Public Service Announcement

One of the things I very much enjoy about autumn is the first foray into each shop to encounter the first offerings of the A/W collections. I may purchase a few things, but mostly what I'm trying to do at this point is to gauge what, if any, significant acquisitions I would like to make in a given season, so that I can than employ various stalking methods in an attempt to secure them. Meet this year's front runner:

This gorgeous suit is from Kooples. I am in love with it. I am convinced, somewhat irrationally perhaps, that were I to purchase it, I would unquestionably pass my viva in flying colours and secure any job interviewed for whilst wearing it. So deep is my love, that, while I've visited it several times, I haven't yet dared to try it on, as I fear I will be compelled to immediately hand over my credit card by emotions too strong to resist. 

It transpires that my resistance to the gorgeous suit's charms has been prudent, as today I discovered that I will evidently be forking over nearly the entire price of this suit (or, in other terms, significantly more than the asking price for another early favorite, these kickass All Saints boots) on something else. No, I have not suddenly decided to attend an intensive physical theatre workshop, self-produce my own show in London for several nights or succumb to the attraction of Dries Van Noten's kimono skirts. Instead, I shall be paying to regain access to my own data. Yes, dear readers, my external hard drive has crashed.

I am not an aggressively vindictive person. Like any good Sagittarius, I have high standards and am easily disappointed. If someone or something grievously displeases me, s/he/it may struggle to get back into my good graces, but I'm far more likely to express my displeasure through silence and withdrawal of intimacy. Not for me the online diatribe. So Jerry Springer. So not chic.

However, there is a time and a place for everything, and now feels an appropriate time to publicly name and shame the companies involved in this fiasco. I say so not because I bear them any particular ill-will, but rather because I'd quite like to save anyone else from retreading my painful steps. So, here goes. What I've learned from my external hard drive debacle.

1. If your previous device fails, do not allow the company retrieving your data (Epsilon Computers on Tottenham Court Road, I'm talking to you) to randomly decide to which device they will transfer it. Conduct some research and do not let them use just any old drive they feel like. Better yet, have them transfer the data to DVD and worry about the drive later.

2. Do not, under any circumstances, purchase a device made by Western Digital. Mine was two months old to the day when it just stopped working. I didn't pound it with hammers, use it as a coaster or let the guinea pigs gnaw on it. I used is as an external hard drive is meant to be used. And it just stopped. Not a little. A lot. Dead motor, multiple bad sectors, the works.

3. Be aware that your external hard drive's warranty likely does not cover data loss, even if said data loss occurs (as mine did) due to a hardware fault. Back it up, back it up, back it up, back it up people. If you're worried you'll forget, just listen to this song, which is guaranteed to become lodged in your brain, thus functioning as a permanent reminder. 

4. Finally, brace for impact. Data recovery is expensive shit. Data recovery companies know they've got you cornered, no matter how lovely and approachable they seem at first. They will give you quotes that do not include VAT or mislabel and subsequently lose your device for several days without offering a discount for the inconvenience. They will drive you crazy and empty your bank account of money you're unsure you should part with even for something as beautiful as the Kooples suit. In return you will get a stack of DVDs containing your own thoughts, which will make you both incredibly happy/relieved and depressed at the same time. To combat, I recommend cloud backup (which I will be using a lot more from now on) and/or the establishment of a "Money for When my External Hard Drive Invariably Breaks", or MfWEHDIB fund. 

5. The only honorable mention of this escapade goes to Naved and his team at Student Computer Services, who did everything they could to sort this out for £47. He is deserving of your business, so give it to him. 

Right, folks - you have been warned. Time for a gin martini and prayers that the 70:30% statistical bias in favor of my data's recovery does not betray me. 

Why, oh why, did I buy...

So, the theme of this post is inspired by a recent Saturday's Guardian Weekend Magazine, in which various fashionistas were asked to reflect on regrettable purchases. (Attention Vice Magazine - note well the practice of citing one's inspiration, rather than just knocking it off a la Primark and last spring's Prada car textile.) While I pride myself on my shopping savvy and capacity to resist the ultimately unwearable, a certain item did spring to mind as I surveyed the list of offenses. Here is what happened.

First, there was the label.



So far, so exciting, especially when coupled with the right size and surprisingly advantageous sale price. Still, a few things should have tipped me off, really.

Like the elasticated bottom...



Or a bit too much extra material around the shoulders...



Still, enthralled to the lovely label-ness of it all, and the overall pleasing aspect, I bought it. And have hardly worn it since. While the tale of the Paul & Joe silk blouse constitutes an amusing anecdote in my sartorial history, of more concern is my failure to come to terms with a more recent purchase.

As in the P&J debacle, I love the idea of the Brompton. It's the ultimate city bike, easily foldable, goes everywhere. I have these lovely visions of myself zipping around north and east London on it, emerging from the tube, unfolding and buzzing off with an aura of independent chic that regards buses with derision. I picture myself navigating canal paths, impressing even Broadway Market hipsters with my expert folding and unfolding. I have fabulous cycling gloves, evocative of Reese Witherspoon in Vanity Fair.  Hell, though I've yet to buy it, I've even found a helmet I don't hate (thank you, Cycle Chic!). None of this matters a jot, however, if I don't ride the damn thing. Which I don't. Apart from on weekends, in the company of others, which rather defeats the point. Luckily, my partner enjoys and makes frequent use of it, which is more than can be said of the Paul & Joe shirt.

Fashion's Night Out

I love the concept of Fashion's Night Out (or FNO, apparently, to those in the know). Yes, it's possible to be a bit cynical about it - to suggest that people just go for the free drinks, or that the entire thing is a massive marketing ploy. So what? Why shouldn't an industry that consumes so much of our time and energy (not to mention cash) all year long throw us a massive party? (Though I can't help wondering if enough semi-tipsy purchases occur to make up for the for the inevitable champagne spillage on the goods.) Despite loving clothes, and living in London for 5 years, I only discovered FNO last year, by mistake (as with many good things) and en route to something else. This year, I was so excited for a repeat experience that I invited lots of lovely friends to join. It was an excellent idea - so excellent, in fact - that I appear to have been one of many to have had precisely the same thought. While we started off festively with complementary corsages at Liberty, fizz at Cos and something of a revelation concerning Anthropologie's line of hats (gorgeous!), the evening was feeling slightly dampened by the presence of lots more people than last year, rapid booze depletion (no Vivienne Westwood cocktails this year) and my useless ability to get spectacularly lost (in extremely impractical footwear, mind you) between Regent and New Bond streets, when we happened upon Kirk Originals on Conduit Street, a lovely British company from Brighton with the most delightful eyewear shop I have every seen.

Here I am in a pair of their specs:

The glasses are completely addictive - once you start, it's impossible to stop trying them on, as evidenced by this photo of the blue glittery ones:

And this one:

The staff of this shop deserve tremendous love. Not only were they featuring live music and tasty screwdrivers (and at 9pm, too!) - they also objected not at all to our impromptu photo shoot. This is what I love about FNO - the opportunity to discover small but wonderful brands and shops that you wouldn't ordinarily notice. Hands down the best experience of the night.

One more photo before parting. I haven't really established this  as a personal style blog, but, in keeping with the PhD completion-tastic relaxed regime, I may post outfits more frequently than in the past. At least for now. Besides, this is one I'm quite proud of:


Vintage high-waisted skirt (via Primrose Hill Vintage Fair), pinned by me (I used to do this a lot, but have gotten out of the habit recently. I may start doing it again - it breaks up midi-skirts in really interesting ways); H&M tank w/American Apparel bra (love this tank - wish I had bought several more, as I've worn it to death); Betsey Johnson (RIP, Floral Street boutique) pearl necklace, Topshop shoes w/American Apparel chiffon laces, vintage purse with lucite handles (via the now tragically defunct Hideaway in Lancaster, PA).

Catching Up...

It is September and the British indian summer is in full force. So, somewhat tragically for yours truly, is a case of flu I seem to have picked up from lord knows where, though, as ever, the British Library, temple of knowledge and infectious disease, remains a likely culprit. I may regret the decision to re-engage with blogging in the last three months of my PhD (cue non-stop panic attacks, police sirens and spools of caution tape falling from the sky in the manner of evil champagne party poppers), but I’m going to do so on the grounds that any writing is good writing, particularly writing I enjoy, and writing which therefore makes me feel as if I actually can write. If all goes according to plan, the knock-on effect of this will be a thesis whose fluidity, effortlessness and joie de vivre is more haute couture than overworked and auf’d Project Runway disaster (yes, I am well and truly engaged with the new season, of which there will be doubtless be more later).

Right – and now for some statistics that will convey some sense of what I have been doing with myself for the last four months.

International flights: 8

Countries visited: United States, Czech Republic, Poland

Random milestones: 1) learning to rollerblade, two days before rollerblading in a room full of people, some sitting/lying on the floor, during a performance; 2) going to Hel and back in a day (seriously, it's a city in northern Poland); 3) first swim in the Baltic Sea.

Theatre productions to which I have contributed creatively: 3

Shakespeare roles: played 2

Sold-out Camden Fringe performance (directed by me): 1

Successful arts council grants: 1

Languages spoken on stage: 3 (4 if you count directorial swearing in Italian ;-)

Terrifying Polish phonemes I have mastered-ish: endless! For instance, I can now say “ść” properly, which is inordinately satisfying.

Thesis chapters drafted: 2 (the last 2, hooray!)

Key acquisitions: new laptop (though I may be returning it – annoyingly the model I wanted, after being aggressively persuaded of its superiority to everything else in my price range, was only available if I bought the floor sample and I distrust the mouse buttons), All Saints maxi dress, various Czech and Polish earrings, a great many new friends and collaborators, far too many mosquito bites to count.

Key realizations: My body and mind  and, indeed, body-mind, much prefer theatrical to academic work. Duly noted for future reference, though sadly something I am unable to put into practice now. (Cf. horrifying thesis deadline.)

So that’s about it for now. I am not entirely sure from whence comest the sense of obligation to catch up the readership (or perhaps just myself) upon resuming service after a long absence, but it does feel necessary somehow. Duty completed, I am off for a contentious cup of my favourite brew and a great deal of Lemsip.

  

Ahoj from Praha!

Oh dear, another lapse in blog maintenance, this one down largely to the research trip I'm currently on in Prague. And a week in Yorkshire, during which I meant to write about my new hat and evil walking clothes. And I would have done, apart from the lack of internet of any description in the house we were renting. I promise, as soon as I submit my PhD next December, that I shall do a month's experiment of daily posts, just to see what happens. In the meantime, please accept my apologies and, in lieu of actual posts, two articles I wrote for Peasoup which, unlike this blog, has deadlines!

A PEAS OF THREAD: Interview with Designer Mariatu Turay

A(nother) PEAS OF THREAD: Thoughts on "Going Native" - Unpacking the trend for all things tribal

**Shameless self-promotion alert** Should either of these articles please you, click the "like" button and share with your friends. We at Peasoup have a monthly competition - the writer with the most likes receives a bottle of rather lovely wine. A certain close associate of mine is currently in the lead, and I'd love to give him a run for his money...

Signs of Spring...

After my last, admittedly surly (though not unwarranted) post, I am engaging this day in a bit of spring-time festivity. Despite the fact that this is my fifth British spring, I still make the novice's mistake of equating bright sunlight with day-long warmth, leaving the house in an outfit that feels adequate, only to find myself shivering in bus shelters once the sun goes down. This happened as recently as yesterday, when I thought I could wear a jacket with three-quarter length sleeves AND skip the tights. Bad call.

Today, however, was properly spring-y. Accordingly, after waking up early to watch Mondo win Project Runway All Stars (huzzah!), I broke out two favorite things. First the sartorial:

After spending the winter hiding under my blanket-esque All Saints scarf, I always enjoy a return to silk. This one used to belong to my Great Aunt Mary, who I have to thank for a great deal of my vintage accessories - at some point I shall have to dedicate a post to her inimitable style. I don't think she ever wore trousers. Today as I was ironing it, I discovered a little detail I'd somehow managed to overlook in the three years it's lived with me.

Apparently, Aunt M's scarf is vintage Schiaparelli. While this makes me even more distressed about an idiotic attempt to handwash it that resulted in some of the colors bleeding, I am thrilled to own a piece by the fabulous Ms. Schiaparelli, who I first discovered in Muriel Sparks' novella The Girls of Slender Means, in which the residents of a post-war London boarding house for young ladies share between them a single Schiaparelli dress that is reserved for special occasions. These tend to involve elocution recitals or young men calling for tea.

My second harbinger of warmth is musical in nature and not quite so vintage, though perhaps fast becoming so:

In addition to warm weather generally, I shall forever associate this song (really the whole album) with the spring of 2005 when I listened to it whilst driving through Manayunk en route to rehearsal on South Street. Today I listened en route, via bus, tube and foot, to another rehearsal on another continent. It was pleasant to be sure, but the fabulous song/car windows rolled down combo is hard to beat. Enjoy!

A modest proposal

I've borrowed this post's title from Jonathan Swift's essay, in which he satirically suggests that the Irish cope with food shortages by eating their babies. Like Swift, I shall be addressing the topic of society's youngest members. While I hope my thoughts will not be devoid of humor, I am however quite seriously calling for a public debate on the behavior of middle class progeny in public spaces.

Full disclosure: I do not have children. I do not want children. That said, this is not part of some rampant child-hating campaign; I have a few friends with children and I expect that number to increase with time. If having kids makes them happy and fulfilled - and it obviously does - then I'm pleased for them. The bone I wish to pick here is not about kids or parenting per se, but rather the way in which public spaces are used and shared by people with and without children. Since moving back to the UK last autumn, I've become increasingly aware of the encroachment of children, socially and spatially, on neutral and adult territory. The problem is significantly more pronounced in my new, allegedly-swanky North London hood than in my previous stomping ground of Shepherds Bush. This is not a parents v. childless adults debate - I know most people don't allow their children to behave like this and I've seen many a parent (including my own mother) outraged at the offences detailed below. Still, there are bad (or just clueless) apples in every bunch and we could clearly benefit from some guidelines to help us coexist peacefully. Accordingly, I (modestly) propose the following:

1. When in Rome: Observe the ambience of the space you're in and emulate. This works both ways: just as one shouldn't settle in with a six-pack of cider and a pack of fags at the local playground, so too should unruly toddlers steer clear of wine bars. Different venues offer different experiences. No single patron has the right to continuously disrupt the specific ambience of particular place and proprietors should be unafraid to defend their customers' rights to the experience they have chosen and are paying for.

2. No scooters on city sidewalks (or in shops): Last weekend I watched a father of twin toddlers, both with scooters. In less than 2 minutes, one of the girls fell over and smacked her head on the pavement whilst the other lost control of her scooter which rolled into the path of a (mercifully slow-moving) car. London is blessed with parks, people. Use them.

3. No kids in pubs/bars. I am told this used to go without saying in the UK, but alas that's no longer the case. Last December, I was enjoying a late Sunday afternoon drink with friends near Westbourne Grove. A bugaboo-toting couple arrived (is the bugaboo the BMW of prams?) and quickly became indignant when the publican turned them away rather than permit them to block a) the fire exit or b) the entrance to the pub's dining room. Other friends have related stories of hipster dads passing infants from mate to mate down the pub, or groups of friends with young kids who've set up impromptu playpens on pub floors, which other patrons must then navigate whilst attempting to not inadvertently baptise someone's offspring with a pint of Staropramen. Gross.

Why should these suggestions be seriously considered? Health and Safety, innit! Before branding me a heartless, childless cynic, think about the extent to which these suggestions benefit all. I don't want to drop my drink on your child, nor do I want to trip over them (or their infernal scooter). The kids marauding through my local Waitrose on bikes and scooters last week were a danger to themselves and others. Picture this chain reaction: child on scooter careens into unsteady pensioner, who subsequently grabs at shelves to steady themselves, as a result of which a can of marinara cracks open on little Tarquin's head. Meanwhile, granny slips on the pasta sauce and cracks a hip. I defy anyone to consider this a positive outcome for any concerned. Unfortunately this kind of behavior is so rampant in Crouch End that such an accident feels inevitable.

Right, off to look at flats in Hoxton now.