If wishes were fishes, dresses might talk

Well, that's how I look in the catalogue but I don't quite look like that on her.

We had our first outing today and it wasn't quite as successful as I'd hoped. It started alright - she'd had a warm shower, her skin temperature was 37 degrees exactly and she'd used a plain oil as a moisturiser which sat well against my fabric. Fabrics are very well versed in chemistry - what you wear on your skin is important to us. We're also very vulnerable to careful handling. Actually you might want to remember that - it hurts us when you tug at zippers or open buttons roughly.

When she buttoned me up (nice and gently) we looked at each other in the mirror. "Well, I don't really do bows" she said to our reflection, and replaced my sash with a medium width belt of thick leather that had been dyed with vegetable dyes (yes, we can tell that too. Clothes are smarter than you think.).

The belt looked better but I don't think her shoes worked - flat black suede Aerosoles. No heels - I could taste traces of codeine and sour analgesics in her skin leftover from yesterday's migraine, so flat soft shoes were the best she could do. And only big fat pearl earrings - no pendants or chains which disappointed me because I've seen a black jet locket on her dressing table. I want that locket near my collar.

Her perfume was English and smelt of cedar and moss. Perfume is very important to us - we absorb it and it can become part of our fibre for all time, so we appreciate wise choices. It's still a little cold so she wore a trench coat and folded my collar outside. I liked that, and I liked the trench coat too. Trench coats are invariably good company. Quiet but nice manners.

At her office two people commented on me; both were curious about my heritage ("Lands End? Is that American?") and one actually gently rubbed the fabric of my hem between his fingers. "Nice cotton!" he said. I am nice cotton, it's true, I don't crush. His shirt was Italian and ignored me. Because we were stuck in her office all day I didn't get to meet many other clothes, just a few pieces of suiting that glanced at me but didn't say much. Still, it wasn't all bad - her seat is upholstered in a good quality wool, thankfully, and she managed not to drip her lunch-time soup over my bodice.

We're still not sure what we think of each other. I'm in the washing queue at the moment, both of us thinking that we may work together more harmoniously once I've had a wash. She has a large bottle of APC's delicate fabric washing liquid that was made by Aesops cosmetics and I'm pretty certain I will be sluiced with that. Finger (and seams) crossed - it smells divine.

And this came in and sniffed at me yesterday. It smells of fish and grass seeds and a certain endearing smugness:

By thinking about things you can work them out

I love the look on his face. I'd had just told him my best joke - the one about the deaf drinkers - and he couldn't stop laughing. But that's not why I've called you here.


Like most women tapping away in the blogosphere, I read Sal's Already Pretty daily. I like her thoughts, her writing and the way she poses in the middle in the road. I also like - very much indeed - her Land's End shirt dress.

In fact, it got to a stage where all I could think about was the Crimes Act (1900), whether I had any rides left on my bus ticket and how I could get a Land's End dress like Sal's and wear it with the same confident prettiness.

It might seem like a simple thing, to like a dress and just get one but the day my life gets that simple is the day I adopt someone else's complex personality.

So I hung around the Land's End website for a while. It's very welcoming in a home-cooking American way. They have bedsheets and school clothes and slippers as well as the dress. I'd lurk and pine and covet, then I'd go and check my bus ticket or confirm the maximum penalty for manslaughter and not buy the dress. (Twenty five years if you're interested.)

But the other night I stared at the dress for so long I became hypnotised and clicked purchase before I'd even decided to actually buy it. (This is why I'd never go and see a hypnotist. I'd be the woman who gets turned into a chicken and can never be reversed.)

It arrived yesterday in a big white bag that said LAND'S END so there was no turning back. My dress, the dress I had see on another woman I've never met and wanted not because I needed another dress but because of how it seem to make her life wonderful, was here.

My new dress is black and pristine and we're both rather shy of one another. I'm not sure how to wear her and I'm not entirely certain she wants to be worn by me. I feel like we should be formally introduced before I can start wearing her properly. Anyway I've hung her on the outside of my wardrobe so she can talk to some of my work dresses and see my shoes.

Maybe we'll get a little more used to each other over the coming week.

Before you know it

Opening tonight's post is the most untrustworthy cat in Sydney. She is pictured here masterminding a credit card fraud operation.


You don't get much of a winter in Sydney. Even when the nights start getting cool in May, you can still feel the sun during the day. After June 22 the days start getting longer and by the end of August the single digit Celsius coldness has gone for another year. In late August or early September you get your first warm day - we had it today - and by October you've usually had one unexpectedly hot day. On the October long weekend everyone packs aways their jumpers and scarves and blankets, just in time for a brief return of cold days, and by the time they've fished them out again there's another hot day. And then they just keep coming and don't really stop until April.

I manage the hot weather by buying frocks. And by going to Coalcliff, like this:

There's a pool and a beach at Coalcliff. Plus starfish, if you're really lucky.

Entirely unreliable

Somebody I know emailed me last night and told me they had been reading my blog. I was very surprised - I had just about forgotten I had a blog.

I'm very fond of diaries and particluarly fond of this one that requires no biro and allows me to whack in photos of entirely unrelated things, like the fattest cat in Paris who I've called upon to open this post.

Anyway, the thing is, I'm busy, have a short attention span, suffer from bouts of crippling self loathing and bleakness wherein I am painfully aware of how great every other blog in the world is and how stale bread-dry mine is. But the other thing is, I love writing the blog the same way I love buying huge bags of M&Ms and shovelling handfuls of them in my mouth.

So I'm just going to.

Can't quite dislodge the words I want to say

I've been having a go on chat roulette. I think perhaps they should change the name to penis roulette because I see a lot more of them than I do any chatting. I'm unsure of the whole thing but should I come to any fixed conclusions I'll let you know.

Meanwhile I thought it would be pertinent to admire Nat's lovely boots:
No prizes for guessing the label - that simple chequerboard would have to be one of the most iconic designs in the world. Have a look a the back - the detail is wonderful:
I love the way she has matched the tones of the socks with the shades of the boots.The jeans are Paige, the socks are Wolford and the boots are Lou- no, actually, you guess and tell me!

I wore one of my favourite necklaces to ward off the cold.
Luckily I wore lots of layers too because those beautiful chunks of green didn't do much about the single digit temperature. I bought these years ago in a junk shop; I was reading Gone With The Wind at the time and I loved them instantly because I thought Scarlett would have loved them too. I like Scarlett O'Hara, she's one of literature's most impressive female characters. She gets bad press and I think is well overdue for a re-evaluation.

I wonder what Scarlett would have made of Chat Roulette? Hard to say, I still haven't quite figured out what I think about it. Fiddledy-dee, I'm tired. I'll think about that tomorrow.

In camera

I went to the Bondi Markets on Sunday. This is a fun market, smack bang smash on the northern end of Bondi Beach, filled with tourists and locals in sunglasses. The Sunday shopper will find a satisfying mix of crafty, vintage, stylish and practical.

I bought three books from a lady who was clearing out her house for no adequately explored reason:

*Cheating Death by Sanjay Gupta, MD
*Polaroids from the Dead by Douglas Coupland (I love Mr Coupland)
and
*Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

However, I am still reading Wheat that Springeth Green by JF Powers so these books are balanced precariously on the Tower of Books That I Will Read Soon.

I also bought an excellent pendant from a shy and talented young jeweller. I present my new pendant in repose and in situ:
Cute, is it not?

Time enough for love

My stylish and wildly accomplished friend Nat has announced her intention to marry her gorgeous man Michael and I can tell you, I'm not the only woman in Sydney hankering for details about how stylish and fun this wedding will be. I can tell you I am one of the few to have seen the wonderful dress she has chosen but am sworn to secrecy. Oh alright, here's a hint: it's the colour of camellias and light as springtime in Paris.

Congratulations Nat! I hope you will both always be happy.