Friday treats

This lovely dress from Warehouse fell into my hands this lunchtime, crying out to be bought. And who am I to say no?

The top is (beautifully) fitted and the waist definition helped along by a large bow in the back. The skirt stops just above the knee and is rather poofier than the picture suggests thanks to a double layer of white netting. It's amazingly flattering - and in the time it took me to queue and pay for it, three other people had picked one up, so I suspect it won't be in store for long.

I shall be taking it on its first trip out with the Boy and his friends tonight. Wish me luck ;)

Good season / bad season

Without a doubt, 'tis the season to be ginger. When the sun comes out I almost regret the many years and hundreds of pounds I've spent beating the errant copper tones out of my hair - because it's on days like these that the redheads really come into their own. And it's like they've all come out of hibernation at once; everywhere you look there are flame-topped halos sailing proudly down the street.

I have ginger envy! Maybe it's time to get the henna out again.

But what about the Goths? I can't imagine they have a lot of fun at this time of year. I passed a couple (a gaggle? a murder? how do you pluralise Goths?) on the way to work and even at 8.30 in the morning they looked very sweltery indeed. All that black can't help, and what do you do when your makeup starts to run? Do they kick you out of Slimelight if you turn up in a summer dress? And what about the massive bovver boots? Don't your feet just get a bit... nasty?

I can't really picture an appropriate summer uniform for someone who spends the winter wrapped up in seventeen layers of velvet and lace. Maybe some lunch hour research is in order.

FOX?

Spotted from a taxi window: a gorgeous woman in sweats with her hair tied back in a ponytail, jogging along outside St Paul's Cathedral. Somehow, despite the heat, she was a picture of grace - right up until the moment the cab turned left and I saw the word FOX emblazoned in large black letters across the back of her tracksuit trousers.

Why, god, why?

Mr and Mrs Smith

I've finally got around to becoming a Mr and Mrs Smith member and I have to say I'm already pretty impressed. The site is the essential starting point for anyone planning a naughty weekend or a romantic break and I haven't yet found a hotel on there that I wouldn't enjoy staying in. It has the feel of something that's been carefully handpicked by someone who cares about what they're doing.

I'm sure that when I first came across the company they were UK only but it seems they've expanded globally - ski hotels, safari hotels, exotic locations; beautiful boutique venues in (pretty much) whatever country you care to name. As a member you get access to a new section of the site with various special deals and the like, and best of all, each booking you make comes with a little something extra - a bottle of champagne on arrival at the hotel being one of their (and indeed my) favourites.

Entry level membership is only £10 for the year or you can splash out on one of the fancier packages with additional perks like travel deals and VIP events. Either way, lots of fun.

Things not to say when drunk, part 2,000,000(b)

This weekend, after a couple of drinks (ed: somewhere between eight and ten) I decided to share with the Boy my thoughts on where our relationship is going. We’d been swapping news of a pair of friends whose relationship is stretched to the limits over the question of marriage – she wants to get hitched, he thinks she should get knotted – and (I think) I (probably) just wanted to make sure that we weren’t going to end up in the same situation.

The finer nuances of the conversation are a little fuzzy but the gist remains both with me and, alas, with the Boy. We now know that:

1. I consider two to two to two-and-a-half years to be the optimum time for a marriage proposal. From him. To me.
2. Pizza Express is not an acceptable venue. I do at least know where this one came from – my most memorable proposal was from a deeply misguided young man who seemed to think that it would be a good idea if he went down on one knee in the Regent Street branch of Pizza Express. Over lunch. On a Tuesday.
3. One ring = two months’ salary. This was apparently a bit of a discussion point since the Boy is under the (mistaken) impression that one month is still acceptable. Maybe it’s just as well I brought it up when I did...

Apparently I’m also quite taken with the idea of running away to Las Vegas and being married by Elvis, though I think the Boy may be taking some artistic license with that one.

Although these details are all a little hazy, I do recall dancing merrily down the Canonbury Road with the Boy following patiently behind. (Please note: I cannot dance.) When we reached Essex Road station we stopped and I shared at some length my views on the world. “You know,” the Boy said, with a sigh, as he encouraged me across the road, one arm around my waist to stop me accidentally running out in front of a truck (as I sometimes do when overexcited), “It’s at times like these that I realise I love every weird, difficult, boozed-up bit of you. And I can’t help judging myself a bit for it.”

The romantic fool.

Leggings: Just Say No!

Look, if this relationship is going to go anywhere, we need to get a few things straight.

1. Leggings are wrong. Just. Say. No.

2. If you really must indulge, please bear this in mind: leggings are not transparent.

3. If they're transparent, they're tights.

4. If you wear tights with a waist length t-shirt you are, in effect, walking down the street semi-naked. You have now become Lindsay Lohan. Is that really what you wanted to achieve?

A time of crisis

Drama, disaster and horror of horrors: this morning I hated almost all of my shoes. How can a girl hold her head up high without confidence in her footwear?

Luckily there are always the Parisian flats to fall back to save the day - otherwise who knows what might have happened!

It does however make me think that it may be time to visit the spring/summer collections. One perfect pair of Choos should see me through the next sartorially challenging months - or perhaps, as so many people have told me, it's time to play away from home and pay a long-overdue visit to Mr Louboutin.

Decisions, decisions...