Kirsten ain't got shit on me...

My Halloween costume arrived! It's times like these that I realise that growing up has long since disappeared as a viable option.  

I'm planning on making it less, erm, Playboy and more fash-on by lovingly ripping off this woman's wig. What a legend she is.

I've already fully assembled (in manner of 10 year old geek child) an Airfix 18th Century Galleon to nobly ride atop my head. The base wig sits, ready, scaring me in the middle of the night. Tomorrow I have to head into the ghettoish depths of South London to buy a weird amount of fake white hair and some chicken wire. The mockery has already begun; my friend S has just accused me of trying to fashion Big Ben out of my own hair. 

Far fetched wishes

I'm assisting on a shoot on Monday and, being me, my initial thought was sartorial. Not what wonderfully innovative suggestions I'm going to contribute, not what an acceptable level of flirtation with the photographer is, nor how I plan on steaming like no one's steamed before. No, like any other fashionista worth her Philip Lim, I'm solely focused on what fabulous outfit I'm going to be gadding about the shoot in. Maybe this is why I'm still unemployed.

If money was no object I'd probably pay a cheeky visit to new shopping site du jour farfetch.com and stock up. So let's just pretend for one glorious minute that I have more places to go than just the post office and my own kitchen, & allow ourselves to delve, dreamlike, into the whimsical melancholy of My Fantasy Wardrobe. Well, the farfetch.com portion of it, anyway...

Henrik Vibskov, £289

Bark, £98

Something, £75

Tsumori Chisato, £75

Givenchy, how I love you, £429

Haider Ackerman, I'd never heard of you but I love you, too, £945

Henrik Vibskov, £219

Gucci Very Vintage, £319

Alexander Wang. Someone give that man a medal, £655

Ann Demeulemeester, £225

Balenciaga, £354

Casadei, £504

Sigh. Lucky I plan on marrying rich.

Madame Bovary, C'est Moi

I'm currently contemplating whether I should carry on reading Madame Bovary before bed, or if I should buckle and watch some utter crap on E! instead. I had a moment of sheer self-disgust recently when I realised I'd read pretty much none of the classics (minus forced syllabus twaddle like The Handmaid's Tale which I'm pretty sure doesn't count anyway), but found I could comfortably reel off worryingly intimate details about Bret Michael's love life, Tamara Melon's crib (OMG, how amazing was her archived closet, by the way?) and Jordan's veneer issues. So, being 24 and now old, I expressed astonishment at the state of the country's education system (which I'm allowed to do now), and swanned down to Waterstone's to get the Penguin Designer Classics copy whose cover was designed by Manolo Blahnik. The Boy scoffed at my choice of 'classic'. He's a classics whore and wonderfully geeky to boot...we're talking reading Anna Karenina AND listening to endless expert audio-book discussions about it. I, meanwhile, was earnestly engaging with the pages of Harper's and met every one of his points about Tolstoy with statements about the genius of Nicholas Kirkwood. Please see proof of such below:

This is rapidly turning into a shoe blog, isn't it? Anyway, I've made a start although I do have a terrible habit of never finishing books. And now when people ask me what I'm reading at the moment (not that anyone ever does, although, weirdly, I dream of having the type of bookish friends that would), I can casually say: "Oh, I'm reading Bovary." Just the shortened name you understand; that's how one can identify a literary expert. It's like a code.

Let The River Run

Today seems as good a day as any to begin my inaugural foray into the blogosphere. Mainly as I need to vent my neurosis somewhere and the gym seemed too sensible. I've just heard that I didn't get this job that I really wanted. I had previously said that if I didn't get it I'd do something drastic and attention-seeking like shave my head. I've since chosen the more noble route of blogging and ranting, ranting and blogging. Hopefully this won't set a precedent for all future posts. Here are a list of reasons that I needed that/a job:

• I've just spent my last £150 on an obnoxiously chi chi fancy dress costume for my own Halloween party which I'm only throwing as a vain attempt to forget about my unemployment. Irony, anyone?
•  My WAG wig needs replacing but I can't bring myself to head into Tooting for a weave that costs 30 quid. I'd rather schlep half way up the country to my hairdressers, put a rude amount on my credit card and pretend that, as the card is pink in colour, Virgin Money are perfectly friendly and, basically, giving me free money.
• This little Viktor & Rolf number has certainly not helped matters.
  
• I watch far, faaaaar too much TV as it is and yesterday I stumbled across the hideously watchable Kimora: Life in the fab lane. Gag. I am loathesome for enjoying it quite so much. I have enough to deal with with my Girls of the Playboy Mansion obsession. There, I said it. Please don't judge me.
• It is a matter of urgency that I attempt a duplication of the Givenchy A/W 08 collection. It is also quite pressing that, in a pair of leather trousers, I don't end up looking like Cher. Or Liz Hurley. Step one was buying these bad boys from Aldo. I feel rather smug at how much they look like Snr Tisci's, actually.
  
  
  
  
• Ok, so the real ones are a wedge heel but whatevs.
• Today, I voluntarily went to TK Maxx with my Dad to buy socks.

I think you'll find I'm in desperate need of employment.

I 

The First One

Please expect:

delusions of grandeur

a disproportionate number of odes to my girl crush Mary-Kate Olsen

musings

declarations of love to various pockets of the UK high street

lots of 80s feelgood Youtube

the occasional apt Angela Chase quote

oh, and obviously a healthy dash of narcissism delivered via self-taken outfit photos.

And I do enjoy a list.