Thou shalt not wish you girlfriend was a freak like me

Unfortunately for me I can recall less of my most recent soujourn to the Isle Of Wight than the first, which was 19 years ago, when I was three. Thankfully, by utilising the limitless potential of the internet I can piece together a timeline of events from this weekends Bestival 2010, my ticket to which was sort of bought as a mistake. Now fortunately for me a very happy mistake, like my little brother, because what I have pieced together is actually one hell of a weekend. Including...

Breakfast on a sunny hillside set to the soundtrack of Gaggle:

This video, although visually indicative of their angry-girl outward vibe, does little to convey how haunting the aptly named gaggle sounded as their soothing choir tones pulsed through the stillness of a Sunday morning at a festival. This made them one of the stand-out highlights of the weekend for me.

Another was undoubtedly dancing like a tree-stump-possessed to the infectious melodies of Dan le Sac Vs. the bearded, yoda-like Scroobius Pip, who I quite happily would've wed in that great big inflatable church! The pip that is. No offence Mr Le Sac.

I am also soo glad that I cajoled my tent-fellow into ditching Ellie Goulding in favour of Darwin Deez at Arcadia. Their set complete with choreographed dance sequences in between songs was so awkwardly brilliant as if we, the crowd, were no more than their bedroom mirrors. But instead of cutting the cord it served to underpin the tenderness of songs like Radar Detector and Constellations which were brought to life through the medium of Deez's perfect bouncing ringlets bopping along to his distinctive voice.

After the crowd had dispersed I was consumed with the idea I would ask the bands beautiful French sound guy to get me an autograph. Although my hour and a half wait during The Filthy Dukes, who frankly do not deserve a link, brought me a friend in a kindly mime who had (coincidentally) lost her voice, wanted my cider, and left me with only a lipstick kiss on my cheek as proof she ever existed I never got my autograph. And I only just managed to catch Mumford & Sons jangling out Little Lion Man.

Regardless, no amount of mud-that's-probably-poo, urinal mishaps, cash machine queues, nose whiskey references, extortionate pineapples or beardywomen could deter me. To borrow the sentiment of the weekends' for some reason ubiquitous 10cc song; I don't like Bestival, I love it.

Summer Update

1. I have a job working in very posche Knightsbridge for some very nice people, who on top of being generally very nice have also very nicely given me tickets to Silverstone (blog to follow). Unfortunately in my mind that has set a precedent for me, I'm expecting keys to a luxury flat next...

2. Due to the proximity of this new role to Harrods I have now been in the infamous department store for the first time ever. I have seen the unsettling statue, beautiful Globe Trotter suitcases, and the crystal bath that was sold today, which actually wasn't as impressive in reality as the angle in the metro made it appear. I just assumed it had a massive tap...however, it is easily big enough, and I am still envious of whoever gets to come home from work, fill it with bubble bath and submerge themselves in it for hours on end just because they can.

3. Tomorrow I officially being my fitness kick-start by taking to the walls of Craggy Island for a spot of amateur indoor climbing. This is to be a Wednesday activity to bolster the Monday's yoga, which massively rejuvenated me today, managing to shake off the shakes that persisted from the weekends...excitements, and rendered me near incapable of driving. Thankfully my mother is easily worn down and there weren't many cars on the road.

4. Guilfest is nearly upon us here in...Guildford! Oh yes, slap bang in the midst of the festival season this year, weather permitting, it's set to be a right good shindig, as someone like Russell Brand might say. I am particularly looking forward to catching Orbital (main stage but probably sans The Doctor this time) on Friday night, wiggling to Mungo Jerry's In The Summertime, a bit of Just Jack and then of course, firm festival favourites, The Human League on Saturday night. Then onto a nice chilled Sunday of The Young Knives, 10cc, and Status Quo.

5. After securing a chalet host position for the forthcoming winter season I have since declined this particular opportunity, decided it is now viable for me to save enough to just go and ski without having to clean any toilets for my daily bread, well ski lessons in this case. It will always be a pursuit to follow, but for now it's on the back burner, at least until I acquire a skill that promotes me a few levels up perhaps.

All for now. Over and Out.

Taylor Rices' moustache was just as impressive from where I was sitting

Preview Of Local Natives Live From Paris: “Stranger Things” from Local Natives on Vimeo.

Stranger Things - Local Natives - Live from Paris

Oh My

While clearing out the garden shed (ex-pigeon loft) this weekend an empty marmalade jar from god-knows how long ago was unearthed. The sight of it took me back to my childhood and breakfast dreams of saving up enough tokens for a Golliwog badge. Did you know some Athena Art shops still sell Golly-centric gifts such as fridge magnets and keychains. Bonza.

We debated sending off the token featured on this label for it to have a journey of its own...I imagine being cooped up in a pigeon loft for five years could send one a little loopy? It could be my very own Amelie-style "thing". The badges and pins themselves are now collectibles, unfortunately I don't think a scrappy piece of paper from a jar would peak much interest. Nonetheless I find the fact that we have unintentionally preserved this empty jar comforting, so, I have peeled and posted it for all to see!

Skier Golly Token

The Lid.

On My 22nd Year of Life

I ate scallops for the first time.

These things that bring a pleasurable glistening-over of my eyeballs, that I find... aesthetically pleasing (a term coined during GSCE graphics that was used prolifically and with relish).

I have just this second found out that the taking of out of focus images, especially of lights, actually has a technical term. It has been dubbed Bokeh. I love how exotic this sounds. Saying it aloud (or just forming the word with my mouth because everyone is asleep and I'm working mouse-like with the lights and volume bar dimmed) harks back to laborious days stuck in the textiles block making batik prints, pretending I was a penniless Indian girl working in a factory for a pittance.

My senses tingle with the heat of the room and that particular smell it had, not quite masked by the hot wax we were working with, drizzling it significantly, or not, over bits of dyed calico cloth. I usually hated getting involved in messy textiles techniques (paper mache was particularly dreaded, I still have a 'thing' about the texture) but I remember Batik-making as a lengthy, seemingly moot, and thus totally therapeutic exercise.

I have been collecting images of blurred lights (bit weird?) since watching Brokeback Mountain - it was produced by Focus Features. As far as production and distribution company logos go most are already looking dated, either in the image, sound, or typography used. I recently saw Ridley Scott's Robin Hood produced by his Scott Free company which has this short as its logo:

In short it went on for too long feeling like an unnecessary mini-film, was completely irrelevant and frankly, unsettled me a little!

Icons and logos are extremely powerful marketing tools and Focus Features short and sweet logo has the right amount of technicality, it is inoffensive and beautifully simple.

Here are the best of the rest from my collection so far...

Courtesy of Photobucket.com

It is now June.

Because I have a tendency towards tardiness it's taken me til June to get round to this years spring clean. Extending the top-to-bottom clean into the nooks and crannies of virtual spaces I have finally addressed my issue with pictures and videos posted on this blog being squashed into an unaccommodating column so I have forgone the oh so very last month layout and opted for this boring but functional w i d e angle one. I hope this is a welcome change, if only for those of you with macular degeneration.

Being the month of my birth, despite rain unfailingly blighting the blessed day every year, June is a happy month. Officially the start of summer; holidays, hot weather, bbq's, drinks and nibbles on the patio, evenings stretched out to justify the use of the chiminea - ah, the chiminea. Chim chim cha roo. Unfortunately all the open windows and aforementioned spring clean flushed out the spiders. I actually found the beginnings of a funnel web attached to my window.

I have killed two large house spiders today. Although I won't entertain the option of letting them live it doesn't bring me pleasure to kill them. I think this is only because it's rarely a quick or painless event. Hairspray and other aerosols are commonly implemented because they are effective from a safe distance, although I admit these are the rare occasions my hypocrisy comes into play - I won't use aerosol deodorant because they contribute to greenhouse gases but I will use a whole can if necessary on a spider that just won't die. I end up watching in horror and disgust as their their legs twitch helplessly, silently begging me to release my trigger finger, and worry that every brutality brings me one gate closer to the pit of hell.

I killed one the other day that was trying its best to stay incognito half under my bathroom door, it was the half that I almost trod on that gave it away. The incident went something like this:

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The sound echoed the frenzied force in which I attacked it. One of its limbs detached and stuck to the bashing implement as I withdrew it. I had just killed - mutilated and decapitated a house spider. My chest heaved in shock and I let out a sort of half-sob. I realised I was filled with equal hatred and pity, both for myself and the black smudge on the linoleum floor.

I can't tell you how the one earlier met its end. You'll never look at me the same way again.

I Really Enjoyed That

Thanks to my mysterious musical source, I have just been introduced officially to The Local Natives.

And guess what...they're playing at Glastonbury!!!

Fashion Festival Frenzy

Asos, the online fashion store, has just sent me June's edition of their monthly mag-cum-catalogue. Boasting a £1.75 price tag for non-regular customers - for whom it is free, and they apparently class me - for the first time in my knowledge, my expectations were high. I mean, as well as providing an outlet for designer labels they've got Emma Watson for People Tree on board.

I have spent the hours since receiving this scrap of a magazine flicking pages with equal derisiveness and gleeful ripping - cut out and keep, recycle the rest, that's the spirit. It got me thinking (as though I needed a prompt) of festivals; their etiquette, essentials, and imminence. As Asos itself had noted, June is just around the corner. Plus the cover has FESTIVAL scrawled across it in computer-lipstick. So, obviously, I was getting comfortable for some original festival-guru top 10's, photo montages, at least a candid of Kate Moss.

Alas it seems Asos is geared a little more for peoples across the pond. Mimicking most high-end fashion bibles it hails outfits that are entirely inappropriate and ugly. And to title an article 'Camping Chic' is frankly an insult to our(collective) intelligence. Anyone who has called a tent their home for more than 3 days in a row knows it cannot be glamorised. Even +chic.

Soooo, I am battling between utilising Glastonbury (Bestival is instantly disqualified from the fashion stakes because I shall most likely be wearing Unicorn) as a largely anonymous platform from which to launch my fashion conscious alter-ego, or, forgoing any new/loved clothing for simply last years wellies, bin bags, and, if I'm lucky, a poncho (never know, birthday's coming up). Because you get grubby at Glastonbury, tents get damp, it rains, there is dirt everywhere (remember where you ARE), the clothes you are wearing will probably touch poo where it's caked on toilet "seats"and on cubicle "walls" (words used figuratively), where you're sitting is 90% of the year home to cows...it sets in pretty quick. But you know this, hopefully. You're going because it's so good you don't care.

And it really is that good.

So why not dress a la Ms Moss? Glastonbury style has a history of being featured in publications from Look to Vogue, make a statement, have a festival wardrobe, no one and everyone cares. Considering this I have a tip and general festival essentials, including wardrobe suggestions...

Tip: Take a maximum of 3 tops, keep one fresh and dry for the journey home on Sunday/Monday, trust me you won't want any more.

Essentials:

• Dry Shampoo (NASA or Batiste) OR phone your hairdresser and get a crop a day or two before you leave for your festival and ask them for heavy styling - it'll last a week without help!

• The wet stuff - Bin Bags, waterproof or poncho although you can pick up one for a pound at the site, Wellies.
• Wet wipes, razor, deodorant, toothpaste & brush.
• Communications - You could limit your phone useage and keep your fingers crossed, get walkie-talkies, or invest in a portable charger/spare battery.
• Jumping on the Bum Bag bandwagon this year - less cumbersome & encourage more upper body mobility...in this bag should be; toilet roll, hand sanitiser, disposable camera, money (you can't live off breadsticks. I tried. They mutate from stick to dust between the entrance and the camp site.), lighter. The first four are ESSENTIALS. I cannot stress that enough.
• Cider - as many plastic litre bottles of it as you can carry, and a cool bag to keep them in your tent in if you're extra prepared.
• Sun cream - put this on before you leave your tent, saves carrying it around and you're protected just in case.

And for the essential wear (imagine for a moment I moonlight as a sinister writer of advertorials...)

• Face - Sunnies.
• Neck - festival pass lanyard and some lengthy bling.
• Top - This layered over this.
• Leggings (H&M do a great pair with zips in light blue or grey jegging-style) and/or denim shorts of your choice.
• Feets - see above for aforementioned necessary wellies, but keep a pair of favoured flip-flops or gladiator sandals to hand, the sun can turn a mud pit to hardened terrain like you wouldn't believe.

That is my Glastonbury guide, from essentials to an outfit akin to what I would wear, have worn, and will wear in a few weeks time to the best festival around. Come sleet or shine I intend to enjoy every minute. Kuurch. Meet you in Avalon. Over and out.

Despicable Irony

I can't decide whether I've made a bold stake at humour in posting this, or whether it confirms that I really am that sad little stick man?

Sometimes I am appalled at my own stupidity

Previously I have wondered how I escaped various childhood traumas and incidents, namely the cutting a chunk of your siblings hair out in an attempt to uncover your future vocation. Parents are invariably horrified and the scene is quickly moved to a professional salon in which the escapade is rectified with a hearty supply of good humour and no harm done.

It seems only now I am of an age perhaps not too far off children of my own, that I am making up for those ingenuous and feather brained misadventures.

I just cut a chunk of my 15-year-old brothers' hair out. With a hair clipper. Without the guides on.

I figured, men cut their own hair with these things - how hard can it be - and thus displayed my own shocking inability to do even the simplest of tasks. Also laying to rest the idea that I could possibly take after my mother, who has been a talented cutter and colourer since she was 16. As I have said on more than one occasion when asked if I can cut hair; "Well, my Mum's a hairdresser..." I know now to firmly reply in the negative and walk quickly away.

While my little brother now sits happily slurping on an ice lolly watching my other brother (who worriedly informed me that our mother would "kill me" when she gets home) play Red Dead Redemption, seemingly unconcerned that his vivid white scalp is now plainly visible and liable to burning in this sudden heatwave, I've got the shakes.

Salvaged ~ sort of

I'm way past the point of claiming not to know any better, I wasn't playing hairdressers, nor am I drunk, not yet at least. I will claim I was trying to help, which I suppose I was, and that he's a boy and can get away with it, and that it is no worse than what the evil woman in Deadlock & Barnett did to the back of my head three years ago, and obviously, it's the back of his head so it hardly matters anyway, aaand his hair grows ridiculously quickly anyway so it'll all be forgotten in a couple of weeks. But I really really worry about myself sometimes. I really do.

For handy ideas and advice on things from DIY hair cuts to Bog Snorkelling Championships please see The Internet, somebody who knows what they're talking about, or a professional. In short - not me.

Outstanding

Not just a rip-off post but done for the purposes of sharing the wealth because I have just found something to stare appreciatively at. This is the reason for blogs.

A little late in the game nonetheless I have come upon Californianite Rumi Heely's blogFashion Toast, which has been the toast (sorry) of fashion blogs and followers for some time now. I just think she is wonderful. To look at. To be inspired by. To admire her unabashed self pedestalisation (new word?)! I wish I had a 'Colin' to take adoring and flattering photographs of me galavanting around in overgrown fields with my leopard print leggings and clumpy biker boots on.

The thing is, despite being achingly beautiful, and actually worryingly narrow in body, she's sort of relatable. She wears clothes that are and look comfortable, that aren't pulse-rocketingly expensive - unless they've been "gifted", which must be nice. And I will be lifting from her blog a penchant for exceedingly chunky finger-adornment and a nonchalant attitude towards hair maintenance [see below for some of my favourite images of casual outfits and surprisingly enviable two-tone regrowth].

Rumi - thank you for putting pictures of yourself in often ridiculous outfits on the internet and making my day :)

The Promise of Summer

So, through absolutely no fault of my own, I have acquired tickets to two, count 'em, Two festivals this year. Nicely spread out though they are, the cost of Glastonbury and Bestival has set me back a tidy £402.50. And I've still got to get to and from Glastonbury.

So, despite the pennilessness, I still spent a good 20 minutes whooping and jumping about my house on Sunday after the, apparently, very last release of Glastonbury tickets at midday and am still softly palpitating at the idea of being inside the fences of Glastonbury Festival once again. I had, after last year, handily written myself notes on my phone as to how to make the next year better and advice as to what to take and, or, not take. However after some rather sinister goings on in the heart of Guildford involving a dodgy phone call and a very late night, my phone and its contents have been relieved from me and, I admit I am finding it quite hard to cast my mind back to almost a year ago.

What I definitely will remember to do is visit the dance village, take more disposable cameras, and maintain sobriety long enough to be able to actually review the bands, known and unknown, that I manage to watch.

“We are friends and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn’t mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often.”

Jeanette Winterson

Repercussions of catching High Fidelity on Sky Movies

The Felice Brothers' "The Greatest Show On Earth" is reminding me of Glastonbury 2009. It is melancholy in tone but lyrically uplifting, makes you want to sway merrily with your eyes closed. The languishing crescendo of trumpets epitomise the Jazz Village in the afternoon where the shift between daytime and evening entertainment would ease into play.

Top 5 things that happened at Glastonbury:

1. The soothing sounds of brass instruments that get carried on the breeze.

2. Falling asleep on a grassy hill.

3. Eating a Full English in the rain.

4. Strangers' conversation.

5. Seeing Bon Iver. Twice.

Now, back to business. Litter picking jobs all gone. Oxfam jobs all gone. Stewarding job all gone unless people start dropping out like flies. Think it may be time to face facts. Bestival it is.!

Sunday with the Munsters

After the commotion of the genuinely affectionate goodbyes (even though we will see most of them tomorrow), the drive home (with severe onion fumes putting massive pressure on the inner sanctum of the picasso/lunchbox), and the inevitable kerfuffle that ensues getting inside the house; all is silent. And very dark. I am sitting at my desk catching up with my correspondence, still in my coat, and I realise - everyone has scurried away to their rooms, turned the lights off and closed the doors. How is it that these crazy people, so high on social activity, wine, and country walks can so immediately switch off?

More often than not, on Sundays we will take a drive out of town into bumpkin country to spend quality family time with ex-Londonites of Munster Road and my non-blood aunties' sister and cousins and all their beautiful children, who are now much like our own family. These days pan out as; bbq food, many bottles of wine, eventually a chorus of rock songs, and always very obscure, odd, often unsettling conversations.

Today, these conversations consisted of subjects thus:

1. Speculations as to whether my Grandfather has his sights set on a new wife in Thai dialysis nurse, Pantip, who he met during my Grandmothers demise, and why he would be a good catch for her. Obviously a wildly inappropriate and discomforting conversation for his only present blood relative to be privy to.

2. Emily envelopes me in a choke hold and informs me, in her typical cartoon character voice, that she would like to chop off my head and put it in a jar full of liquid, just like in Futurama. She is 7.

3. Angela and Janice recall their former naturist neighbours "No one ever knew what his face looked like".

4. Angela recalls how her Dad, the recently deceased and very missed Ron (The Don), in an attempt to help around the house and save money, cut her fringe. And how he very carefully cut around her eyebrows "To frame her eyes."

5. Janice says she would like to swap Emily for Maggie (our Yorkshire terrier). Emily protests and says she will just take Maggie. We say that's not a fair swap and that she has to give us something in return. She says "I'll take Maggie. You can have my Dad."

6. Millie informs me that lots of people at school have counselling. "I think I should get a counsellor." I ask her what is wrong with her. She shrugs. "I think it's a trend."

Pour être français: a typically British whinge

Oh (not an exclamation but a breathy moan) to be French. Not just for the manicured nails, the continental breakfasts, the accent. For the love of simplicity, of composure, of not bowing to social pressure (what am I basing this on?).

I would like so many things, I yearn for beautiful clothes, white washed furniture and a stand alone bath tub. For silk lingerie, the willpower to stick to just ONE frosted, palatable glass of prosecco, for a calling - not just to earn money, but to enjoy doing it, so that I may swan off to Paris for long weekends and for no one to notice. To live a life of quiet anonymity adorned with Gallic androgyny; draping blazers, brogues, cigarette pants to mimic the cigarette artfully tucked between my lips.

Lists - Places

Been there:

Caribbean; St Lucia, Grenada

Iceland

Italy; Florence, Venice, Milan

UK; Birmingham, Cornwall, London, IoW

USA; New York

Spain; Andalucia

Thailand; Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Koh Tao, Koh Panghan, Krabi, Phi Phi, Phuket

To go:

Paris

Marrakesh

Prague

Budapest

Hong Kong

Tasmania

Cuba

Chile

New Orleans

Sydney

The rest of the world...!

"Tavi?"

Ok, so, just a quick one, but I was in London yesterday (more of which in a related post in time) and as I was wandering through an active studio exhibition upon a table of promotional cards I saw this -

Pin-up Baby by Esra Roise

Which couldn't help reminding me of this. Which comes from this. Which I thought was even more of a rip off than, well, this!! Just a thought.

'Risk is good for the soul'

Rob Ryan is the coolest, wildy-haired, paper cutter I have ever met. Yes met. I forgot how to use the ticket machines, stuck my head in a bum hole, played catch up with an old friend, and then, today, I met Mr Robert Ryan.

For Rob Ryan does indeed exude cool (see pic below). Not in a I-dressed-for-the-occasion way like many of the younguns darting about the Pick Me Up Contemporary Graphic Art Fair busily but orderly print-screening at Somerset House.

The work on sale and the work being churned out while you watch is vibrant and impressive, but holds nothing on the wonder of Ryan Town. Now he has been there in his makeshift studio for a few days he looked relaxed enough, although there was a tangible taste in the air of agitation, like watching an animal pace its cage at the zoo. We skirted along, almost against, the walls so densely covered with I doubt every single sketch & piece of inspiration of his work but still, enough to give you an idea. This man has found love. And if he hasn't, if it is all just fabricated, then he's a damn good pseudo romantic.

A3 card cut to within an inch of its life that looks far more fragile than it is (which I suppose is the point; the emotive sentences Rob Ryan etches into his work are both delicate and powerful, fragile and strong.) just begs to be touched (which we did - don't tell him, please). Though we did wonder if he has got to that point where he can just sit back and survey; we noticed how there were a lot of girls blue-tacking and unblue-tacking and printing and cutting, and how exactly one might get the job as one of Rob Ryans' personal minions. What pressure though, Christ! If you've seen any of Rob Ryan's work you will know what I mean...here's a taster.

above: busy little bees.

above: cool as cucumber art students.

above: example of students work.

above: The offending hole.

There he is, give us a smile. Thanks Rob.

"OTHER PLANETS CANNOT BE AS BEAUTIFUL AS THIS ONE"

Dear FHM, How do you get yourself a job like that?

So, a while ago I started thinking it might be interesting to do a bit of investigative journalism into a subject that I came across, well, more accurately, was sick across (or is that unnecessary info?) as I was idling through a copy of FHM. This particular edition had been bequeathed to me after it had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and I had drunk more red wine than my body could contain. Though it was not as badly damaged that you couldn't still read it, because, who reads vomit covered magazines. That's just revolting. I digress.

I was caught by the image below. It reminded me of a Glamour, or a Cosmo magazine I had read before in which I'd witnessed a triptych of Barbie and Ken in wildly inappropriate, though helpfully demonstrative positions. It was crude and laughable and you can imagine that the office had a droll little giggle while photographing them. However, the illustration in FHM struck me as somewhat above the bar of expected content, and so I went about finding out exactly who had done it, so to speak.

My research eventually led me to a website and a conversation about sex drawing and washing up mainly. I called the mobile number brashly left on the aforementioned website assuming it would be a fake at best, a sex-line at worst, or is that the other way round.

After no more than three rings the phone is picked up with a boisterous "Hello".

"Uh..." I piped up, realising too late that I did not know this man's real name, that I had no plan of action, or any questions lined up to ask him, even if this was indeed the perpetrator of 'The Swing'. "Cowface?"

"Yes" Returned the voice, entirely unperturbed, as if he often had random people calling him up, which I suppose he might well have, leaving his number lying about willy nilly on the internet.

"Um, I just wanted to ask you some questions," trying now to sound a bit more authoritative but not quite PCC inquisition, "about your drawing for FHM."

There was some banging in the background during the phone call until he informed me he was in the midst of an unholy stack of washing up. I asked if it would be Ok to email him some questions, he said it would be, and although this initial contact, surreal as it was, seemed promising, he never emailed back.

...But, I am now following his blog (mwah ha ha), which seems more lovingly tended than his website, and although I have become a fan of his work in general, it is not over between us. Mr Cowface, expect a barrage (Wonderful word, Barrage. noun. An overwhelming, concentrated outpouring of linguistic communication.) of emails to readdress this poorly handled attempt at journalism.

N.B. I should probably mention that if Mr Cowface, as I think he now prefers to be known, has in actual fact since returned my email it has probably been lost in the ether of my University Intranet that I can no longer access.

Inspiration // or // I wish I knew a Flamingo

Courtesy of myzoetrope.com, which is kind of odd, but the dock image reminds me of where I went to University.

I am wondering if it would be worth investing in a creative writing course, as:

1. I am...well, inarticulate, forgetful, generally speechless...but, INCREASINGLY! That's the word!! Increasingly concerning myself (blog) with uninteresting and dry subject matter (even after seeing this), which doesn't give me much hope for the state of my brain.

2. This means I am disregarding the importance, and purpose, of my very first post, being that one must talk little and listen much thus trying to encourage myself only to write about things that are worth committing to paper that I have heard, seen, read somewhere else.

3. Being perfectly in situ to chip into being a publishable story from my depths makes me wonder if I shouldn't just do it. Except of course as soon as I get any inspiration I return to spill it all out only for it to stop. It is as if a thick steel guillotine has come down, beheading my baby thus executing any chance of me being able to nurture it into its beautiful, healthy, fully grown form.

Yodas' "there is no try, only do" mocks me as I sit here moaning into a blog to escape an unfinished sentence on Word. I am physically shaking, inside and one hand, my left one. I realised I was gritting my teeth too. It's pathetic really. I thought taking my dog for a walk earlier would revive me but it's sort of scared the life out of me! What do you do with that...

To worry about mucking things up, not being good enough, or having regrets is to live constantly looking behind you. Look in front of you, life is good.

The Avett Brothers – All My Mistakes

Let me just get comfy

Occasional Chairs. One of life's overlooked wonders.

A bold statement, but I believe every home should have one. I have been looking to acquire one for some time now. Short of visiting every charity shop in my area, posting an advert on gumtree, or sifting through the offerings of freecycle, occasional chairs, or just regular ol' armchairs if you like, can be quite an expensive purchase.

I don't want a particularly fancy one. All I require is wings, legs, and a square enough, comfy enough seat cushion to melt into. I know you can get ornate Rococo and Baroque style ones, which is all very nice and silky but not quite it. You can get funky retro ones, but they tend to come with a certain itchiness. And then of course you can get into the whole upholstering fiasco.

The whole idea is of simplicity. A plain, unassuming, inconspicuous armchair. Not an armchair that comes as a set with a three piece suite. A stand alone, winged, chair. That would make me very happy...and cosy.

Looking deceptively uncomfortable, more likely the case is that it is not...

Easy Listening?

[Soft & Fresh] CocoRosie – Lemonade

After being sucked into the odd world of Bianca and Sierre Casady through the bittersweet By Your Side ("I'd wear your black eyes, bake you apple pies"), I have been trying in vain to find another one of their songs to like let alone rival. This may be it.

[Cover] Kid CuDi – Pursuit of Happiness (Barbara Cover)

Having heard this cover before the original I am obviously biased in a "but I loved you first" way, however, this version is incurably cool. I used a naff word. There goes another one. Apologies.

Dark Dark Dark| Bright Bright Bright [Audio] | The Maroon Cafe

We like it because it is echo-y and epic. Sounds like how I thought Zooey Deschanel's band would sound, but better.

Florence and The Machine – Swimming

From the Limited Edition Box Set of Lungs. All I could think of was the Maccabees' Latchmere upon hearing this, but obviously the only link is the water themed content. I love that Florence songs just keep coming out of the woodwork, like skin at the first signs of summer, but unlike ghost-like torsos and knobbly knees, they never disappoint.

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I can't pretend I am not jealous of those salivating with glee at the Glastonbury 2010 line-up, or that I am not selecting fence-scaling equipment from halfords.com.

I feel like i've just been sick & someone is rubbing my nose in it.

Sorry

I have just found this on a tumblr blog and thought it poignant enough to share.

I Don't Know Sylvia

No matter which way you shoot these shorts there is something not quite normal about them.

If I were to suggest Topshop jump on the bandwagon of other indie retailers and start naming their products I would expect this garment to be named Sylvia. Something about the butterflies, soft inky print, feminine pleating, and off white-ness remind me of heroine of 80's rom-com '3 men and a baby'...Sylvia.

Try as I might to justify their purchase, and love them as I do, I am still somewhat wary of them. I don't think they will be faithful to me as you hope a statement buy would. They should caress my thighs in a way that coos "I will compliment any top you wear me with, give the illusion of long legs, accentuate your figure, and be the envy of all run of the mill a-line skirts". Except they don't quite.

What they do do is make me feel the excitement of dressing up clothes, that if I wore them to bed I would be pyjama chic, that if this were the 80's I would wear them with a wide brimmed hat and baggy vest on the beach perhaps. But I was born in the 80's, and I am not fearless.

Damn that 13 year old's cool

When you almost fastidiously follow a young teens fashion trajectory rather than the pages of Vogue or Topshop Billboards. When the image of the women on your t-shirt is prettier than you are. When your tan begins to fade back into your white triangles like they never were, you have to focus on something positive in your life...

...Like a confirmation booking of a Hot Air Balloon Flight in the early evening of a spring day.

THAILAND 03/10

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Bangkok

Retouch

Grand Palace, Bangkok

Wat Phra Kaew Miniature

Grand Palace, Bangkok

Chinatown

Bangkok

Clock watching

Train station, Chumporn

Busy Streets

Chumporn

Waiting for dinner

Chumporn

Food Market

Chumporn

Food Market

Chumporn

Waking up on the night train

Sunrise, Bangkok

Sairee Sunset

Koh Tao

Air Supply

Koh Tao

Diving

Koh Tao

Posers

Koh Phi Phi