Sunday, February 27, 2011

I'm Famous. And Damp.

Two things happened to me when I woke up today;

The first: I ran a few kilometres in a torrential downpour to retrieve my car from a public parking lot before the ticket inspectors started coming around at 9am and would discover that my car was, in fact ticketless. It was quite a stretch for me to leave the warm cocoon that I had created with surplus pillows but it had to be done. I refuse to get a parking ticket because its wet out! So I pulled on my trainers, shorts and hoodie, wrapped my iPhone in a zip-loc bag and let the sounds of 30 Seconds to Mars (and the thoughts of Jared Leto) propel me through the deluge. Hence the dampness.

The second: The "famous", was that I checked my stats on here. The last 24 hours have brought me my highest page views to date. I though "yes, this is it...I can quit my job, put my feet up and write for the rest of my life". This may have been somewhat premature but the reality ran a very close second to this. My little blog, or a photo from it has been featured on someone else's blog. And not just ANY someone else, the Tattoologist no less! I have been following this blog for quite some time, even long before I had a blog of my own. She has a lovely compilation of sweet, simple tattoos that she updates regularly, there is nothing else like it on the internet anywhere, I would know...I searched for ages when I was looking for inspiration  until I found her. Every time I check her page there is something new and every time I am given a new idea for a tattoo or for the placement of my next one. Please, if you appreciate tattoos at all, check her out.
She was picked up recently by the Swedish online mag, Rodeo Magazine. This has meant even more frequent posts which works for me!

Congratulations on your blog's success, NA Ridyard and thank you for posting my tattoo.

If any visitors from her site would like to see my other tattoo posts I have listed them here for easy navigation:

Nautical Compass Wrist Tattoo
Sanskrit Back Tattoo
Inner Bicep Script Tattoo (featured on Tattoologist)
Ankle, Foot, Finger, Rib Tattoos Best Blogger Tips

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Blissful Ink

My second tattoo was the result of a gift voucher given to me for my birthday by a friend. I therefore relinquish all responsibility for this one, Mum, as it would have been rude not to use a voucher so generously gifted to me.

And you always taught me to be grateful and polite.

I went in to get it immediately following a 90 minute boxing circuit, during which I may have burned every calorie  had ever consumer. Ever. Even after a warm down, stretch and shower my muscles were still spasming and I felt like I may pass out at any minute. And there you have the explanation for the tired makeup-less photo. So what should one do in this situation you ask? Why, go and traumatise your body some more by having someone run a high powered needle across your skin injecting ink under the dermis of course.

I was going to write the whole story behind this but all you really need is the overview, after all, you get a tattoo for yourself. It is self expression on display and as long as it means something to you, that is all that matters.You do not need to justify your tattoo to anyone else. Obviously if you choose to show people you don't want to hear negative feedback on your permanent artwork but don't go and get something that you don't connect with or that doesn't ring true for you just for rave reviews. YOU have to wear it for the rest of your life...or until you get laser removal. They are just observers. Don't be offended, not everyone is necessarily going to love what you get. And thats ok.

It is rare that you go into an art gallery and love every piece on display and body art is the same.

This tattoo is a reminder to myself. That its ok to put myself first and focus on my own happiness.

To follow MY bliss.

Also, the barbed wire arm band has been done.

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Thursday, February 24, 2011

In Like Flynn

The man's antics scored him his own catch many people can you say that about off the top of your head?

Oh Errol, you swashbuckled your way into my heart and into the pants of ladies the world over. Given, you were from Tasmania but like you, I choose to overlook that truth and look at the more appealing elements of your recondite existence; namely the vast amounts of time that you spent in tights toting large swords, bows, arrows and other phallic instruments of carnage.


His off-screen life made his film escapades seem like child's play. It was a cluster fuck (I wouldn't be surprised if that expression was coined for him as well) of drinking, fighting, boating and teenage mistresses earning him three statuatory rape charges and the phrase "In like Flynn".

His very existence was a scandal.

And he did it all with a pencil moustache.

I don't care. I love him. The man was a fox. His Robin Hood is still the only one that matters. And no man since him has looked that good in green tights.

He was the original bad boy, the Charlie Sheen of the 40's only hotter, smoother, dreamier with more style, questionable substance and much much better facial hair.

Mr Flynn.
I salute you.

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Tuesday, February 22, 2011

To The Men Who Honk

To the two young men in the truck this morning, thank you. Thank you for your single horn honk, 1000 watt smiles and vigorous waves while I was waiting on a busy road for Boyfriend Cakes to deliver my house keys which I had left in the key bowl...again. You kind of made my morning, which had begun in disappointment when I realised with immeasurable disappointment that it was my alarm screaming that it was time to wake up and not an inappropriately late phone call. You also validated my carefully selected work outfit which I have mocked up on Polyvore, below...for the nrecord, I'm not really carrying a Proenza Schouler bag today...nor any other day, for that matter, it just looks the closest to the one that is currently storing all my necessary posessions. Although if anyone feels inclined to donate a $2300 leather bag to me from the goodness of their heart they should feel free. Hey, a girl can dream.


To all the women who feign offence when honked, smiled, winked or waved at in the street. Stop lying, tell me that you don't get that little thrill that reminds you that yes, you've still got it. There is nothing better, either than the wolf whistle when you're not looking your greatest, when you're powering back from the gym, your cheerleader-esque ponytail glued to your neck with sweat or wearing an old sweater and sneakers in the supermarket parking lot.

Yet there is an etiquette that should be realised when partaking in the lady appreciation dance. We truly do appreciate the whistles, horn honks and waves but when it comes to hanging out the passenger side of your best friend's ride, trying to holler at me...its a bit far. Yes its all complementary, and we, the complemented thank you for going to the effort to acknowledge us but rein it in a little guys. There is a distinct line between letting a girl know that you think she's pleasing to the eye and turning her into the victim of a barrage of blatant innuendo and vulgar hand gestures. There is a strong possibility that screaming out the window that she should lick, suck, or fuck any part of your anatomy will not end with a smile at you so much as a lit cigarette being flicked in your open window. It's been known to happen.

So honk, smile, wave, whistle. The ladies really do love it. While you might not get acknowledgement each time, that coy little smile she smiles to herself once she thinks she's past your line of sight is for you.

Lets just keep it G-rated.
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Monday, February 21, 2011

When Opportunity Comes A-knockin'

When faced with an opportunity I tend to do one of two things. On the rare occasion, I flirt with the possibility that perhaps this opportunity has been presented to me at this time because I have earned it. That I've paid my dues and a culmination of things have caused me to be in the perfect place at the perfect time having accrued the perfect experience to take advantage of aforementioned opportunity. At these junctions, I accept that the universe is rewarding me for my hard work and awesomeness

The other thing that I do is run. I run as far and as fast in the oppposite direction as my endlessly fabulous shoes will take me. I'm not entirely sure why I do this but it obviously doen't tend to end well and it certainly doesn't leave me rolling in the spoils brought to me by a new opportunity. I choose the safe path and continue plodding along, not earning more, not seeing anything new and not allowing myself to taste the difference that change brings.

I generally go with the latter.

The rub is that I like to think of my self as somehwat brave and more adventurous than the average bear so why the fear of change? Change has always been good to me, its taken me to wonderful places, introduced me to remarkable people, given me countless good things and rarely brought disappointment that I hadn't already seen on the horizon. So perhaps i'm not actually afraid of change. Perhaps its not that I feel that I don't deserve a break, because, believe me, I do. Maybe i'm just lazy. It is easier not to change. And instead to live a stagnant season, turning a blind eye to the things that are making your existence less than ideal and to choke on the cloud of dust that opportunity leaves as it thunders by you again.

So this is me. Grabbing the proverbial bull by his sizeable horns.

Watch this space.

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Friday, February 18, 2011

Online Shopping Justified.

So i'm still waiting for my blazer to arrive. While the anticipation hasn't killed me yet it has left me in something of a frenzy, scuttling out to the reception area every day to go through the post parcels only to walk away empty handed and crestfallen.

The advantage of having your online purchases sent to your work address, if this is a viable option for you, is that your productive and mundane days at work are peppered with the arrival of, what has come to be known in our office as, "presents". This coming from the mentality that  opening each parcel is just like Christmas. Except you always know that you're getting something that you like.

Everyone's a winner.

Online shopping also has wider benefits, allowing you to expand your circle of acquaintances as you tend to become quite well known to the Post, FedEx and UPS delivery men and the better your relationship with them, the earlier they will visit you on their round. Its times like these where a sultry smile or a wink is in order. On a related note, if you're single, its a good way to meet men, you know that they have a job and while Post and UPS leave a little to be desired, i'm yet to meet an unattractive FedEx delivery man.

It has been suggested that if a package arrives for you and you need more than 30 seconds to remember what it is or if you open a parcel and are genuinely surprised at receiving the item due to your forgetting that you'd ordered it that you need to take a break from online shopping. It is imperitive that you find a substitute during your online shopping blockout, if you don't you'll be drawn in by the sneaky offer emails, whoring themselves and their one day offers. You'll snap and make an impulsive purchase that you really didn't need. Yes. I'm looking at you ASOS, you with your slutty free international shipping...don't think I dont know what you're trying to do.

The remedy, you ask?

Use your spending ban to perform the ever necessary wardrobe cleanout and rather than donate your unworn size 26 acid wash skinny leg jeans that you bought 2 sizes to small because they were the last pair and were such a bargain, sell them...believe me there is some 19 having hipster boy with no butt out there that wants that exact pair.

Ebay is a cash cow, make her your bitch.

The rule:
If you havent' worn it in at least 1 year..sell it.
If its 6 months old and still has the tags attached...sell it.
If it has a kitten heel...sell it.
If you're still hanging on to it because you're planning to lose the weight you put on 2 Christmases ago...sell it.
If its made of spandex, taffetta or looks like MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Milli or Vanilli would have worn it and is not for an upcoming dress-up party...punch yourself in the face and then sell it.

Free up some space in your wardrobe and take the pressure of your credit cards. You'll be surprised how quickly it adds up and even more surprised when you're able to peruse the Isabel Marant section of Net-A-Porter without touching your bank account or having your credit card retract in fear and begin plotting your untimlely demise. Best Blogger Tips

The Beautiful Departed


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Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Red, Red Wine.

Source:we heart it
Wine. Yes, you get your very own post. UB40 wrote a song about you so why should you not get your own piece of blogspace?

Wine is my mistress, my lover, my confidant.
Her siren call is for me alone...and the other several million people who partake in her liquidy deliciousness...

It is with her that I, dressed in my Peter Alexander hedgehog pyjama pants, get my Bridget Jones on and sing All By Myself into a rolled up TV guide while simultaneously slopping wine on aforementioned hedgehog pants and jumping onto the leather armchair. The spillage causes a momentary lapse in concentration and reminds me that I am couch surfing on Boyfriend Cakes' chair and that I am not, in fact, all by myself or at least I won't be when he returns home. Thus rendering my Grammy-grade performance moot and relegating me to relative silence to consuming the remainder of my bottle glass.

She smothers me in her warm rosy embrace and I am left dizzy and slightly short of breath. Possibly due to my slight allergy to her tannins, DAMN TANNINS, which cause my sinuses to close up and makes my eyes a little red and a little glassy, just enough to make me look like I have spent the afternoon puffing on a joint. Which I haven't. Its just not my thing and even you, you fabulous Marc Jacobs-ified blunt cannot tempt me.

There are some things that even I won't do in the name of fashion.
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Liam Neeson

You never have been and possibly never will be as sexy or dangerous as you were in the moment that your daughter was kidnapped and you said "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you."

That was pretty much the shit.

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Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Musical Cakes

We always had a piano in the house, it was an old Chappell upright, made of a rich dark brown wood and had a fold down music rack and the velvet covered seat lifted up to store your music books. My mother had learned on it as a child as well and the ivories were worn such that they were no thicker than the blade of a butter knife and by the time I was 16, the force of playing would rend the keys from their wooden bases so that by the time I left home there was a little pile of thin ivory keys in the seat.

I remember playing on my teachers piano at one of my first lessons when I was 5 and balking how alien the thick heavy keys of the much newer piano felt. I thought that the teachers piano was broken. Because mine was the pinnacle of pianistic perfection. (Excuse my alliteration.)

As a child, I love playing the piano, my older brother played as well and being 3 years younger and hero worshipping him as younger sibling do when they're not vehemently hating on their older counterparts, I wanted to do everything that he did.

I practiced, under some duress, every morning before school and somehow came to the conclusion quite early in my piano playing career, that faster was better. Somehow I thought that my half hour would go faster if I played everything at speed. It just meant that I had to play it again. And again. And again. Everything I played was at speed. My tiny hands would fly across the keys, playing perfect scales at a speed you would hardly believe my 5 year old fingers would be capable of.

I would play "concerts" for my parents, particularly for my father who would sit patiently through my hurried repertoit of ballads, classical scores and examination pieces which I would play again and again, he would listen amusedly to my alarmingly off-key singing, I still find it bizarre that someone who was so musical and played for so many years still can't sing a note to save her life. I'm an enigma, or at least that's what my Uncle told me once as he patted my head after being coerced into listening to one of my never ending concerts. At 6, I'd not yet learned the meaning of the word and figured that he was telling me that I was awesome. So I played another thousand songs for him.

I never really listened to my father telling me to keep up with my piano playing that it was a fantastic skill to have and if I could sit down and play something on the piano I could command the attention of an entire room. This forgotten, by the time I was 18 I'd long stopped taking lessons and played quite infrequently. After I left home, every time I went to a friends house and found that they had a piano or keyboard i'd inevitably find myself sitting at it, playing Fur Elise or the Moonlight Sonata from memory in their entirity, always at speed. Naturally.

I returned home a year or 2 later to find that my parents had gotten rid of the piano which we had carted through 3 states and had been collecting dust in the sitting room. I was heartbroken. Given, I only came home a couple of times a year and only played the piano for a few minutes each of those times but I still felt betrayed and mourned the loss of that piano. People keep telling me to invest in a keyboard to get back into it but they don't feel right, they aren't properly weighted and they just feel wrong.

I could never play a keyboard.

I'm kind of a piano snob.

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Saving SATC

Over the weekend, I started watching Sex and the City, from the first episode for the first time since the second movie came out. The much loved special edition box set has been sitting untouched since last June.

After years having the show be my guilty pleasure I was mortified when I my booked a seat in advance, paid my hard-ish earned money and settled in to watch SATC2. It was traveling along at a seemingly acceptable pace and then it imploded. There is a certain level of tacky grossness that almost any woman is willing to overlook in the name of fashion and shoes but this crossed the line.

Emilio Pucci exploded onto the movie poster in a flurry of blue and white silk amazingness. I want it, and I want SJP's massively airbrushed legs of perfection. The belt detailling  felt a little much though and the straps on the Vivienne Westwood platform sandals looked like they would trip Carrie at any moment and send her sprawling onto the glittering Moroccan (that's right, Moroccan, NOT Emirati) sand.
While it is a given that the wardrobe was incredible, and if I could sit through it again without gouging my eyes out I would, just for the wardrobe but a Zac Posen antebellum-esque hoop skirt in an Abu Dhabi bazaar. Really?

Its hard for me to write about this film without descending into an all-out rant. And for those of you who thoroughly enjoyed the film you may want to turn away now. It was an abomination, the scene with Samantha spilling every condom that Trojan ever produced from her purse and gyrating obscenely to a crowd of unimpressed men, causignthem to chase the girls through the bazaar and me to simultaneously cringe, look away, consider leaving and curse myself for spending my money on a ticket to the movie rather than a beautiful lunch at the new place near work.

98% of the reviews that I had from girlfriends was the same, they were disappointed, insulted and deflated by the offering from the franchise. They all felt that the film had bastardized something that they loved. That it had been racist, inappropriate, narrow minded with characters created on gross stereotypes thought up by racist, inappropriate and narrow minded people.

I am hoping that the rumours are true and that Blake Lively will be cast as a young Carrie in the prequel "The Carrie Diaries". The girl doesn't put a Louboutin-ed foot wrong and the man himself has named a shoe, The Blake, after her. Who better to resurrect SATC to a place where we can again watch Carrie and not be transported to a world of insulting anti-tainment. Best Blogger Tips

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Blazer

The suit became the "new uniform for the afternoon and evening" for ladies in 1915 after Coco Chanel gifted the world with a range of menswear inspired womens clothing. And then military inspired clothing during the war in 1914.

And then came the blazer.

Military inspired blazers and 80's style power shoulders came back with a vengeance in '09 when Balmain flooded  Paris spring fashion week runways with them.

But the blazer is forever. Dressed up or down, with flats or heels, in silk, wool cashmere and jersey. Everyone should have at least one. Jennifer Aniston rocks them to casual perfection...who actually looks that good getting on a plane? Emmanuelle Alt, Editor-in-chief at Vogue Paris, who is rarely seen without a Balmain piece on, says "Forget trendy designer labels. Jeans, a sweater or a t-shirt worn under a jacket that seems welded to you. When it’s just right, when you don’t see the effort, it’s irresistible" (I guess it helps to know Christophe Decarnin).

I may or may not try to recreate this exact outfit when the blazer I won on eBay this morning arrives. I may then find out that I am not Jennifer Aniston and while I may be 17 years her junior I do not have a body to rival hers and my blazer isn't a $2000 Balmain one. Alas, I don't earn Balmain money...I barely earn ASOS money...and with my travel plans for this year i'm living off Kmart money. I am however an opportunist and ruthless auction bidder and scored a beautiful Elizabeth and James blazer for under $100. I am now eagerly awaiting its delivery...its going to be 10 days and the anticipation may very well kill me.

If it kills me.

Bury me in that blazer.

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How to Love a Woman

You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect - you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.

            - Bob Marley

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R2EK35EAFWTF Best Blogger Tips

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Travelling pants

As a woman, one of the greatest problems faced when travelling. Is wardrobe.

Source: Jess Hart
Obviously your destination and travelling companions dictate a large part of what you need to take. There are some holidays where all you need to pack is a bikini, some where you will spend a month in hiking boots and a rotation of little more than 3 items of clothing and others where carefully planned outfits in temperature and city appropriate attire is called upon.

But what if you're going to Italy...are you prepared to walk the streets of Milan wearing good, sensible walking shoes and practical zip-off cargo pants. Considering only comfort? I'm not. I'm sorry. I would die. It's fucking Milan. But...i'm not so shallow that i'll trade looking good for a little practicality. I won't travel with a bag that I can't carry/wheel/drag myself. I also won't spend half of my holiday putting on makeup or straightening my hair.

So what to take, how do you decide which pairs of shoes to take? If you take Christian, will Jimmy and Marc be upset? Will they punish you, upon your return, in a fit of jealous rage causing your ankle to twist leaving you in an un-fabulous and dishevelled heap on the floor? These are all things that should be carefully considered when packing ones bags to travel.

The answer. Take flats (flat boots are fine), take a pair of cons (if Jess Hart can rock them Stockholm streetstyle you can too) i'm sorry but you can't go adventuring around the cobbled streets of Rome in 5-inch stilettos. Take your Tributes or Louboutins, ONE pair of black pumps. And a pair of peep-toes or sandals.

Source: The Style Locket
Take jeans, tshirts, shorts, can be comfortable and practical without looking like a stereotypical traveller.  Make sure that you pack for the season. Don't take a vintage fur coat incase you get unseasonal snowfall in Spring. Because that it just stupid.

I assure you. You can look good and not have seventeen blisters, a twisted ankle and chafing from your leather shorts. Rachel Bilson looked hot in them at the Sunglass Hut press conference (they are yet to design something that she doesn't look hot in) , she did not go traipsing around Venice, climbing in and out of gondolas in them.

If you're going in summer, by all means, wear silk. It is light, beautiful, takes up next to no room in your bag and always, ALWAYS looks amazing.

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Apologies and Pirate Ink

I must apologise for not posting at all yesterday, my day was thrown all out of whack by spending the morning getting another tattoo. Sorry Mum.

For those of you in Melbourne and looking for a great tattooist you should check out Fox Body Art in Collingwood, I've now been there for 3 of my 4 tattoos and have seen Matto for 2 of them. I can tell you now that he will be doing all of the future tattoos that I get in Melbourne. He's laidback, cool and really easy to get along with.

I went to spend the last of the vouchers that I got for my birthday from 2 friends. How awesome is that? My friends know me so well that they know which tattooist in all of Melbourne (there are hundreds) to buy me vouchers for...and what better gift, I now carry both of these ladies with me every day. You guys rock...but you already knew that.

Compass tattoo
Anyway, I went in yesterday morning to get some new ink. A nautical compass. In early maritime days pre-satellite navigation all the sailors had to guide them through unchartered waters was a compass and the stars. Being superstitious, sailors would tattoo nautical stars and compasses on themselves in the hope that they, like the real things, would guide them home safely.

So...maybe I really am destined to be a pirate. It would put some weight behind my childhood nickname, Scallywag, bestowed upon me by my brother from infancy. Clearly I was born for this. My compass isn't to allay superstitions. Perhaps to guide me through unchartered waters. It is a representation of my love of travel. It is pretty, not commonly seen on non-sailor types and just aesthetically pleasing.

The pirate gig is looking pretty sweet though and this could make me a shoo in.

I could rock an eyepatch.
And a parrot.

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Thursday, February 10, 2011

Spotted dogs and birthday cake

BIRTHDAY PARTY!! A five year olds dream, a place of balloons and wonder and clowns (before Stephen King went and ruined them with It) a wonderous land where you got to eat cake and begrudgingly watch the birthday child open your gift, which you personally thought was much more suited to your own taste than theirs hoping secretly, the whole time that they will give it back to you for this reason thus proving you right to your mother who insisted that you HAD to take a gift.

I went along to this particular birthday wearing my little blue dress with geese on it...yes there were some misgivings about once again being made to wear a dress. I mean really, of all the places where a five year old Cakes all hopped up on birthday cake and sugary niblets was going to run and jump and climb and skip and do all the things that are inappropriate for a young lady in a dress to do...a birthday party was pretty much the top of the list.

The girl who's 5th birthday party I was attending was held at her home which was quite sizeable, like a lot of houses in the area and had a tennis court, a gaggle of squealing five year old girls and a professional face painter. I waited patiently-ish for the other girls to have their beaming faces adorned with fairies and rainbows and butterflies. The line of children shortened as the girls skipped past me one by one with their faces a never ending collage of pink and glitter. FINALLY it was my turn, the face painter dipped her brush in the bright swirling pink on her palette and smiled at me "and what would you like to be? A fairy? Perhaps a pretty butterfly?" Had my innocent little mind been exposed to such language I would have retorted "Bitch please." But it hadn't. I looked scornfully at the offensive pink paint and told her "I want to be a spotted dog." There was a moment of silence, a look of confusion and i'm pretty sure that in that instant a few fairies died. But I didn't care...I was a spotted DOG!

I spent the remainder of the afternoon hurtling around on a little metal tricycle which I can only assume that I acquired from one of the hosts children on the tennis court terrorising the fairies, rainbows and butterflies.

Because that's what a spotted dog would do.

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Wednesday, February 9, 2011

West Coast Ink

Late last year, 3 girlfriends and I expeditioned over to Perth to celebrate the birthday of one of our foursome. My immeasurably generous Uncle had vacated the state and left his house and car at our disposal. Once we landed in the morning it took us all of an hour to find somewhere that would serve us poached eggs, smoked salmon and a bottle of champagne.

It was a week of good food, some...interesting clubbing experiences, wineries a creepy approach from a crazy lady of leisure and her Colonel Sanders looking friend and a trip down to Margaret River. During the road trip it was decided that we would all get tattoos, it was something that we could all do together, our gift to the birthday girl, something permanent to mark our trip together, something crazy, because to be perfectly honest...we're not the most sane collective at the best of times.

The drive back to Perth was filled with frantic googling of tattoo placement ideas, reputable tattooists and drive through KFC chips. We called ahead and made appointments for that afternoon, arriving with minutes to spare we parked and found our way to the shop in the heart of the city. The guys were chatty, funny and charming... unsurprising as they were about to violate the skin of 4 young women. We each showed them our designs and explained exactly what we wanted, looked up fonts and waited as they printed our stencils. You could feel the tension building, two of the girls were about to receive their first tattoos.

The birthday girl was up first, her reaction to the needle along her foot didn't fill me with confidence. She  and I had gotten tattoos at the same time a few weeks previously and we seemed to have about the same tolerance and I was about to get tattooed on the inside of my heel. As soon as the artist started on mine I understood. Getting tattooed on your foot HURTS, where was this memo when people were telling me that the ribs is the worst?! This was my third tattoo and was the first one during which I found myself grimacing. Gladly it was small and was finished quickly. Balls was up next, the tattoo needle piercing her virgin skin and...the woman is a veritable trooper! The small and deeply personal ink design on her finger that she had mulled over with the artist was done and she had not winced nor cried aloud. (Yes. I just snuck a little 'Invictus' in there). Finally, it was Miss Grace's turn. Our beautiful lady, the one among us that we never thought would go under the needle sat excitedly as her tattooist freehanded her tattoo onto her ribs. She lay there silently as he worked on her, looking at us to tell her where he was up to. It was the biggest tattoo of the day and Grace, true to her name sat like a lady for the duration.

The birthday girl, known thereafter as Ole One Shoesie, put her right shoe in her bag as she couldn't wear it for fear of rubbing on the freshly traumatised skin and we walked across the street and into a bar.

One Shoesie in one bare footed glory.

Ole One Shoesie

Cakes: Aslan...yes, I named my tattoo.



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The perfect white tshirt

I've seen countless blog posts about the endless quest for the perfect white tshirt. I've seen posts about T by Alexander Wang, American Apparel and J Crew. All good...but not perfect.

I have found it, with a little thanks to Kate Lanphear.

James Perse standards. 100% Pima cotton amazingly comfortable and as yet indestructible.

Worn by:
Kate Lanphear.
Kate Moss.
Ashley Olsen.

Case and point.

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