The Perfect Pose

The perfect pose is an essential natural response not only when faced with the lens of a camera but at all times of day and night; never let your defences drop girls, the perfect pose can knock lbs off your weight and years off your age, as can black lycra, botox and a good bra!!!!

The perfect pose should become second nature from an early age and refined and adapted according to the circumstance. What is cute at 5 is a cringe at 50 so props such as Daddy’s lap is a definite no no for anyone over the age of 25, not only does it make you look like Anna Nicole Smith but it also makes “daddy” look like a rampant paedophile and, I can assure you, it will find its way onto “Awkward family photos.com” before you can say Ronnie Wood……….

“Tits out and bums in” is generally a good formula for a row of girlies; but hen nights and tarts on tour beware, get lined up, regulation is better than separation, “safety in masses hides fat asses”. Practice your pout mouth in the mirror. A good one is “Wogan”. Forget the old “say cheese” malarkey, it will only distort your lips to the shape of a Royal Mail letterbox and make you look like Cherie Blair, it plays havoc with your crows feet and if you have the slightest trace of a double chin forget it, NEVER ever open your mouth in public again!!!!

Models traditionally have a legacy of facial lines from a lifetime of forced smiling, I personally know an ex-model with wrinkles to match Mick Jagger, and so a parsimonious economy of “gurning” is to be recommended.

I can speak from a lifetime experience of having to hide fat knees and was pleased to see the likes of Kylie and Danni adopting the tried and tested recipe that I had thought I had invented many years ago, it’s simple, knees pressed firmly together in a vice like grip with one foot slightly before the other…da…..da …..see, this can give the impression of passable, if not perfect, knees. Check the Minogues out next time you see them on the red carpet!!

PFB has the perfect formula; right hand on hip, a side on twist of the waist, right leg slightly bent forward with a point of the toe…… its what she calls “the Paris Hilton” (not that Paris has a lot to recommend herself but her “people” do know how to promote her best assets and hide her huge feet!!!!). PFB has demonstrated this perfect pose at many a prem and red carpet do and it’s variation is currently being modelled on page 30 of this month’s Company High Street Edit magazine.

Excess Baggage

The utter humiliation of having to unpack and redistribute our excess baggage at check in, was only ameliorated by our access to “previous day check in facility” and was not therefore witnessed by a 747 full of HP’s wrestling with their bum bags and shell suits. Horrors; that my entire bikini collection may have been on display and ridicule to the entire population of Basildon gawping in amazement as to why anyone would ever need 27 bikinis, 8 pairs of identical skinny jeans and 10 pairs of matching sunglasses…….albeit principally from Primani!

No I was not going to set up a stall and hawk them on the beach simply my intention was to give them to my loyal friends in a communist country where Lycra is still an invention of wonder and amazement, ancient mobile phones fetch a princely sum on the black market and Top Shop is a designer label equivalent in status to Christian Dior.However our lame excuses as to the remarkable over estimation of our baggage allowance fell on the deaf ears of the sympathetically challenged aspiring Trolley-dolly behind the counter, clearly still in traumatic recovery from her recent personality by-pass and a graduate with honours from the Saddam Hussein charm school, her displeasure was further amplified when her supervisor intervened and suggested we purchase a striking new holdall for the princely sum of 10 notes and thus re-distribute our heavier items at no extra cost. We had documentation that we had booked before the allowance was reduced and although a good 15 kilos over limit she had a more sympathetic ear when I assured her only 50% of it would be returning as I leave behind the diverse and explicit shopping list from my Cuban friends. Not to mention three pairs of fluffy bunny ears, check. Three identical Che Guevara T-shirts, check (coals to Newcastle comes to mind!!!) and three inflatable union jack air guitars, check...well it was a wedding and someone had to organise the stag do!!!!

What is it with this uniform that it is a license to be miserable and unpleasant to happy holidaymakers? I don’t doubt the reality that we had already pre-allocated seats in row 1, would have disempowered her and diminished her authority to relegate us to the rear of the aircraft and subsequent tail end trauma for ten hours. So as Chechzilla (therein lies a clue!!!) breathed fire, we decanted boots, bottles and bras in order to reduce the weights from 30kg down to a mere 23; apparently ‘elf and safety now prohibit the lifting of such excessive volumes. Since when did those strapping steroid enhanced baggage handlers become such wusses? Apparently April 2009……. and jolly lucky I wasn’t travelling with my Louis Vuitton steamer wardrobe trunk, goodness me, whatever does Joan Collins do when she flies with Thomson?

These check-in cheerleaders are generally one and the same who allocate seats and later meet and greet at the gate but this Chechzilla had met her match. Having already tolerated the Spanish inquisition as to the weight of our hand luggage (which fortunately resided in the hotel room throughout the endurance of this sad little episode) we had assured her it was no more than a small tote bag, We are visualising a neat little Longchamps Le Pliage here…….NO NO Noooooo, minor porky lost in imagination, I had the presence of mind to calculate that Chechzilla on duty at 10pm, would not be present for the morning shift and a new fresh team would be there to pass through our commodious carry on bags (now overflowing with shoes and sandals).

Having no spare luggage labels I was convinced our fetching new carryall would stray en-route, its contents lost forever so, as a precaution, I did feel it necessary to wear 2 jackets, virtually the entire contents of my jewellery roll and cowboy boots through security to the departures lounge just in case we were weighed again. Thus “Bling-ed” to excess I hit the “Jackpot” going through the metal detectors, all the lights flashed, alarms sounded and for a minute I thought I was back in Vegas!!! But the security guy probably just assumed I was Katie Price’s sister and with a quick frisk and wave of his magic wand off I went.

Fortunately all was well and there are now some very happy Pimped up bunnies in Cuba.

The Angel of Death

The MD has just placed a copy of yesterday’s Independent Magazine before me, it bears a bizarre and surreal photograph of Christopher Walkern. This image is haunting and macabre but epitomises all the characters for which he is traditionally typecast. It is sinister and eerie, I really don't like it but the fascination is undeniable.

An old favourite of ours from the Deer hunter days, he never fails to shock. He is an enigma, a contradiction of persona and lifestyles. A rare Hollywood icon who never fails to shock, entertain and repell within the same mindset. He has managed to maintain a constant carreer as a never comfortable and always controversial character in a succession of notable movies.

The image has ice cold eyes, a glacial stare into infinity beyond the retina of the camera, an insinuation of a cynical sneer reveals the far from Hollywood perfect veneers. He has an ashen vampiresque pallor which the camera struggles to disguise. The Jedward haircut and tattoo like enhancement of the tulip shaped top lip. Such a compellingly challenging un-enhanced visage in these times of striving for eternal youth and physical perfection, he appears unaltered and indifferent to the Peter Pan psyche that rules the celeb culture.

His recent appearance on Wossy was equally extraordinary, gauchely relaxed he is a challenge of inconsistency, not an easy person to empathise with nor a comfortable persona to reconcile. His OCD lifestyle is allegedly routine and familiar, he is a legendery dancer and cook, all of which talents seem so domestic, but his history bears the Wagner Wood scar, the mystery of really what did happen on that boat on that fateful night?

Diamond Dress

I touched briefly on this diamond purchase whilst wedding shopping blogging and to be honest I have surprised myself, this dress is an absolute “steal” with change from twenty five notes!!! A near identical print to the pink chain printed Versace asymmetrical dress as modelled by Georgia Jagger, this hot little number is as simple as could be; lycra fitted mini dress with scoop neck, a smidgeon of shoulder pads and ¾ sleeves. Every time I wear it I get positive comments, probably everyone shocked it is not my regulation black, and suddenly I am noticed, it’s definitely put a spring in my step.

Now wouldn’t you have just thought a sugar pink dress with random patches of black and white leopard print, chain surrounds and roccoco/baroque scrolling would not have done you any favours, the description alone is enough to make you wish you hadn’t had that last Hob-nob. Well I can assure you that this dress hides a multitude of sins as well as re-energising my demeanour; it is fashion forward and fun and I am loving it. I am really backing this 80s revival and have just secured a couple of genuine vintage Versace silk scarves from "my favourite sweetshop", ebay, all of course totally inappropriate for someone my age but when did that ever stop me?

So I have done what I do best, go with your first instincts and wear, wear, wear, but before you do that ensure it is replaceable. I have already secured a second identical item. So many times in the past I have kept something for best because it was precious, well now my philosophy is enjoy it whilst it is fresh and hot with the knowledge that the understudy is waiting in the wings should the master copy become literally, a little worse for wear.

I wore it last night for supper with Lulu and Paolo, I hadn’t been in the house 5 minutes when (at my suggestion) she had it off my back to try and no doubt she was online at the crack of dawn to secure one for herself. I am not precious about my style, all these clothes are out there for the taking and as I said before it’s not what you wear but how you wear it.

And the cost of this cool little baby…….. £24.99 from River Island, check it out.

However, as for previously blogged about silver slub satin shapeless sack? That has gone back. If that’s the shape of things to come when you get to my age, then bring on the bath chair now………

A Bambi Moment

This morning on the way to the Treadmill I passed two road kill victims; one I had to swerve dramatically to avoid and the second was hugely mutilated as its unrecognisable body was increasingly steamrollered deeper into the blacktop. Ironically last night my darling friend Fallen Angel also killed a deer; she is devastated at the tragic loss of an animal life. In a TGIF moment they had ordered a “Ruby” from their local and she had volunteered to collect. A quiet country road with little traffic she was taking it easy when en-route she was suddenly confronted face to face with Bambi in her headlights, she said for split second their eyes locked then the thud of reality broke the spell.

Hysterically she called her husband who arrived with a friend to calm the poor darling girl. Mother Theresa in a crisis I am amazed she didn’t jump out and do mouth to mouth or cardiac massage, such was her anguish I realise just how traumatised she really was. She is one of the most humane people I am lucky enough to know and I understand how deeply this has affected her, however, she is also THE singularly most practical person I know and her immediate concern was to the removal of the carcass from the roadside and its most expedient disposal, so, despite her extreme distress, common sense kicked in and she voiced her anxiety.

She was immediately reassured that the situation had been dealt with and the poor deer was already in the back of the car. Apparently it is illegal for the driver of a road kill victim to retrieve the remains which must be the logic for all the dead animals we see littering the roadside. How ridiculous is that? I could have had an accident this morning, Had I hit the newly dead corpse on the A14 at a considerable speed; I had a near miss, similarly had a car been on my right when I swerved so abruptly, that could have been a disaster, and how many people in the constant stream of traffic behind me faced the exact split second dilemma until the juggernauts finally flattened the poor animal.

Fallen Angel is saddened and guilt-ridden, the horror of the episode will live in her memory for a long time but she has exorcised it in her blog and she will survive. She was lucky not to have been injured herself and her motor has minimal bruising, a testament to her modest speed no doubt. However, as I write poor Bambi hangs awaiting professional butchering, she has not been, mutilated, compacted and violated, the precious meat will not be wasted and it will be venison for supper at the boat club………….

RIP McQueen

McQueen is dead, long live McQueen, if only…. Unfortunately a fashion maverick like that is not so easily replicated, he had a random genius and originality that we may never see again. With a nod to the past, present and future he managed to construct an exaggerated couture style which watered down very nicely to a high street staple; eventually adopted and worn by us all. He was one of a handful of great British eccentrics, the like of Vivienne Westwood, Ossie Clark, Paul Smith, all complete originals who influence the international fashions houses.

I admired his London roots and his acknowledgement that “street style” was his greatest influence, his family values and his courage to be different, I loved it when he said he was the “pink sheep of the family” but managed to overcome his weight problem in order to walk the walk……. His realisation that he was more than an employee in the rag trade and the brave step taken to go to art college to fulfil his dream. I loved the theatre of his shows, the scary malevolent undercurrents some had, projecting images that the fashion doyens sometimes would really rather not have seen, the blood, the gore and the surreal. I loved the way he really didn’t give a damn

He had the ultimate accolade of acceptance into the hierarchy of French fashion mafia and was invited to join Givenchy but in reality they should have joined the House of McQueen, his alleged behaviour was legendary and but they were lucky to have him….and he knew it.

It must be very difficult to be famous for a talent such as he had. He was not an X-factor attention seeking contestant but a grafter with a vision and a passion for fashion and the satisfaction of knowing that his creations were really quite extraordinary. The pressures must have been huge. I have been wearing my skull scarf as lame a tribute, but unfortunately I have no original Alexander McQueens hanging in my wardrobe, however, a fair few garments, shoes and accessories have definite McQueen influences.

Carrie Bradshaw married Big in order to house her Imelda Marcos sized shoe collection; My friend Lolita has restyled her 5 bedroom home at huge expense in order to accommodate her vast collection of LBD’s but even she hasn’t the room ……So, finally, I have to salute a guy who actually has a wardrobe that size; that's the ultimate carreer move and that's what I call style.

Me? I couldn’t even stand up in mine………..

for-boden

Now seems to be the season for all the unsolicited bland clothing Catalogues to come pouring through my letterbox. I know Boden and Land’s End have just adopted an extremely aggressive marketing campaign but why me??? What have I ever done to make them think I would be even remotely interested in their dull merchandise? I don’t even buy from la Redoute so why should I even consider the aforementioned? I am not breastfeeding children under 5, I do not live in the country, am not a member of the NCT, National trust or the Green Party, nor do I holiday at Landmark Trust or Centreparcs. I don’t drive a Volvo, make my own bread or have chickens in my garden…..I don’t want to look like a Land Girl and Mumsy is not an image I aspire to so why keep sending me the comic? I have never bought from them so should my age dictate that this is the season to start! Do they market by age or postcode, or have they bought my details from one of those infuriating on-line insurance price comparison websites? Compare the mere-mortals.com!

Do I look like I want to max out the recession in such depressing clothes? I know the sales of confectionary rockets during times of stress as we eat our way through the mediocrity and this inevitably takes its toll on our backside, wahey, we turn into a Sarah Brown look-alike overnight. Not for me the shapeless sacks and woven brown wool tights. Bring on the lycra mini dresses and shame my bikini belly into submission, it you’ve got it flaunt it and with a bit of luck it may go away, certainly don’t hide it under reams of lacklustre brown polyester because you can bet your bottom (and yes I do mean literally bottom) dollar it will still be there, present and correct, with interest, come the summer. Draped dresses are only ever good if they are from the Rick Owens and All Saints stable and even then they have to be sexed up with the addition of funky leggings, fabby boots and accessories to die for.

The summer collections are even more scary, not sure which fashion trend to back they, seem to have burst into colour and taken a pot shot at the lot, and, well why not try and incorporate them all into one garment. Statement prints, guaranteed to disguise the infant vomit on your shoulder, shapeless styling and crinkled linen all the better for that “comfy” look. In actuality I have never found linen a wearer friendly fabric, its drape has a mind of its own, and should only be made into men’s summer shirts; which is what it does best.

Cheerful they may be but cheap not, I find this exploitative element the hardest to stomach, it isn’t easy to do a quality shop with tiny infants and on-line is easier but this convenience comes at quite a price, especially when everyone at tumble Tots knows exactly the value of your clothing allowance. There is a range called a “fun dress” as un-entertaining as cleaning the u-bend and probably a lot less comfortable. Flicking through is like scanning an Early learning catalogue, the irony being in these troubled times where it appears normal to dress two year olds like pre-pubescent teenagers, ironically the mothers have to look like toddlers…….Patterned Wellies and flower printed cotton Macs, sensible flats and comfy cardies; functionality is the order of the day.

I don’t think so. I would really rather shave my eyeballs than contemplate that look