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Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

We dream…

Blessed are the Tories, theirs is The United Kingdom.
Blessed are the Bankers, for theirs is a big fat bonus.
Blessed are the Rich, for theirs is no longer 50p in the Pound.
Blessed are the Super Rich, theirs is called tax avoidance.
Blessed are the Frontbenchers, there lies the problem.
Blessed are the Lords, for there will be no reforms.
Blessed are the Rockstars, they will have titles bestowed upon them.
Blessed are the Royals, theirs is the Civil List.
Blessed are the Media, for in their hands the truth lies.

By Felicity Fox

Horse_Glasgow

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Cherishing the ladies

Saturday night’s performance by Cherish the Ladies in Glasgow’s Royal Concert Hall lived long into the night, as in true style, the sessions continued into the early hours of Sunday morning.

Will ye go, lassie, go?, sung by 2,000 Glaswegians; Kathleen Boyle’s almost haunting rendition on the piano; the drumming of the Bodhrán; the step dancing in all its forms; Cathie Ryan’s voice bringing the past into the present; and Joanie Madden’s penetrating flute playing and sharp wit, were just some of the highlights to this most beautiful of evenings.

It was the rawness of talent, where the ladies, and of course, male musicians and dancers too, made the most intricate pieces look seamless as they weaved their way through the concert and into the consciousness.

Memories flooded back and a pride in Celtic music and dance that is sometimes eclipsed by the razzle and dazzle.

The stage was set like any session in the bar; chairs in a half moon looking out to the audience, with the talent taking centre stage, where only the lighting is a feature. The concert had the fluidity and courage to go off script, welcoming talent on stage and making the audience as much a part of the performance as those that they were spectating. There was a Celtic connection.

Returning to the stage to celebrate 20 years since they first played in Glasgow, it was no surprise the show was a sell-out. It was standing room only, but Glasgow’s a small town, so it wasn’t long before we were sitting.

The music carried the audience along, mapping the journey of the emmigrants, and I thought of Mary. From the sad songs to the love songs, to Scotland’s Bard and his Red, Red Rose, the wonderfulness of music and dance weaved in and out.

Mary would have loved this night.

You can’t describe the rhythm of the dancers as they make music with their feet, or the energy they bring, or the poise in their carriages. It’s something you have to see and you have to feel. It is art. But Mary would never have called herself an artist, an Irish woman, an immigrant, a cherished lady.

Storytelling, dancing and music, and I am back in 46B Storrie Street. We’re dancing, there’s an accordion playing, the smell of homemade bread, singing, and Mary. I see her in every song, in every step and in every memory, in all that is good, weaving in and out of every day and in every Celtic connection.

The crowd are on their feet in a standing ovation, clapping and cheering and yes, we are cherishing the ladies.

To watch Cherish the ladies

To find out more go to Cherish the Ladies

 

 

 

And the Oscar goes to…

It’s the 86th Academy Awards, I’m never going to watch the films or the speeches for that matter, but the dresses, the dresses…

And the Oscar goes to…

Very

 

 

 

 

 

Very – the Forever Unique Printed Maxi Dress, £220

Nude and blue printed jersey maxi dress with twist back and wrap waistband detail. This is very unique, showing off your wild side Gwen Stefani style.

 

Very_2

 

 

 

 

 

Very – Key Fashion Princess Dress, £319

Hollywood glamour on the red carpet. The sweetheart neck and embellished bodice will ensure you are a vintage screen siren.

 

 

Coast

 

 

 

 

 

Coast debenhams exclusive – ri ri maxi dress, £220

A folded satin bodice and glamorous all-over sequin skirt make the Ri Ri maxi dress perfect for making an entrance at your next glamorous event.
Oscars 2014
Oscars 2014
Love Felicity Fox
x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13 Lowfield Road

Etched in my memory is 13 Lowfield Road.

Too young to understand or judge, writing to you I sent my letters.

Kept in your pocket one after another, and I kept writing.

On the day you died one arrived, but you will never know.

Rolling your ciggies, sitting close, sneaking out of mass for a half.

13 Lowfield Road.

Walking past the letter box, I think of you.

With nowhere to send my letters.

Kind and gentle you were.

Never speaking, always words on a page, and how at ten I never knew.

News of your passing met with tears and misunderstanding.

No more letters would I send.

Sitting on your couch I see you rolling your cigarettes, and a ten-year old

beside  you.

There’s a stale smell of smoke, braces and a stick, but they don’t see you like I do.

13 Lowfield Road, the place I sent my letters.

© Felicity Fox

When I’m not there

It’s not the badge that you wear,
Nor the scroll that you hold,
It’s calling him a star,
It’s who you are.
It’s the time that you give,
The love that you bring,
The heart that you show,
The pain that you hide.
It’s every day that you’re there,
It’s his eyes at your name,
It’s the void that you fill,
When I’m not there.

Thank you.

By Felicity Fox

20120702-222247.jpg

My Fashion Week

London Fashion Week In a sea of black, black being the colour of fashion and designers, we all sort of look the same. Well, not exactly the same. My daughter’s looking mighty fine, but we’ll come to her a little later.  The waiters, the bloggers, the designers, the inbetweeners are head-to-toe in black; it’s sublime.

We’re talking 2014’s Spring/Summer, as the rain bounces off the floor, and in my mind Christmas is a dirty word, but in the language of fashion we’re defying all boundaries and bypassing seasons. As a heads up, it’s going to be bright and bold or is it pastel? Colours, textures, fabrics, cloth, silks, and everything in between next season. It’s Spring, it’s fresh, it’s clean lines and very, very, very exciting.

Excited, I type away, standing upright. It’s a party and I am tweeting furiously, capturing the moment, looking up only to snap and stalk here and there. I am your worst dinner guest, rude, consumed and working on the fine art of balancing an iPhone, a spare iPhone, because for the love of God, if one goes dead, I’m dead, and the iPad. I’m doing exactly what I berate my children for. Like a wasp, I’m also poking it randomly in people’s faces; the silent assassin. People do look at you though, this is true. A quick once over to see if you merit importance and are you worthy of conversation? Who the hell are you? Ahh, the hired help?

Height and stature are problematic as I perched on my tippy-toes looking up at the beautiful. My Taggart voice, ‘there’s been a murder”, assists, when told to move. Engaging in brief conversation, why bother? When the model pauses to say I could be her mother, but I’m not laughing. LFW, more accurately WTF.  The fashion industry is tough. And what’s worse, is that I will be seeing my beloved child on the back of buses, billboards, shops, magazines, need I go on. I am a mother of two, not twenty-two, hence I swiftly left London Fashion Week (LFW) as one of fashion’s cast-offs.

Felicity Fox

Click below to buy this season’s multi-coloured, striped, patterned and sequined pieces, all the designers are wearing it; honest.

London Fashion Week
London Fashion Week

See Saw Margery Daw by Felicity Fox

Felicity Fox
The Vixen

Not content with conquering the business world. Done with the dinner  parties and wine bars, avoiding questions of marriage and notions of babies. Until now.

Striding past me in their beige perfect pram occupied by one.

I, a few years down the line, stagger past with my buggy weighed down with jackets, plastic bags and anything I’ve managed to pick up along the way.

Passed the brasseries and quaint little pubs, I prefer to picnic in large open spaces where people are few.

Off to the park for some respite and to gather with equally stressed, sleep deprived and irate parents. There’s a reason for stereotypes and cliches. And if you don’t fit this bill, then you have a nanny or hired help of some kind. We’re all watching over our precious offsprings and glaring at one another, it’s territorial.

Stepping across the boundary and into the playpark, the babes are off in hot pursuit of a swing or a sea-saw, stamping their authority among their kind. Darwin’s theory played out.

Princes and princesses, one or two precocious parents and we’re all fenced in. We’re in one of Nappy Valley’s favourite haunts. There’s lots of oohing and ahhing and niceties. It’s very child focused. Well, it is a park. I’m eyeing up the coffee stand.

Hot on the heels of my little cubs, ready to diffuse potential situations, and it isn’t long before there is a situation at the sea-saw. A coveted apparatus. There’s a child parked on one side and my five-year old is tipping the balance to the other side, as one might expect.

It’s a tandem made for two. Not in these parts. Speaking through the medium of her child, the mother is purporting that there’s a big boy on the other side.

“Hello, I’m right here.”

“Just wait a moment until the big boy gets off and you can have your shot.” But sea-saws require two in our parts.

Rising above my patronising and selfish opponent, I too embrace the medium of my child to strike back.

“He’s just a little boy, be gentle. He’ll be off in a minute. Just give him a little shot.”

Parks are precarious places, if it’s not dogs it’s kids.

We each place our hands on the opposing sides of the sea-saw, without making eye contact and the games begin.

“That’s it, up and down, each waiting for the other to crack.”

Total glee as my opponent’s offspring throws the first tantrum. Ha ha, your brat’s not sharing. I’m quite simply delighted and I think I’m smirking.

It could have gone either way, it was touch and go for a moment as I thought my five-year old was about to start. But he didn’t let the side down. Ice-cream all round.

The shrieking continues as the boy is scraped off the sea-saw, howling as he goes. He’s not for budging as I watch on in total amusement.

His hands are being pried off by his mother who’s obviously annoyed about the architectural concept of a sea-saw and the notion that it requires two.

Ready in the wings is my three year old, rubbing salt in the wounds by hopping on.

The dad’s back and they are both pleading for calm. It’s a spectacle. Arms flying and legs kicking, I’ve been on the receiving end but today I’m the spectator.

And it feels naughty, even childish, but oh so good.

By Felicity Fox ©

Springtime

Crop & Skirt   Crop & Skirts are this season’s hit. Here’s a few steals…

   Very.co.uk

   Crop Top

    Flash your curves like body confident Kim

     This PU crop top is part of the Kardashian Kollection for Lipsy and is an ultra glam piece to amp up your daytime wardrobe.

£40 for an instant update

Debenhams

Light Blue Butterfly Top

This woven shell top from Red Herring comes in a light blue and grey ombre design with a digital butterfly print.

£30 for the top

Light Blue Butterfly Skirt

Red Herring light blue skirt with digital butterfly print.

Topshop£35 for the skirt.

Topshop

Texture Crop Top and Midi Skirt.

Price for outfit: £77.00

Topshop.co.uk

Love,

Felicity Fox

Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

Blessed are the Tories, theirs is The United Kingdom.
Blessed are the Bankers, for theirs is a big fat bonus.
Blessed are the Rich, for theirs is no longer 50p in the Pound.
Blessed are the Super Rich, theirs is called tax avoidance.
Blessed are the Frontbenchers, there lies the problem.
Blessed are the Lords, for there will be no reforms.
Blessed are the Rockstars, they will have titles bestowed upon them.
Blessed are the Royals, theirs is the Civil List.
Blessed are the Media, for in their hands the truth lies.

By Felicity Fox

20120718-183104.jpg

See Saw Margery Daw by Felicity Fox

Felicity Fox
The Vixen

Not content with conquering the business world. Done with the dinner   parties and wine bars, avoiding questions of marriage and notions of babies. Until now.

Striding past me in their beige perfect pram occupied by one.

I, a few years down the line, stagger past with my buggy weighed down with jackets, plastic bags and anything I’ve managed to pick up along the way.

Passed the brasseries and quaint little pubs, I prefer to picnic in large open spaces where people are few.

Off to the park for some respite and to gather with equally stressed, sleep deprived and irate parents. There’s a reason for stereotypes and cliches. And if you don’t fit this bill, then you have a nanny or hired help of some kind. We’re all watching over our precious offsprings and glaring at one another, it’s territorial.

Stepping across the boundary and into the playpark, the babes are off in hot pursuit of a swing or a sea-saw, stamping their authority among their kind. Darwin’s theory played out.

Princes and princesses, one or two precocious parents and we’re all fenced in. We’re in one of Nappy Valley’s favourite haunts. There’s lots of oohing and ahhing and niceties. It’s very child focused. Well, it is a park. I’m eyeing up the coffee stand, ready to get a caffeine hit to get me through.

Hot on the heels of my little cubs, ready to diffuse potential situations, and it isn’t long before there is a situation at the sea-saw. A coveted apparatus. There’s a child parked on one side and my five-year old is tipping the balance to the other side, as one might expect.

It’s a tandem made for two. Not in these parts. Speaking through the medium of her child, the mother is purporting that there’s a big boy on the other side.

Hello, I’m right here.

“Just wait a moment until the big boy gets off and you can have your shot.” But sea-saws require two in our parts.

Rising above my patronising and selfish opponent, I too embrace the medium of my child to strike back.

“He’s just a little boy, be gentle. He’ll be off in a minute. Just give him a little shot.”

Parks are precarious places, if it’s not dogs it’s kids.

We each place our hands on the opposing sides of the sea-saw, without making eye contact and the games begin.

“That’s it, up and down, each waiting for the other to crack.”

Total glee as my opponent’s offspring throws the first tantrum. Ha ha, your brat’s not sharing. I’m quite simply delighted and I think I’m smirking.

It could have gone either way, it was touch and go for a moment as I thought my five-year old was about to start. But he didn’t let the side down. Ice-cream all round.

The shrieking continues as the boy is scraped off the sea-saw, howling as he goes. He’s not for budging as I watch on in total amusement.

His hands are being pried off by his mother who’s obviously annoyed about the architectural concept of a sea-saw and the notion that it requires two.

Ready in the wings is my three year old, rubbing salt in the wounds by hopping on.

The dad’s back and they are both pleading for calm. It’s a spectacle. Arms flying and legs kicking, I’ve been on the receiving end but today I’m the spectator.

And it feels naughty, even childish, but oh so good.

By Felicity Fox ©