Procrastination

Image courtesy of Productivitycoaching.com/au

Procrastination is a bit like sex - lots of dithering and foreplay before actually getting down to business. This blog post may as well be an ear nibble as there's a job staring me in the face that I just don't want to go near. Beset by multiple-deadline syndrome, I've reached the end of my bandwith. Plain speaking - I'm wrecked. In fact, I could easily cite a headache and roll over but I'm no where near a bed. Instead, I'm tapping away at my keyboard hoping that something might spurt out. It's going to be a long night.

Jordan Becomes an IT Girl

Katie Price unveils her own brand of iPods

From: Andy
To: Neil, Annmarie
Subject: I'm wiping out the Pritt Stick and iPods

Check this out. It says 'techie yet practical'.


From: Neil
To: Andy, Annmarie
Subject: Re: I'm wiping out the Pritt Stick and iPods

This is exactly what the IT gays have been waiting for, the collision of of tech & tat. Next up will be Girls Aloud being shot around the Large Hadron Collider.

From: Andy
To: Neil, Annmarie
Subject: Re: Re: I'm wiping out the Pritt Stick and iPods

I thought it was the Sugarbabes getting loaded with Froyo; or maybe that's Katie Price as well.

Do Not Adjust Your Set...

We are experiencing technical difficulties. Do not adjust your set. Blogger.com is messing with my mojo and has plum gone and introduced a new template designer which has wiped some of my layout design. So if you are a link on 'Sartorial Sites' and have noticed er...you've gone missing; I have not wantonly deleted you. Please also note, this hoo haa has extended to bolding, italics, links and general formatting. Major apologies. Will have to sort this out...somehow. Interns? Anyone?

Seriously?

I know rain is a given on our sodden isle but the recent sunshine is most certainly responsible for lowering my guard (and umbrella). Exhibit A: I wore my floral palazzos and suede brogues to The Ryan Tubridy Show this morning in conditions both sunny and dry. I swished in my new trousers - peachy pleased with their elegant silhouette. Cut to the city centre in conditions both dark and wet. I squelched in my shoes, holding up the ends of my trousers like a poor manna offering to the sky. "Look what you've done to my prize pants oh Nimbus - thou harsh taskmaster!" That'll teach me for not listening to Martin King.

Camilla Skovgaard

The 'big freeze' that has befallen our mild and misty isle is wrecking havoc with my wardrobe choices. Unused to such Baltic conditions, I've taken to wearing my sister's climbing boots to avoid slipping and breaking a leg in my leopard print booties which have no ice grips and are potentially lethal. But of course...
That's when I actually venture outside. New Year's Eve saw me pushing the cab out of a snow bank in 5-inch heels after it skidded off the road. Thankfully there were no witnesses. With this 'winter wonderland' due to hang about for while longer, it's made me consider better boots. I'm thinking these Camilla Skovgaard 'tread' beauties will do the job quite nicely: uber chic with a grip as tight as a gaggle of broads at a Balmain sample sale. Nice one.

Dressing the Tree

I'm watching Ab Fab, eating Betty Crocker icing from the jar and wondering what the hell went wrong. Lest you think I'm experiencing a premature midlife crisus; I'm actually decorating the Christmas tree. A lot more challenging than dressing models I can assure you. The waxy fronds on Chez I Blog's kitchen palm tree are not made of the same mettle as a sturdy pine. Hence, after 20 minutes of struggling with sliding fairy lights, I relented and covered the f@ck*r in candy canes. Ho ho flipping ho.

I Blog Fashion Digest

It's been a long week. Preparing for photoshoots, meeting long lost friends, ditching the diet and surviving dodgy manicures. Read on:

1. Decidedly underwhelmed at the Jimmy Choo for H&M range. Tried on the blue suede shift dress. Verdict? Sack-like. The black suede tassel dress rated slightly better. Could have done with no fringing at the neck. Felt like I could have been going to a fashion-y barn dance. The returns policy? A painfully thin 5 days.

2. Neil is back from India. Yay! Bought me a Tibetan necklace, pashmina and the Diana Vreeland book he's been meaning to give to me. Had a fab catch up in Fallon & Byrne complete with cheese, meats and wine - the second time this week I blew my pre-photoshoot diet.

3. Sunday Times Style shoot this Wednesday. Can't look too bloated. I wonder if Satturday night's X Factor goodies and vino sesh with sis will be cancelled out if I drink some of that herbal detox tea I bought? May have to drink the box I reckon.

4. Found out I have carpel tunnel in both hands due to maxing out my laptop and carrying heavy bags. Am forced to wear 'sports' bandages on hands to bed and while typing. Not v. attractive. Am thinking of investing in some leather fingerless gloves to cover the offending articles. Wooly ones would be cute too. Not while sleeping of course...

5. Recession ending? I'm thinking - not so fast yon economy seers. Paid a visit to chq to pull clothes for a shoot only to find my fave boutiques - Kohl and The Pink Rooms - have vacated the premises. Yikes!

6. Furthermore, my bank balance is fast resembling an Eastern European supermodel - skinny and surly looking. If I withdraw any more money from the ATM - it might just spit my card back out at me. Hence my reticence to pony up for fancy 'shapewear' undies. I've discovered that M&S tights do the same job. Got some gorgeous leopard print beauties (€8) with a built-in tummy eliminator. Feel as svelte as a young springbok!

7. A.N. Other thing - what's with the dodgy craftsmanship on the highstreet these days? First my Carvela loafers, then my Zara trousers, now the lining in my new All Saints coat? Only bought it this week. Not impressed.

8. While I'm on a rant - had a rather questionable manicure the other day. After the lady painted my nails, was asked to pay while they were drying as she had to go on her lunchbreak. She even offered to go into my wallet and take out the money and put it back in my bag. A bit of 'here's your hat and what's your hurry?' End result? Nails smudged. Came back and asked them to fix the offending digits. Still looks tacky and horrid. And another thing - where was my tea? Everyone else got offered a cup. Consistency folks - get familiar!

9. On a happy note, I'm looking forward to wearing my Isabella Oliver pencil skirt on The Afternoon Show this Tuesday. It's magically subtracted about 5 inches from my waist and makes me feel like Jane Russell and Lana Turner rolled into one hyper sex goddess. Love it! Love it! Love it!

10. Camera on BlackBerry Storm (in a teacup) still kaputt! Counting down the days til Dec 9th when my contract ends and I can nestle in the warm fuzziness of a new iPhone. Sigh....
Image courtesy of Mikes4345 photostream

Fashion Roadkill

I'm feeling a bit like fashion roadkill today. Had a fabulous sophomore shoot in Cork yesterday with the Irish Examiner (out Nov 14th) and am prepping for Friday's slot on The Afternoon Show; all the while finishing two articles and starting a third before Thursday a.m. Add in some to-be-touched-up roots, a waning mani/pedi and some unruly brows and hey presto - carnage. Before you know it my blog will file for emancipation and start writing itself. Thank God I'm not wearing heels...

Image: courtesy of Zazzle.com

Chubbies

Chubbies. They're everywhere. Pink and fluffy, black and hirsute; even ones with their arms cut off. I wanted one - badly. I had images of Bianca Jagger floating through my head - all louche and rock chick; and then I tried one on. Holy sweet buttering baby Jesus! Fashion fascism at its most cruel. I looked more like a lumbering yeti than a Studio 54 hipster. Clearly size matters when wearing a chubby. In other words you need to be skinny - the kind in need of ankle weights to stand upright. Ridiculous - yes. Bitter? Moi? Perhaps just a tad.

Image: Charles Anastase @ LFW, AW09-10

Fat?

O.K. I know I'm no Erin Wasson. At six foot tall, I'm a typical pear - UK 10 (US 6) on the top and UK 12 (US 8) from the waist down. Save my thighs and bum, I've got a very boyish frame - no waist, no hips, small boobs. So, I'm thankful for the nice curve that discerns me as a woman. Clearly that's not sufficient. Walking down Dame Street today, I had three young tourists laugh at me and call me fat. I must admit I was pretty taken aback - firstly at being jeered in public; secondly, for the sheer size-ist nature of the remark. Since when did a woman's size - whether she's a 2 or 22 - become cause for comment? It's like the pages of Heat taken to the street. Unnerving.
Image courtesy of Dale Harris

The Races

I'm off to the races tomorrow - the Darley Irish Oaks to be precise. Being the organised gal that I am, I have my flutter threads at the ready. Vintage black dress - tick; Fly Now pierrot silk jacket - tick; snakeskin heels - tick; Queen Alexandra-inspired pearl dog collar - tick; RSI-inducing cocktail ring - tick; clutch bag - tick. Am I missing something? Deliberately - perhaps. There's no way you'll find this filly in a fascinator. No siree. My quest to abolish the offending article continues. If you hear of any arrests at the Curragh for aggravated assault that would be me wrenching feathers from the heads of the offending. I've got my work cut out for me.

Luella's Lucky Londoners

For those within a wedge-heeled walk of Bond Street, don't miss this Thursday's Luella sample sale. With 60-90% off current and vintage lined on catwalk, ready-to-wear and accessories, it is what it is - a steal. If you fail to turn up, consider it a crime against fashion. Talk about getting things handed to you. Jeez! (cue: grumbles bitterly to herself all the while claiming she never liked that lovely Luella anyway!)

Luella sample sale: Thurs, July 2nd. Click on image for deets!

The Harem Debate - Part Three

It's with great regret that I write this post. Last year I Blog went on a bit of a rant about the general nafness of harem pants. "MC Hammer dhoti style nappies" and "walking crotch" were just two of the epithets I bandied about, eager to quash this trend monster before it enslaved the masses. Remorsefully I've found a pair that look quite good and upend my whole argument. Exhibit A comes courtesy of Warehouse (€60). Note the gentle draping around the thigh and clever ruching at the ankle. No instant man bits and no looking like you walked off the set of a Carry On film. Harem-lite if you will. Case dismissed.

The Dreaded Ned

Ned - he's back. Innocuous by moniker; evil by nature, the pot has made my belly its happy home yet again. Granted, I sort of led him on. That skiing trip in Morzine was like 5-day foreplay: cheese and potato Tartiflette, goats cheese omelettes, fondu, sausages, crepes and lots of red wine. No wonder why he decided to stay. I'm hoping the little interloper will realise there's no fromage around Chez I Blog. But there is a Slendertone that will shock 90 jolts of hard-abbed volts up his adipose tissue. Be gone Ned! Be gone I say!

Now is the Winter of my Discontent

Irony is a bitter mistress. No sooner has the 2nd day of spring hit and what do we get - SNOW! And not even Irish snow (see: fast-melting slush) but snow that sticks and hence proposes the question 'what shall I wear?' Hmm... Tis a tricky one. I tried the furlined suede boots today but alas, they're not waterproof. I even tried my 'donkey' wool coat but alack, it remains as sodden as drunk on Paddy's Day. My only option was to stay fleeced up indoors with a glass of red wine and America's Next Top Model (Cycle 12). I even strapped on my Slendertone in a staunch bid to assure myself that I shall look svelte when spring actually decides to arrive. I blame the feckingroundhog. Rumour has it the little rodent saw its shadow and has bequeathed unto us another six weeks of foul weather. All well and good when nature has given you a fur coat. Grrr...

Self-gifting

'Tis the season for a little self-gifting. Yes indeedy. A vintage dress here, a cocktail ring there, maybe a pair of crystal embellished Mary Janes? Perhaps it appears that I've taken the Christmas spirit a tad too literally; but let's put this into perspective. The only strata of people in life who can legitimately make 'lists' without fear of reprisal are kids under the age of 8 and those about to get hitched. Where's the justice? My name isn't Virginia and I don't intend on working the ailse anytime soon so ho-ho-hold on a minute and give a girl a break. I've been a good girl all year - it's time for payback! Now where's my credit card...

It All Comes Out in the Wash

Handy I'm not. It seems my DNA is programmed for faff and frippery. Throw in any bit of math, financial management or DIY and my head spins like Lynda Blair. Cut to: my washing machine hissing and spitting yesterday Exorcist-stylee. Not good; not least because half of my wardrobe lies wet in those steel Bosch jaws. Most of all my banjaxed Midas touch is sure to anger the machine. But I want my clothes back so I call for back up. Colum the handyman arrives and handy he is, forcing Ms Bosch to cough up dust, debris and....my underwire. Mort! Yes, it would appear the only ghost in the machine was that of a well chewed bra. Nice.

The Apprentice Shoe Editing Blunder

The best editing blunder of late has to go to the producers behind TV3's The Apprentice. On tonight's episode, Kiwi contestant Sarah Cowley was fired for her flaccid project management skills but it was the editor who spliced together two different pairs of heels in her departing shot that should've been sacked. How (or why?) she managed to change from one nasty pair of shoes to the next just beggars belief. Shot one: Orla leaves the boardroom with trolley dolley in a pair of orthopedic chic strappy granny sandals. Shot two: Orla alights the black cab with same trolley dolley; this time sporting a pair of mumsy Mary Janes (an offence in itself to defile such an iconic heel!). At first, I thought Bill was a bit mislead in firing her ass instead of that Orla (who I'm convinced is an actress!) until my retina nearly melted from spying the footwear foulers! Kudos to fierce fashionista sense Mr. Cullen.

Highstreet Rip Off

You may be wondering why I'm sporting some MK circa 2005 on I Blog. Well, it seems the pint-sized media mogul and I are spliced by a sartorial idiosyncracy - we're both rocking some ripped rags. Yes, I unwittingly have been subjected to the perils of crusty chic courtesy of the highstreet. Only last week, I popped into a well-known retailer to pick up a cardigan and leggings for the weekend. Within one day - the elastic of the leggings stretched, a hole appeared in the leg and the cardi now looks like it belonged to the Michelin Man. Not happy. I started to doubt whether it was my prodigious arse that caused the strain on the lycra (thanks Trinny!) but something tells me they just don't make 'em like they used to. I wouldn't mind but we're not talking Penney's or H&M here. This is supposedly an 'upmarket' chain - and what's worse, this is not the first time I've been cheated. Shame on me. I should no better not to fall for that Mediterranean charm!

Scare Cut

Oh what a tangled web we weave... It seems that I've been less than honest and am now paying the price. I blame my hairdresser. She's the one who went on holiday. Had she been here to tend to my follicular needs, I wouldn't have had to resort to someone else's scissors. Depsite my damn near good excuse for straying (grown out fringe + upcoming TV appearance), had I exercised some patience, I would have been spared what can only be described as prison hair. Long story short (excuse the dody pun), I asked for my fringe to be pixied by my clandestine scissorhands. "Like Victoria Beckham?" he asked. "Yes, like that," I replied. To which he added, "Great. Let's just 'reshape' it." Alarm bells should have rung like bastards here. "Reshape" is often maverick hairdresser term for "cut the bejaysus out of it". Regardless, I left him to his own devices, confident he would behave in manner of my long-term tress tender. Alas, when I raised my head to greet my newly shorn head in the mirror, I saw Posh's long lost brother Victor Beckham. It's now two weeks since said incident and my hair is growing in in its normal freakish fashion....wide. So now I have short fat blunt hair. Nice.
If you need to find me, I'll be hiding under the biggest hat I can find for the next two months.

Photo by Brad Barket/Getty Images