opulent masks - perfect and alluring portraits of sin.

From the Vanderbilt masquerade ball to Capote's black and white ball, we have been drawn inexorably towards the decadent glamour of the mask.

Masked balls are a paradox, by their very nature hidden but yet they allow us to reveal our Dionysian natures. Consequences be damned, but remember we still see the eyes, which are the window to the soul.

A masked ball is an event with an edge, one where mystery and secrets are on display.

Ellen von Unwerth

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Bals - Assouline.

Assouline

Harry Benson

On The Lash

2012-02-01T00:02:00.000Z

When Christian Dior launched the New Look in 1947, he gave women curves in all the right places.

Gamine figures were banished overnight and straight lines were fashioned into voluminous parabolas.

DiorShow New Look Mascara promises to do the same for lashes.

I swept down on the Dior counter yesterday to try it out for myself.

This pic is for Sulky Kitten's wall in the Scrubs.

The brush is very pliable and works its way into all the nooks and crannies, coating even the smallest stumpiest lashes but I didn't care for the overall effect, my twice coated lashes reminded me of segmented insect legs all gussied up in leather leggings for the ugly bug ball.

I'm not in the market for a new mascara yet but I decided to flirt with another new suitor.

I swept Shu Uemura Ultimate Expression mascara onto my other eye and much preferred the more natural look.

It's not often that I'm totally lashed by 3 pm on a Tuesday.

To The Manners Born

2012-01-30T00:02:00.000Z

This sylphen silhouette may keep us in the dark about Miss Debrett's true identity but the coltish limbs gracing the Regency chair quietly whisper the pedigree of the upper classes.

The filly may wear short skirts but she has high standards.

On Self Deprecation

Self deprecation is a trait that permeates British culture. It is a national characteristic - evident in a sense of history that, possibly uniquely, dwells on "glorious" failures (The Charge of The Light Brigade, Dunkirk, Scott's race against Amundson). It is also a valued personality trait, which people find engaging and - according to the latest anthropological research - sexually attractive.

The British have a horror of what they call "blowing your own trumpet" and are deeply averse to earnestness, pomposity and self importance. Statements that in another culture, would simply be attributed as confident expressions of self esteem are misinterpreted in Britain as boastful and self-aggrandising.

On the Stiff Upper Lip

The British Empire was built on the deadpan, the clenched jaw, the occasional polite smile. Adversity was something to be confronted with stoicism and sang-froid - there are numerous apocryphal tales of the phlegmatic reaction of Britons to disaster. The imperturbable refusal to reach histrionically to tragedy and disaster came into its own at times of national crisis - the terrible losses of the Great War, the devastation of the Blitz. And when the cards are really down, the British show an implacable tendency to keep calm and carry on.

On Ostentation

The British are said to be resentful of success and comfortable with failure. It is scarcely surprising then that ostentation was never a quality that was admired or emulated. Discretion about wealth and worldly success was the order of the day. There is an underlying suspicion that being flash with the cash is a terrible giveaway; what it reveals is that the cash is a newly acquired novelty, not a birthright.

Do you have a manners bete noire? Mine is tardiness;oh and show offs, windbags and general bores.

Sights On You: ReAura Laser.

2012-01-27T00:02:00.022Z

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What would you say if I said I could offer you reduced lines, firmer skin, and a magic eraser to rub out a lifetime of sun damage accrued on the Cote d'Azur, Blackpool and California?

Yes? Me too.

When Philips offered me the chance to trial the ReAura laser for 8 weeks I bit off their hand like a ravenous Doberman.

I hope to emerge rejuvenated after 8 weeks: a very post modern brunette version of Ayesha from Rider Haggard's She; bathed in the magical Pillar of Life's fire.

Oh for this edition.

Forgive the cliche, but here comes the science on the first at home laser based on Fraxel technology :

“The Philips product is a second generation device which has been demonstrated to be safe and effective”, said Dr Christopher Zachary, Professor and Chair of the Department of Dermatology at the University of California, Irvine. “It has a sophisticated high speed scanner, similar to the Fraxel line of lasers, and was assessed in an 80 patient study to treat the full face, neck, chest and arms. Patients were instructed to use the Philips laser twice a week for 8-12 weeks”. Immediate side effects included some redness and slight swelling which lasted about 1-2 days. About 50% patients noticed an improvement after one week, and over 90% at week 8. There was statistically significant improvement in all study categories (including overall appearance, fine lines, pigmentation – age/sun spots, texture, firmness and radiance) at one week and four weeks after completing the course of treatment. “It is likely that patients might have to undergo a periodic maintenance treatment, as with any skin rejuvenating regime.”

I had a telephone consultation to establish whether or not I was a suitable candidate and Philips offer online support and a telephone helpline for users.
So as not to bore the pantaloons off all of you I shall report back after my 8th treatment and then my 16th.
Now then, my baseline is pretty good for a 47 and a half year old woman. Even though I have spent a large part of my life abroad, I have worn sunblock on my face every day since I was 21, so I really have no sun damage at all. I have dynamic lines but no static ones yet. I do however have the curse of my genetic background namely broken capillaries around my nose and cheeks as pink as one of those creepy Victorian china dolls - alas the ReAura does not treat this problem so I had best just keep my ringlets and petticoats to a minimum. In addition I have the first signs of crepiness on my neck (it doesn't show up in the i phone pics but I'll try to get someone to take a pic ) and the usual volume loss along my jawline and nasolabials associated with nearing my 50th year. It will be interesting to see if the fibroblast/collagen stimulation brings improvement to those areas.
*My intention was to use this to firm up my jawline and to improve my crepey neck and hands but see note below about my skeletal mitts.
Brace yourselves, I come from Nordic people, without a tan, we are as pink as a slice of Spam.

The first signs of jowldom.

1. Does it hurt?
No, not really, it feels like a prickle from a very languid honeybee's butt but after a little while my skin felt very hot, like mild sunburn.
2. How do you look after a treatment?
As if I had placed my face on a griddle pan for 5 minutes. Do not plan on going out. All was well by the next morning though a little tender on my neck,
3. Where do I buy this magic elixir?
It is UK only at the moment, and available for the pretty sum of £799
solely from Space NK.
4. Where else can it be used?
The hands, decollete, forearms.
My hands however are tendonous bags of skin and proved too bonio for the device to traverse, it was like trying to drive a three wheeled Robin Reliant over the back of the Loch Ness Monster.

So far my one bug bear is that it takes so long to do. I was bored out of my mind waiting on the "ta da dah!" fanfare which the laser emits once a zone is completed but trust me I am not known for my patience.

For those wanting to see what it can do for photo damage, check out
Lila's blog, she has had incredible results.
I had wanted to show evidence of that Blackpool holiday, but I am too lazy to go up to the attic to haul out old photos. My sunburn was so bad we had to call the doctor and I spent three days lying in a B&B on my tummy covered in calamine lotion. Of course I still managed to eat my weight in false teeth, pink dummy tits and rock.
If you aren't from Blighty that last line may have blown your mind.

Extreme Unction

2012-01-25T00:02:00.009Z

Shhsppt, shhsppt!

Regular visitors to the B & P salon will know that I don't really like perfume, my feral little snout is too overactive to be bombarded with artificial scents, I like to keep my nostrilium clear for sniffing out bourbon, cake and trouble.

But at last, I have found something which allows me to participate in the indulgent rite of self anointing. Sulking and preening in my boudoir with Nivea's body lotion has been a rather Puritanical experience until now.

Diptyque's Voile Satin body oil contains the merest whiff of jasmine and saffron in a unctuous slippery base which means I can at last play High Priestess in the bedroom.

Fear not, I only sacrifice gingerbread men on my altar; death by nibbling.

oh look I'm the genie in the bottle.

Anything new in your beauty arsenal?

Saturday with Madame Bovary

2012-01-23T00:02:00.010Z

I both love and despise Flaubert's first novel, Madame Bovary.

I loathe Emma for her spendthrift displaced misery and sappy daydreaming and yet I recognise myself in her unadulterated lust for the beautiful, the transcendent which makes the grind of provincial housewifery just that bit more bearable.

Perhaps she is my Jungian shadow figure. But enough of that psychobabble tosh, look at my beautiful new edition. Does it not remind you of...

Yes, there may be more of Emma in myself than I care to acknowledge. Though God forbid I ever become a Barbara Cartland reading shopaholic.

I had a meeting at the Corinthian whose interior I love. It looks like the Central Perk for holy choirs of cherubim and seraphim. Though don't even think that their rosy cheeked bottoms are allowed anywhere near the cobra hooded Louis chairs, those are reserved for the high posteriors of the archangels.

BUMP.

What's that noise? Ah yes that was me back at home, polishing off baked beans on toast - lashings of butter on the scorched bread please. This humble repast would have set Madame Bovary off on an adulterous frenzy with the nearest banker but Curator, Claire and I kicked off a culinary satyricon as we salivated over a baked beans on toast orgy last week. Do you know that over 90% of tinned baked beans are consumed by Brits? It's a bit weird isn't it?

Do note that most of the sauce must be drained off prior to heating to ensure optimal butteriness to soak through.

In the evening, having at last whittled off my 5lbs Christmas excess, I dressed in fine lace for a night at the opera, Emma would have liked that; however the dress is 15 years old, Emma would not have liked that.

I indulged in a glass of Veuve, a much more cheery tipple than Emma's choice of cocktail - arsenic on the rocks. Some women just don't know how to handle their drink.

Hitchcock Style

2012-01-20T00:02:00.001Z

Glacial blondes in cashmere and pearls.

Fine boned frames sheathed in pencil skirts.

Coiled updos revealing the sensual curve of an alabaster neck.

How on earth did a man who resembled a walrus bequeath such a blueprint for the WASP femme fatale?

Hitchcock was a voyeur but we, the audience, fell in love with his flaxen Pygmalions, and I have fallen in love with Assouline's new book, Hitchcock Style.

To Catch A Thief is my favourite Hitchcock film, it is set in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes where I used to summer during my childhood. I still dream of going there in a blue chiffon dress and being swept off my feet by a mahogany tanned Cary Grant.

Did anyone else spend their single dating life searching for a flawed Hitchcock Hero?

I certainly did.

All images: Assouline

Available for purchase at Assouline

Jumping Jack Flash

2012-01-18T00:02:00.001Z

Peek a boo! Here I am reading the world's smallest book.

I have never been much of a saver but when I set my heart on Hermes Jumping boots a few years ago I knew that my time had come to don miserly fingerless gloves, turn down the heat and break open the cat food.

Why do I love them? They are the antithesis of all of those baroque 'prosy trotters' that have been in fashion for what seems like aeons.

They are simple, classic and timeless.

"The jumping boot is the contrary of pretty. It is daring, dynamic, Amazonian. You can see at a glance a union between the masculine rough universe and the very sophisticated and elegant femininity and that is very Hermès. What’s masculine? The shape, yet reduced to a feminine scale." Pierre Hardy, Hermes shoe designer.

Are you saving for something or is parsimony as elusive to you as a kiss from the Easter bunny?

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A Life Less Ordinary

2012-01-16T00:00:00.000Z

When chapman billies leave the street

And drouthy neebors, neebors meet

As market-days are wearing late

An' folk begin to tak the gate

While we sit bousing at the nappy

An' getting fou and unco happy

We think na on the lang Scots miles

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles

That lie between us and our hame...

Don't worry it's not quite Burns night, I'm not going to force any of you to eat haggis doused in whisky - quite yet, although you should trust me on that one, it's utterly delicious. Instead I am letting you all into my survival secret. 55 degrees north can be a souless bleak place to bivouac in winter, the last few weeks have seen neighbours' cars crushed by trees, chimneys fall through into dining rooms and the demise of a 300 year old tree which I'm quite sure spoke to me.

At times like these I return to the succour of the ancients, namely Robert Burns.

A roughshod B& P translation of the clunky Germanic Scots above- Burn's most famous poem would be...

"Boss, boss, de plane, de plane!"

I know; you're thinking, 'Fantasy Island' aren't you? What on earth has this to do with Burns? Well, I don't only believe in survival of the fittest but survival of the fantasists. Forget Mull, we're off to Fantasy Island! What else was Burns doing when he was getting "fou"?

It's no secret that Scots shelter within the warm ample, umm, gynecomastic bosom of John Barleycorn of an evening, Burns wrote of doing just that and the dreadful weather outside and on Friday night it is always cocktail hour at 6.00pm Chez Tabs.

Just as the clink of the ice cube tinkles into our second tumbler, my chum 'N' or I will utter Tattoo's clarion call and the other will clap like a seal with anticipation. It heralds our game, "What if old Aunt Ermintrude kicked the bucket tomorrow and left us as sole heir?"

On Friday night my life less ordinary started with this desk which the divine Aerin Lauder is perched on above, it's by Gabriella Crespi but blow me down, one of my favourite London shops Birgit Israel has just made a version of it for their bespoke furniture collection, cheap as chips at er... £13, 500. When I found out about it last week, I almost disemboweled my piggy bank with a butter knife.

On 'Fantasy Island', this desk and De Gournay wallpaper have been my number one lust since the game began. (Oh yes, we play it all the time and never tire of it, it's like tea and toast for our wizened parched souls.)

Next up? Get out of Dodge. My new life will be spent living in London and LA. I'm going to sojourn in LA LA land all summer, I'm going to buy the house of my dreams - a Silver Bullet and park it up by Paradise Cove in Malibu and spend my days with surf washed hair, in a wetsuit, burnt to a golden crisp. In the autumn I shall return to London to my cosily converted mews house ( with a Twombly and an Auerbach in the hall) down a cobbled lane in Belgravia/ Chelsea/Pimlico, seek succour in laser treatments from that saucy French frog, Jean Louis Sebagh, and become a patron of The Arts.

Birgit Israel

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mews house

You are never going to believe this but your old vinegar and lavender soaked Aunt Ermintrude has just passed away and left you as sole heir to £160,000,000. The codicil to her will reads, "Have a double and dream."

Let's hear it...

Disclaimer:

Anyone who puts their money towards world peace or orphanages will be thwacked back to Miss World training camp with an

hair-raising jolt from my electric cattle prod.

PS. Happy Birthday Wendy!

Keep Your Powder Dry

2012-01-13T00:02:00.002Z

Caron

What did women oh and ah over before Laduree macarons were first whipped up? Caron powder puffs, those rainbow coloured swan down pom poms of frou frou femininity.

There is an aplomb to the powder puff. It belongs to the days of clipped beauty, a more tailored regime, to a time when a lady performed part of her toilette in public with the allure of a geisha. She would hold the compact like a flattened Faberge egg in her palm, the 'tock' of the clip would herald an invite to her inner sanctum, where the hidden rituals of feminine sensuality would become public. The divine Ava Gardner was made high priestess of the art when she endorsed Max Factor's cream puff pressed powder in the Fifties.

Lulu Guinness, the torchbearer for the lost art of femininity, has just created three new compacts and when I looked up that old handbag stalwart, Stratton, I was delighted to see that they are still in business and making the most beautiful array of powder compacts for only £25.

Should we bring back the compact? I vote yes.

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Caron

Lulu Guinness

Stratton

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Estee Lauder

Going going GONG.

2012-01-11T00:02:00.001Z

Churchill's dining room at Chartwell

A recent survey has revealed that the dining room in Britain is as much a thing of the past as a phalanx of white gloved servants.

We are eschewing the confines of formal dining and taking sledgehammers not only to tradition but to our walls: open plan has taken over.

Like a young spiffy lodger who inveigles his way into an old Colonel's home only to turf him out, casual dining has usurped silver service formality. After realising that I used my dining room but once a year I decided to make it into another sitting room from which we have scarcely emerged and it seems I am not alone. However I draw a line at what is now common practice, smashing down the wall between one room and the next to create an open plan living area. I respect the creaking bones of my 140-year grand dame.

TV dinner? Kitchen table? Or does your dining room still smell of rich mahogany?

The dining room at House for an Art Lover

Mary McDonald

Nina Campbell

The Grey Lady OOTD.

2012-01-09T18:20:00.000Z

plus grey cords and a jumper to help me survive our 107mph winds

I have Van der Graaff generator hair every day just now.

If one were to come to a violent end in Blighty the chances are that one's ghost would come back and be known as the Grey Lady; round these parts it's the spectral equivalent of the surname Smith. What a shame that apparitions caught in limbo are not only disembodied but have no imagination which to my mind is much, much worse. If anything untowards ever happens to me then I shall be pressing my need for a more individual nom de spook upon ol' moneybags Charon the ferryman.

Add a touch of silver to the palette however and 'grey lady' seems altogether less humdrum; a touch of mercury makes the shade as neutral and icy as Switzerland and as glamorous as a Silver Cloud.
yours,
the Marchesa de Bourbon, of to practice my wooo, woos.

Oh Demi, Demi.

2012-01-05T12:42:00.001Z

"What scares me is that I'm going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I'm really not loveable, that I'm not worthy of being loved. That there's something fundamentally wrong with me."

My heart sank when I read this quote from Demi Moore in the latest issue of Harper's Bazaar. Wounded by Eros, she has laid herself bare. The PR speak and generic bubbles of nonsense that celebrities generally spout are absent and replaced with a candour rarely seen today in interviews.

Like most women she is no doubt overanalysing and spending too much time introspecting, I very much doubt that the randy, cotton-brained pup Kutchner is slouching off thinking: 'I'm not loveable'.

"I sit today in a place of greater acceptance of my body and that includes not just my weight, but all the things that come with changing body as you age to now experiencing my body as extremely thin. Thin in a way that I never imagined somebody would be saying to me: 'You're too thin and you don't look good.'"

When she talks about her body we see more of her anxieties and a lost sense of self.

We've all been here, what helped you through?

Sauron's Eye.

2012-01-04T00:02:00.001Z

Today's post is really for all of the bloggers out there, how often do you look at your "Traffic Sources"?

I almost fell off my Osborne and Little upholstered bergere yesterday when I read that "sex in Edinburgh toilet' "sex in my camel coat" ( I don't think so mister, do you know the price of a Max Mara camel coat?) and "lusty sex" have led some interesting people to enjoy 16 pages or more at the Bourbon and Pearls enclave.
Oh and this beaut:"someone appeared at the end of my bed in a hessian bag", well that's heinous, could they not have at least belted it? No one wants a visit from a shapeless succubus/incubus. I feel your pain - really.

Anyway, stop it now lavatorial gymnasts before I slap you with a big wet smelly four day old kipper. Do know that I hold a gold in the annual Scottish Kipper Flipper championships; I keep a rotting kipper in my armpit and I am not afraid to use it.

source

Am considering fashioning a cheesewire belt for the month of January, does anyone else want one? I think it's the only way to remind myself that fattage must be removed asap. (See above note about succubus/incubus waistless apparitions.)
My appetite has reached Gargantuan proportions - though not in an an Edinburgh toilet, let's get that straight, ok? Can someone turn off George Michael's oeuvre please?
My lust is up for other bits and bobs, however ...

This dress is on Matches site just now, as much as I usually loathe girlie pink, I love this dress and its inverted leg o' mutton sleeves, does anyone know who it's by? It looks very Lanvin.

And Lanvin's Miss Sartorial clutch at Matches but I'm only 5ft 4, so as it's bigger than me so I would settle for DVF's Tonda clutch as I am lusting after the colour green as much as Kermit does after a saucy lady frog.

Tatler's February issue has poor Kate up the duff already, how could anyone live under a microscope like that? I guess that's the price one pays for a wall to wall ermine palace and the talismanic privilege of one day licking the back of one's husband's head and finding it has the power to take a letter from here to Timbuktu.

The moral of today's post is:
Big Brother Is Watching.
Does anyone else remember...'The woodwork squeaks and out come the freaks?' First one to name that song wins a dead goldfish in a bag. My treat!

We Are Your Overlords

2012-01-02T00:02:00.002Z

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Reuters

When an axe wielding Norseman suggests an evening promenade to a lady it is judicious to forget one's proclivity for the charms of the automobile and saddle up Shank's pony toute de suite. The Up Helly Aa Shetland Vikings led the annual Hogmanay torch lit parade from St Giles cathedral to Calton Hill and I was among their 30,000 followers. Tempus fugit, a thousand years ago they would have viewed the Cathedral like a hooded London rioter casing Nike.

Frankly with all the Aveda hairspray I go through to maintain my bounteous Texan barnet it's a wonder I didn't go up like a Roman candle.

Kilted men thronged the cobbled streets, even Aslan could not resist the lure of a mid-riff baring tartan ensemble.

I went to St Giles Cathedral for the annual candle lit concert. As the lights dimmed and the candles focused my senses it opened up the feeling of the cathedral as being a temenos.

As I stared at the ancient stone pillars I felt as if I was shoulder to shoulder with a thousand years of worshippers; how everything has changed and yet nothing has, each of us treading through the cycle of life. (Sorry, for coming over all Lion King.)

As always happens when one is on the verge of a religious epiphany, the devil struck me down. My upper back was seized by such a powerful spasm that I had to leave, cancel my plans for the rest of the evening and endure the ignominy of being driven home prostrate.

The Devil would appear to know where I live as not content with hurling physical afflictions at me he decided to hit me where it really hurts: the oven. Whilst baking meringues it let out a "phut" and promptly died. It is deceased. It is an ex oven.

My fancy foie gras draped Beef Wellington has been thrown out for the foxes and New Year's Day dinner was replaced by champagne and cake, not just any cake, the beauty below is a bourbon soaked Mont Blanc.

Was anyone else in bed by 10 pm on Saturday night?

Happy New Year!

Mont Blanc with bourbon drenched chestnut puree and a little Fornasetti on the side.

We'll Tak a cup o kindness yet

2011-12-30T00:02:00.003Z

source

In 24 hours time every one of you will become honorary Scots.

Drunken, maudlin, itching for a fight and then at the last minute embrace your worst enemy with a boozy hiccup, and start cooing in their ear.

Tonight I have few people coming round for cocktails and then if I can find a sou'wester in my cloakroom and lash enough walnut shells together to build a raft, I shall brave the weather and spend Hogmanay in Edinburgh.

Like twin-headed Janus, looking backwards and forwards, I've been ruminating. We've said goodbye to my icon Liz this year, but said: 'Hello baby!' to my success in the kitchen on Saturday

at making a Red Velvet cake.

Do you know that I only started baking/cooking 18 months ago?

I never stepped foot in the kitchen beforehand, I feared its iron manacles of subjugated housewifery but then I started reading blogs and became inspired by how all of you kitchen sorcerers made your mixing bowls, rolling pins and cookie cutters dance a culinary fandango.

Ironing? I don't think so.

This year I completed my more than decade long odyssey around the Grand Hotels of the world and now that I'm older and wiser and after 30 odd years of travelling including backpacking and sleeping on beaches, I now have no desire to pack my valise ever again.

Next year I have but one goal: to sniff a Labrador's paws.

I just read in the Spectator that they smell of popcorn, can anyone corroborate this exciting factoid? I'm tempted to jump the wall and grope my next door neighbour's dogs but we only speak once year and I might end up in the clink for rascalry.

Thank you for participating in the Bourbon & Pearls coffee house; where the waitress can be a tad lippy and the opinions sometimes as scalding as the coffee.

I raise my glass to you (I told you I was really sad and kept the Tiffany napkin for my memory box of broken dreams - haven't gone blonde, it's the flash.)

Happy New Year!

Gluttony

2011-12-26T10:02:00.002Z

Whilst I was at Scottish Ballet's magnificent swirling production of Sleeping Beauty on Saturday night,F&M finally delivered my geese, pies and Christmas puds in time for Christmas and Boxing Day. Hurrah!

Earlier in the day I had broken and scoffed about ten candy canes trying to sellotape them onto a baked bean can to make this vase.

The sugar monster had been released from his lair...

Now I know what a python feels like after ingesting a whole pig, I am spending today in my pj's as I am finding movement somewhat problematic. Thomas Aquinas categorised Gluttony into six hefty slices; I am guilty of consuming every one of them.

Thanks to Yummy Mummy for this idea.

A pause for the Queen..

And a 9pm slump on the sofa for the Christmas special of Downton Abbey along with another plateful of roast potatoes, sprouts, chestnuts, more pie and goose)

Oy vey, I think one of my seams just burst.

Any one else suffering today?

Jingle Ball

2011-12-22T19:05:00.000Z

Cheers big ears!

This should have been my new Christmas outfit, not that I think it's de rigueur to have one, I was just being greedy but fiscal abstinence waggled his finger at me and so it has gone back, also I just don't go to many parties so I couldn't justify this dress even though it made me feel like a wasp waisted Elizabeth Taylor waiting for Richard Burton to complement my outfit with a little red box from Cartier with a diamond as big as The Ritz tucked inside its velvety embrace.

Please remember to hop aboard my fur trimmed sleigh tomorrow for the Jingle Ball I'm throwing over at Hampton Hostess.

Having just supped on this Gingerbread Man cocktail below at The Malmaison Hotel, I wish Donner and Blitzen weren't so tied up or I'd have them deliver one to everyone's doorstep for breakfast on Christmas morning.

I have been wrapping presents for my mum. Everyone over 80 is receiving a copy of Max Hastings "All Hell Let Loose" a single volume history of The Second World War, mumsie believes that armageddon looks its best when draped in silk ribbons.

Thank you for following and for all of the wonderful comments this year, I'd be nothing without all of you and I really appreciate the bonhomie and friendships that I have formed. We all missed the invention of the wheel but let's raise a glass of bubbles to this new stage of our evolution: The Screen Age.

Wishing everyone a wonderfully Merry Christmas!

source

That should have been me!

Back on Hogmanay!

PS. Fortnum and Mason have just emailed me to say (after endless emails and attempted phone calls) that they won't be able to deliver my Christmas Dinner until after Christmas.

I am hissing and fizzing. Really Fortnum's? Dear British institution, you just outgrinched The Grinch.

Die Feuerzangenbowle

2011-12-21T00:02:00.002Z

Oh I do so love a German(ic) Christmas market, over the last few years I've jaunted off to Salzburg, Stockholm, Munich and last weekend, er, Edinburgh.

But remember we have our fare share of Viking genes in Scotland.
The custom of having a tall dark man "first foot" at Hogmanay in Scotland is a throwback to the days when a blond man at the door at midnight would most likely be a Viking out for a spot of raping and pillaging.

But back to Feuerzangenbowle; we went to Munich for our 9th anniversary, that part was my choice, husband's choice was a three hour walking tour with a guide well versed in the infernal machinations of The Third Reich. As regular readers may know, I don't walk, I'm as American as they come. My best foot forward has always been a step up into an automobile.

Off we went on the trail of tears. I was hissing and spitting of course but I had worn my comfy boots (seen below) and found myself so utterly fascinated by the tour that the whole thing seemed like a skip in the park. (The walk, I mean, not the years 1932-1945.)
Indeed soon the shoe was on the other foot. Two hours in and as I marvelled that Michael Kors boots were built for goose-stepping (figuratively, not physically, there are laws about that sort of thing here now) it was my husband who started whining about his feet and the cold.

Afterwards we stopped off with our guide for my very first taste of Fuerzangenbowle which is a charming and warming fruit punch as sponsored by Rohypnol. This rum doused German glogg, which bequeathed its name to an old classic movie, prefers to reveal its sheer potency in incremental measures. One ignites a deep warmth and sense of charitable giving. Two bypasses one's social inhibitions and encourages one to extend to strangers an invitation to waltz. Three disconnects one's legs, hastening the necessity of a taxi for the 3 minute journey back to the hotel.
I passed out face down on the bed at 7.30pm.
For the sake of propriety I had just one Feuerzangenbowle on Saturday. Best.

On Friday I will be doling out Christmas party tips right left and centre over at Party Resources, don't forget to bring a hostess gift!

I don't want to go to heaven, I want to go to Claridge's.

2011-12-19T00:02:00.001Z

Spencer Tracy once said: When I die, I don't want to go to heaven, I want to go to Claridge's. Well, where was his vision? I want to go to Claridge's every day in this life and the next, last week I pretty much took up residence in London's Art Deco paean to the good life.

'Lanvin' decorated the tree this year. Over the last few years that elfin task had been given to Galliano whose creativity was dazzling but of course he has blotted his copy book and so has been banished from ever coming into contact with tinsel again, lest he disparage it for being tacky and call it the bastard child of a glue gun, and a Las Vegas showgirl.

I think Alber's effort is... well... let's say under par. All of the figures around the tree look like The Muppets dressed in Ann Summers sex outfits.

My lip curled with derision but thankfully standards were maintained elsewhere, mainly a drinking den par excellence, The Fumoir and the classic chequer board hallway. Rose champagne is now up to £27 a flute, whenever I go out I turn into a parody of a mean Scotswoman.

I suffered as with a crown of fermented thorns: hot chocolate with a tonsorial tot of monk belted heaven, Frangelico. It was my goodbye drink after all.

The stars of the new Sherlock Holmes film were there to publicise the film, hence Sherlock's rather fabulous jalopy parked outside.

Jude Law? Go and read what Sulky Kitten has to say about the handsome weasel.

Warning: if you are in a public place have a hankie handy to stuff into your mouth.

I returned home to find the flashing had come off the roof, the mice

had taken to lifeboats and my 90 year old mum had been out in the 'hurricane' twice, "to go to the hairdressers."
Strewth, vanity thy name is woman!
How was your weekend?

Mulled Wine at Tiffany's

2011-12-15T20:04:00.000Z

Don't worry, it wasn't breakfast at Tiffany's but a winter warmer taken in the crepuscular glow at Skate - London's Tiffany sponsored winter wonderland. On a blustery day, gloves, hoods and mitts were as ubiquitous as ice skates at the rink set in the Neo Classical embrace of Somerset House, built in 1547 for the Duke of Somerset.

Whenever I work in London I stick rigidly to a miserly per diem - a hangover from one job where I returned home with a deficit of £600 having "stopped off" in Alexander McQueen.

With but thruppence ha'penny to spend, I felt like a character from Dickens; Eliza Mitchwiggle, flower seller, aspiring actress, and favoured girl of the Duke of Gloucester, beguiled by blue and the promises of Christmasses yet to come.

Hope everyone has a lovely weekend, stay away from the shops, it will be chaos out there!

Dinner with Australopithecus

2011-12-13T16:48:00.001Z

As soon as I was old enough to pick my own Hallowe'een costume, it was hello Australopithecus girl, goodbye gypsy. (If you don't believe in evolution best we part here because we are a match made in Hell, where, of course, you will no doubt consider me to be eventually consigned but that's ok, I've heard it's a dry heat.)

My costume comprised of two metres of cheap leopard print fabric which I chopped up and made into a one shouldered mini-dress, accessorised with plastic skulls and bones hanging around my hips.
Unwashed hair and a little garden dirt smeared on my face and I was good to go, primal Eve hear me roar. I think this must be why I have such an aversion to wearing anything leopard print these days.

I've been working in London and when I went out to dinner at Cut at 45 Park Lane I ordered with the aplomb and desire of a latter day Australopithecus with not a single trace of my 25 odd years as a vegan.
The second photo is from their gallery, it's quite a "starry" place and I didn't want to fall foul of a burly bodyguard before my incisors had a chance to do what they were designed for.

I ordered this rose Champagne before noting the 40 odd Bourbons on the menu, took two sips and ordered a Pappy. They didn't have it in stock, which was my only gripe. I was a bit huffy about that, I have never tasted Pappy ( good Bourbon in Scotland is hard to find) so I drowned my sorrows in Elijah Craig, tempered by the twang of old school American rock gods; Lynyrd Skynyrd, Tom Petty and The Eagles.

Never before have I wanted to shout " Honey I'm Home' when at a restaurant.

My friend, M, opted for the Austrian oxtail broth with bone marrow dumplings to start and we both ordered filet mignon steak with shaved white truffles; it was without doubt the best steak I have ever tasted and the truffles, though earthy, were as subtle as the chthonic bouquet emanating from a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon.

That last line earns me a write up in 'Pseud's Corner'.

Dressing For A Cool Yule

2011-12-12T00:02:00.002Z

The Row

For me the Snow Queen has always been the last word in glamour. As a child, before I even understood the meaning of the word, I was utterly enthralled and bewitched by her crystalline world. Whilst others feared her icy heart and glacial demeanour, I couldn't wait to be spirited away on that white fur draped sleigh and swathed in swan feathers, shimmering sequins and have my pick of snowflake jewels. I knew exactly what my quarters would look like; they would scintillate in the still evening as the moonlight reflected off my silver and Lucite boudoir, sculpted from ice shards by the Snow Queen's pack of loyal sharp clawed snow leopards.
Yes, my whole life was going to be like a scene from Busby Berkeley on ice, only a bit more evil.

Dear Santa, please leave any of these silvery opalescent offerings under the tree, a ticket to Spitsbergen and a box of Turkish Delight, I promise I've been good all year.

What are you hoping that Santa may bring you or are you on the naughty list?

Donna Karan

Reed Krakoff

Giulietta

Lanvin

My coupe runneth over

2011-12-09T00:02:00.081Z

Just white roses on my Christmas tree

Like a turkey mesmerised by rain, I could gaze upon my Christmas tree, Mr Nordmann Fir for hours. He's got the looks; he's the strong silent type without a doubt but if I'm going to pop a cork it will be with those whose conversation is a little less wooden.

I had some friends visiting from as far away as the tree.

We hung out in the conservatory; it's a ropy old 1970's addition at the back of the house, for 12 years I never stepped foot inside it but last year I cleared it and I've barely left that room since, there's nothing I love more than sitting there surrounded by light and trees, some of my other windows are only fit to shoot arrows through.

Cold winds have been howling here, so the

Russian Winter concert which we thought we were traipsing off to was particularly evocative, I had dressed like Stalin from the waist down, luckily I don't have a 'tache or I would have been a dead ringer for him. Unlike Stalin, I fed everyone lashings of Shepherd's pie to keep the cold out, Stalingrad would have been a cinch with this.

Alas 100mph winds closed down bridges, schools, public transport and theatres, no sooner were our coats on than they were off again. Scotland named it Hurricane B - I'm going to save everyone's blushes by linking to it, remember we call a spade a spade here.

OK, I think you're all man enough, brace yourselves, my nation named it with the vernacular for the testicular sac, we like to denigrate our enemies before taking them on. In common parlance, we cried, "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough."

We sent it homewards tae think again.

I almost wore this melange which I will be wearing in every single 'going out' post from now till New Year so I'll show it to you in increments to decrease the nullifying boredom of seeing me wear the same thing again and again.

Luckily I had picked up a bottle of winter Pimm's so I ended up warming it with apple juice, cinnamon and clove studded orange slices.

Pimm's can be quite divisive in Scotland, one either embraces the whole Hooray Henry side of it quite wholeheartedly or grudgingly drinks a skinful and then goes out cudgelling anyone wearing Jack Wills.

N.B. There are now more pandas than Conservative MP's in Scotland; we're going to hell in one of those silvery Chinese carry out dishes.

source

Hampton Hostess has organised the most

glamourous social calendar to celebrate Christmas.

I'm utterly thrilled to be included as hosting an online party is my dream as I won't have to worry about stains and alcohol induced adultery from frisky guests.

Been there, watched that, no wonder entry to my house now requires a password and ten shillings to expunge any prospective horror from mine eyes.

So put it in your diary folks, glad rags on for the 23rd and you can all be on your worst behaviour!

See you on Monday!

Waist Not?

2011-12-07T00:02:00.001Z

I would give my eye tooth to look like this but as I have no idea where my eye tooth is, I'll replace that with one of my old rusty back molars. For me an hour glass figure is the epitome of femininity and as out of reach as it is for Olive Oyl or Roseanne Barr.

Every morning my work out includes a torturous assault on my abs with Russian twists, planks and side planks but to no end; my maternal line just doesn't grow us that way.

Jayne Mansefield

A recent study, sponsored by Playtex, who in 1955 created the feminine equivalent of Opus Dei's cilice - the girdle, has revealed that while bust and bottom size has remained largely static, the average woman's waist has increased by eight inches in the last sixty years and according to WWW, the shape wear industry is now worth a corpulent $812 billion, with half of British women set to wear control wear over the Christmas period.

The question is, why have we lost our waists? There could be a number of possible reasons, from genetics to highly processed Frankenfoods, the Pill or, perhaps, increased stress. Stress can cause high levels of cortisol which increases visceral fat and leads to women having an android as opposed to gynoid distribution of fat.

On my pinboard there’s a headline from a newspaper which shrieks, “Even a small pot belly can kill!” Some days I feel as if I’m wearing a belt made from glass phials of Anthrax around my waist. One slip and I’m off to meet my maker and it's not my preferred waxy red one.

Adriana Lima

But lo,

at least it now seems I am not the only one who needs to get waisted.

In The Electric Mist With Confederate Dead

2011-12-05T00:02:00.003Z

Like tumbleweed my rambles have been given licence to blow hither and thither. It's your own fault, many of you like my conversational style so, I'm eschewing the constraints of my background in formal journalism( that's why I can't spell, it would put sub editors out of a job) and letting it all hang out loosy goosy.

This is an experiment, from now till Christmas we're on a literary jazz odyssey. Bang those cymbals chimpy.

Clad in Bean boots and a beanie, I dragged home a 7ft Nordman Fir yesterday in ice cold pouring rain and almost took my hand off trying to saw an inch off the base, the whole experience was utter, utter misery.

Here it is fully decorated - someone pass Faux Fuchsia the smelling salts, she'll need them, bare branches are the Devil's work to she who has been officially designated Australia's Most Glam.

White roses, (I let them dry out and then replace them again on Christmas Eve) fairy lights, and acorns piled around the base, I like my decorations simple and organic. Can you see the rubric forming in my patterns? No jewellery, no nail polish; I think the Amish life is calling for me. Between you and I, I sometimes struggle with zips. The button is a simple soul with no pretensions, a pacifist, no one ever got rushed to hospital with something caught in a button.

On Friday night I decided to make Canadian style buttermilk biscuits and gravy, that's what happens when one doesn't own a biscuit shaped cutter.
I love all things Southern; Manners, Monticello, James Lee Burke, Bourbon, Kid Rock and Tabasco, so I've decided to embrace the culinary culture but lo, what a shock it was to see a picture of white gravy, I reeled back, prayed to my Appalachian forbears and whipped up a storm.

So; pork sausages cooked in milk... I'm guessing the Deep South was never a big Jewish area? My friend who is 'of the faith' stared at it for a while, thought she saw cloven hooves in the mix and then settled for a cream puff version.
I was all over the net trying to find the quintessential recipe for this dish, can anyone recommend 'thee' Southern cook book?

There are so many other Southern dishes that I want to try, but then again, tomorrow is another day.

That was the week that was

2011-12-01T00:02:00.015Z

Warning:

This has become the post that will not die.

My photography is spectacular isn't it? Don't bother emailing me with tips, this is as good as it will ever get. I've been on my own the last few weeks so sans furry hublet, I have been seeking my comforts elsewhere.

Mostly candles and carbs.

( I do not want to see a single De Sadean comment about that or there will be trouble.)

Years ago, after about 6 months on Atkins and a weight loss of oh, about 4lbs of water weight, I almost ended up collapsing, I will never hear a bad word said about carbs ever again.

Yorkie puds cooked in goose fat and caraway seed plaited rolls have brought much pleasure my way. Caraway seeds are like catnip to me, I don't ever want to read the headline "Caraway seeds cause gender realignment and cropped haircuts in women" because it will be too late for me, I go through packets of these aromatic tangtastic seeds every month and if it means dressing in dungarees and bovver boots, I'll take it.

Yeast - I salute thee.

Evenings as a singleton have been somewhat... boring.

At least in my halcyon days I had a portfolio of beaus to manage; in evolutionary psychology that's why God gave females the ability to multi task, uhm, I'm sure of it.

And so I toddled off to Runnicles' Rosenkavalier which was superb.

Lots of good looking single men there on their own, if I ever get dumped I'm buying a season ticket with my alimony money - all £1.50 of it.

And I watched two episodes of Pan Am - never again, this must surely be the most anodyne programme out there, I think I can only watch American shows if they are on HBO, being British I'm used to a bit more snark combined with good ol' Virgilean vim and vigour.

But I did notice that they are all wearing J Crew's No. 2 pencil in bright blue.

sooooo boring.

Forgive me father: I have killed again.

Yes, the mice are back; I've been setting traps and luring them with Cadbury's Dairy Milk. It has all gotten rather gruesome, not to mention my shopping list now has the addendum, "chocolate for mice" inscribed upon it. They had a whole bar last week, I had hoped that they might be too fat by now to squeeze through whatever mystery portal they're letting themselves in by, but no.

Death By Chocolate it is.

Life is a self fulfilling prophecy, never forget that.

Gerald Laing

An artist whom I admired in so many ways passed last week; Pop Artist Gerald Laing. I had lunch and drinks with him a few times and visited him at his home, Kinkell Castle on the Black Isle, I have never met a more dynamic, provocative, stimulating man, he was thrilling company.

I have wanted his Bardot screen print forever, it will take me decades to save for it but owning it would have even more meaning for me now.

......

Tonight I'm going to meet my bestie's new man, like myself she has opted for a younger model.

Here we are in our widow's weeds at the ballet last year.

I haven't seen 'him' yet but I have heard, tall, solvent, no baggage and has hair - this is like winning the lottery. Update: just saw a pic, he looks like a Roman emperor. Thumbs up.

Advent is upon is, it's time for Dean & Frank and Nordman firs and cocktails.

Shall I be mother?

Oh and I almost forgot, look at this beauty...

It came inside the January issue of Tatler, I think it's the most beautiful advert/card I have ever seen. I wonder how much it cost Chanel to produce? Curator?

The thick lush card opens up to reveal strands of Chanel icons; little gold tesserae of avarice that dance in my needy breath, all that's missing is a scratch and sniff embellishment.

Oh and if anyone has made it all the way down here; after 16 months and about 28 password attempts I found my Twitter account again, it won't last long, my head feels full already but Tweet Me, you know you want to.