Faux Fashion

Not for one minute do I consider Victoria Beckham to be a fashion designer. No, she is a PR guru. Brand Beckham is the Tesco and Asda of the fashion world. The front row is staged with her husband looking loyally on, need we forget Rebecca Loose, and Anna Wintour, who is competing with her own trout pouting, following in tow.

The models are beautiful, the cut of the cloth exquisite, and the star of the show “VB” is performing her act as the fashion designer dressed in black, as only fashion designers do. It’s about the clothes, the lines, the cuts of the cloth…”Oh, please!”
I’m a Spice Girl, I’m a fashionista, I’m a Mother, and a lover.

No, you are a PR girl. And I’m not buying it. Literally, not buying it because it is far too expensive and I don’t care what the front row says. You are a well oiled machine.

So, this PR girl thought she’d take a stab at fashion. If Vicky can do it, I can do it too.

Act one, find a fashionista outfit in black that does not distract. In other words, there is nothing new here, copy Audrey Hepburn. Take one Christian Dior Wool Jacket, £126 from Fab UK and I’ve got it, team with black jeans and you’ve one fashionista outfit.

Act 2, find a footballer husband and position him in the front row. Sorry, I checked all over Fab and other outlets and there were all out of stock. Anyway, rumour is that Wags have gone bust lately and they’ve had to find themselves all sorts of jobs, i.e paid employment.

Act 3, find Anna Wintour. I actually couldn’t believe anyone could look as miserable as Victoria Beckham, until I saw a picture of Anna. They’re like twins.

Finale, you must find lots of money to do all of the above. But I’d like to know who oils the machine? No pun intended.

Fab UK

http://eu.fab.com/sale/4884/product/82222/?sid=350 – here you go for a sneak peak.

 

Studying with the Kids

At first I was going to write about what’s it’s like to study with the kids. The constant nagging, my ignoring and in between, I’m writing sentences and trying to remember cases.

Distractions are everywhere and as I head into my exam, I’m trying to clear my mind, though mindful that I have to pick up at 5. Thankfully the exam is on to 4:30, time enough.

Something v Something, oh I forgot to give him £2 for the theatre, Peterson that’s the name. Think, think.

“The exam will begin in 5 minutes.”

If only I could see the Invigilator. The wean sitting in front of me has a beehive close to hitting the ceiling. How long did that take her to put up? And I’m not even discussing the riding up denim shorts in the middle of winter.

“You must not leave the exam in the first half hour.” Why would you leave? Even without knowing answers, to have two and a half hours to myself is blissful. To write uninterrupted and the beautiful silence. No talking. Silence. Complete silence; fabulous!

No toileting. No Muuummmy! No, I’m finished!!!!

Just me, an exam about…, which one is this? And silence.

“The exam will begin.”

And we’re off. I’m out of the box quickly. Pen to paper, I’m going to tell you everything I know about this subject and it’s ugly.

Half an hour later and they’re leaving. Where are you going? There are weans leaving. Sure, it’s dark outside and it’s getting late.

I’m staying till the bitter end. Me and my paper, and yes there are questions to answer.

Q1: Dear examiner, the case I wish I knew the name of, wait it will come back to me, but there was a case and in it there was a man, and I think I remember there was a woman.

Anyway, the point is, there is a point of law, a statute where the law can be found and then lots of cases that just ignore that law anyway. And Europe. They are an enigma.

So, basically laws are made in the books, tested in the courts and ignored in Europe. So, it could go either way. Who knows? What do you think? Well, I’d say that it’s arguable. Toss a coin, for or against. It depends on the judge, that’s the law.

Q2: I’m not going to be able to answer the full question here. You see, my son is 5 and last night we were doing his homework for ages. Absolutely ages and he is only primary one. After that, I had to get the uniforms ready and I don’t make the pack lunches, but they are a thought and then, by that time I thought I better get some sleep before the exam. But as I said, Europe will just rewrite it, so it’s not really worth my while writing about it.

Please take all of the above into consideration when marking this paper.

 

 

SATC – Glasgow style

The Meat Market, the Shack or is it the Ramshack, this Farmyard lives up to its name. In hot pursuit of some dancing, my friends and I, hop, skip and jump a taxi, high on the Christmas festivities.

On approach, I did wonder whether this establishment was the right destination for my friends and I. With the multiple police vans parked outside, I knew we were in safe hands.

Gone are the days of free passes, the bouncers we knew no longer work the doors and the PR girls are a clipboard away from the Boardroom.

Queuing isn’t beyond me, in fact this is an excellent vantage point to tell my tale.

The glaringly obvious point is the amount of flesh on display. I often wonder if this is to save hassle at the end of an evening.

Dimples and wrinkles are everywhere to see from the waist down. Streaks and paw prints on the backs of thighs and bottoms can be seen even in a winter’s night, some things don’t change.

And it’s not just the ladies bottoms that are being thrusted in my face in this queue. Men too, showing off and it’s not too thrilling. I’m half-tempted to give them a tug and tuck them in, as I do my 3 year-old.

The policemen on duty are straddling the barrier, watching the 18 year olds go in and out. Of course, they’re all legal.

Staggering past in silver, sparkly, bejewelled monstrosities, there’s not a coat adorned on any of the frames. Strip on entering the club, but to freeze on arrival lacks maturity.

The last time I was in a Gangster Paradise, I did enjoy watching the grinding of the eager dancers. That was until some snake-hipped youngster mistook me for a pole or a trunk, gyrating his latest dance move on my leg before I shook him off like a dog.

Standing in the Circus, wearing one of those garments, known as a coat, complete with gloves and scarf, well it is December, heels at 5 inches, an LBD, pale skin, tired eyes, and belonging to the Sex in the City Generation, long before Towie and Made in Chelsea, I didn’t feel we were complementing our companions in the queue.

Sure enough, one look by the sparrow fart bouncer confirmed this. Each one of my companions, professionals in their own right, were dealt the blow, “Not tonight ladies!”

But I’ve come to do some uninterrupted dancing. When pressed on his decision, he insisted that one of us had had a little too much. Funny that, having arrived at this point, I’d had a little too much too.

Too much flesh, too much tan, too much makeup, I couldn’t agree more, they are too much.

But too much to drink, hardly. Too much or too much clothes?

Whilst law and order and quality control took over the door, the three stooges from Her Majesty’s Service watched idly on. The sparrowfart is judge and jury over fashion, age, too much and too little.

As I spend my life arguing about putting too much in one’s mouth, too much washing, too much to do, I was too tired to argue my way into this barnyard. Disappointed in the lack of dancing, the Sex and the City generation were sent on their way.

What would Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte or Carrie do? Samantha would know the doorman, Miranda would sue, Charlotte would no doubt cry, and Carrie would tell her story.

Bumpty Bumpty Bump – For the Camel that should have been a Donkey

ImageI’m like a meerkat watching mine. Mine being my son, the Innkeeper. Not a starring role, but there’s always next year and maybe I’ll join the PTA.

I shouldn’t, but I only have eyes for one. And seated next to me they’re leaning forward. My peripheral vision is blurred by an iPad. I can’t see my Innkeeper. I can’t see him. There are now hundreds of them on stage. Where is he? Stop leaning. Is it me or is it very hot in here? Oh, “there he is.” My son, my first born. Born in an NHS stable. I can see him. It must be the star.

My Arafat in the distance. Across the stage, my red tea towel dons his beautiful head. And I relax happily into my seat. They’re leaning forward. Not again. In the spirit of Christmas, shouldn’t we be sharing?

So, I’m leaning and stretching and doing the down dog, just to catch a glimpse of his singing. “Bumpty bumpty bump, riding on a camel”, I could have sworn it was a donkey…bumpty bumpty bump, looking for the baby Jesus.” My heart soars at every line, as I sing silently along. There in the distance, stretched across the plains, i.e the stage, my son.

This is it. The first school nativity play.

“Oh lovely, the angels are here to guide the way.” “That’s nice.” Awwhh….just a little to the left sweeties, I can’t see my keeper. Just a few steps. There are hundreds of them, like Andrex littering the stage. There are only four innkeepers, you’re doing alright son. Next up the wise men; Goldie, Frankie and I never can remember the last one.

They’re all so cute and lovely, but to be honest it’s tunnel vision and I’m planked at the wrong side of the room. Joseph and Mary are centre stage and the baby is away in a Manger, but my little innkeeper like everyone else’s Andrex, wise men and the camel that should be a donkey, is all that I can see and a star is born.

In my head, I’m in Paris

In my head, I’m in ParisWe'll always have Paris

Can you have it all?

I have a lot but then that depends on who you’re comparing me with.  I love what I have. I admit though, that I’m forever peering over my shoulder, looking for what’s out there. This is a very hard thing to do in my country because at this time of year, it’s heads down and hoods up. It’s freezing and to paraphrase a great Scottish saying, it would freeze the balls off a brass monkey. That sums up the weather for me.

Keeping a positive outlook when you’re shivering head to toe is difficult. But that is not my reality. In my head, I’m in Paris. Even when I’m dragged to my local McDonalds, I’m imagining a chic Paris cafe, ignoring the reality of the fabricated Legoland around me.

I just picture Facebook or Bragbook. And I do like a bit of bragging. I’ve cubs, I can’t help it. They are my greatest success stories. You don’t even need to travel these days. Facebook has a plethora of adventures and I’m relying on these on a wet and windy day in my homeland to get me through the drudgery.

I don’t have it all, but I’m certainly doing it all. It struck me today as I did the first school run; then ran, actually drove, but it felt like running, to university to sit through two hours of employment law, bla bla bla, hurry up! I have another pick up at one. Dash to pick up number two son, before number one son needs collecting; write copy for client; make orders for Felicity Fox; do complex primary one homework; go to McDonalds (it’s healthier than my cooking, don’t judge me); read a chapter, words on a page; write a blog about it all.

Whilst I was mid-moan, Mr Fox interjected to tell me I wasn’t the only one with a frantic schedule. And it got me thinking. I’m not, I know this. But I was the only female in a leading consultancy, in a predominately female workforce, to have children, apart from the boss. She had a child and that never stopped her rising to the top of her profession. But notably, there were no rising mothers behind her.

There are a few of us at law school with children, I think. But it’s not the ideal place to have children. I mean, do you ever see them on Campus or in the Library? It may be a leading University but in this place children are neither seen nor heard.

It’s not about having it all, it’s about doing it all and “we’ll always have Paris.”