Tuesday, 22 December 2009

The Christmas Season and Subsequent Procrastinations

I'm sitting at my desk not working.

That's right.

I'm on strike.

...well as much as you can be when you're actually at work sitting at your desk. But I'm distinctly not doing any work. No, that would make it too easy for them. Instead, I am reading all my favourite blogs and attempting to stiffle the subsequent sniggering. Just for the fun of it, and to spread more gleeful sniggering around the globe (or to the collective 3 people who read this blog, poor sods), here are my top 4:

1. Liberty London Girl
An obvious choice, her view of the world, while rarely involving anything sartorial, is delightful. Reading her blog makes me feel as though I'm part of her family/world/co-adopter of the beagle puppies. Gives me a happy.

2. What Possessed Me
Damn, this girl is FUNNY! Totally wry, off the wall humour that has made me snort into my coffee cup more times that I would like to admit. One classy operator.

3. StyleBubble
This chic can mix fashion and observation like no one else. Totally brilliant and my main go to for getting in on the ground floor of new and spectacularly quirky designers around the world. Awesome.

4. The Sartorialist
I know. Totally cliche now but that's not his fault now is it?? I don't give up my blog addictions just because the blogger becomes famous. Oh no, I become unbearably smug in the knowedge that I loved him before he was popular. Ahhhhh, smug satisfaction.

Well this certainly was fun and ate up some of the time before I could legitimately clock off.

Thanks for watching.


Thursday, 26 November 2009

StyleBible Pre-Christmas Bash

Ok, so I'm taking this opportunity to vent about last night. Every now and again I make the supreme effort to look Glam on a Wednesday night in order to go out, mingle and mix and generally be fabulous in the city so it was with high expectations that I prepared for StyleBible's Pre-Christmas party. Held in the newest private members club on the beat 'Eight' at Moorgate (confusingly, for my dearest J, not actually at No. 8 Moorgate Rd - an address that lead her to despair last night, rattling the chains that ominously locked the door of this totally unrelated property - not so confusing for me as I'd been to the press opening party a few months back), StyleBible's bash should have been wonderful. It had all the ingredients of a glamorous location, catwalk and vintage areas, manicurists and faux eyelash application experts on hand to make one feel fabulous and pampered. And yet. When I arrived with B and J the staff seemed so baffled by the guest list that we had to explain several times that yes, we are on the list and no, we don't need to buy a ticket - really quite embarrasing!! We also had to try and round up a member of the StyleBible team to get a hold of the little white tag that entitled us to a goody bag (which were admittedly pretty good - I'm a big fan of my new Tatty Devine acrylic Gilbert and George necklace!)

and believe me - StyleBible's people were hard to track down! When we eventually managed to corner one and pry three tickets from her little paws they were down to the last goodie bag! We crouched in the corner like ravenous thieves dividing up the loot, pawing through the remaining spoils. There were people who actually bought tickets to this event that didn't get the promised bags! They had 100 gift bags for an event they had sold 200 tickets to. Not good. But for me, the absolute kicker was the fact that there was no complentary alcohol!!!! Let me clue you in StyleBible - if you want me to buy more beautiful things than I can possibly afford the absolutely foolproof way of doing this is to stick some free champers into my hand! I'll start swiping my credit card through anything after the third glass!! I'M EASY!!! A SURE THING!!! JUST GET ME DRUNK AND I'LL REMORTGAGE TO GET MY HANDS ON THE PRETTIES!!!

So after two hours of mingling with a few incredibly pretentious people, drinking our £11 glasses of champagne (admittedly Tattinger) and realising that the two rather dishy men we were talking to were actually total liars (they insisted that they owned race horses, were 'very rich' (I mean, really!) and were from Newcastle only to later say they were from Wales and looked totally panicked when B, who is welsh, started talking to them about Wales) and waiting for manicures that were eventually timed out because the line was so long, we decided to cut our losses and find somewhere else to have our parting drink. Well.....Good intentions, lousy follow-through - ended up at Catch in Liverpool Street with a group of Canadian gold traders who plied us with Laurent-Perrier until I thought I would float away on a cloud of bubbles at 3am - so a satisfactory end to the evening after all. Especially as I now have a date with one of them next week!

MM x

Friday, 9 October 2009

Tinternet Dating - will it bite me in the posterior?

I'm a little bit nervous. I have my first ever internet date tomorrow.

It has taken months of verbal barrage from my nearest and dearest for me to even consider this rather extreme course of action. It could have been the way I would say yes to any bloke who worked up the guts to ask me out, or the way I started throwing my number at men I was barely interested like the Midsummer Queen on parade day, but for whatever reason those I love and respect the most decided I needed help. Serious help. Internet help.

For me, internet dating has always had a kind of aura about it, a lingering scent of the unrequited, the lonesome-heart-esque; single, (desperate) and datelessness. I know that times have changed rather drastically since internet dating began, that now it is a genuine and respectable way for single people who are either surrounded by married couples with no single friends left, simply too busy with work, or are completely over the whole 'get drunk, make out with a stranger on the dancefloor who I'll go home with and then have to do the walk of shame home the next morning in my stockings and wait for you to call me' kind of dating in the city that at best results in a few awkward dates and at worst some kind of venerial disease (I'm not speaking from personal experience on the last part of that but I've heard things on the street about how these things go down). So when my friends suggested I try a particular website (and no, I'm not going to tell you which one) I submitted with only the smallest of cringes and lamentations of how incapable I now seem to be of enticing a man face to face.

I ummed, I ahhed, I made obligatory sounds of discomfort as my friend and I, with the help of a large bottle of red (she wasn't drinking that evening), wrote my profile and selected my picture. S very kindly had her graphic designer boyfriend photoshop out the drunk man behind me in my selected photo (we felt it gave the wrong impression....or possibly just too accurate an impression) - he seemed amused by the entire process but was kind enough to do it anyway. So there we were. Locked and loaded (or at least I was after consuming the entire bottle of red by myself). Confirmation email and I was in the system. And free to browse the proffered men for myself!

What a pleasant surprise it was to find so many men with whom I would have no problem dating in real life. Yes, there were a slightly larger number of guys who looked as though they had never seen the light of day and possibly still lived with their mothers at the age of 42, but I was pleased to find at least 10 men in my first foray that I could quite happily click to 'my favourites' list. And how gratifying the next day at work to be bombarded by emails from the website to announce that I had likewise been added! (There is little better than a bit of ego-stroking early on a Friday morning when the only thing keeping you for running out into the sunshine and the weekend is a cup of delicious, delicious coffee.)

So here I am, a mere 18 hours from meeting M (a rather dishy financial analyst from Camden). And I am sweating bullets. What if he sees me, thinks my picture was much, much too flattering (it was a very good picture from my recent holiday to Greece - hence all sun-bleached blonde hair and bronzed, healthy looking skin)? What if he doesn't like me? Or worst of all, what if he doesn't even turn up?!?!?!

In seconds, I am reduced from confident, professional actress and media ................ to the spotty teenager who was too nervous to ask out the guy two doors down from me who I had been in love with for the last 3 years. Yikes. Reality shock.

Deep breath. Carpe Diem, be in the now, bull by the horns and other such things that are supposed to help but really don't.

Well, wish me luck. And if you see a slightly nervous, slightly lost-looking and slightly overdressed woman at Borough Markets tomorrow morning, spare me a thought and send some good juju my way. I'm going to need it.

For the love of Marc

I purchased these Marc by Marc Jacob Wedge sandals on Brandalley for an absolute bargain - reduced from £219 to just £61 (including postage!). With their classic lines with modish heel details I just know I'll be wearing these for many summers to come.

I'm toying with the idea of incorporating a Burberry Prorsum 09/10 look by wearing tan, ever so casually scrunched ankle socks with them to transition them into Autumn/Winter. It seems such a waste to have got them now with only the occassional crisp sunny day to allow them out!

Any thoughts anyone?

Friday, 11 September 2009


I am in love with my new nail colour. *

I realise that I haven't posted for a while and as a result this statement seems a little out of the ordinary but I really truly love this nail colour. I have no idea what it's called or what the brand is (much to my chagrin) as I got them done at the complementary manicure bar at Vogue's Fashion Night at Banana Republic last night but I am sold on the whole nail polish thing. I have never been able to keep nail polish on and faced with the hassle of having to remove the damned stuff 24 hours after laboriously painting it on over the course of an agonising 3 hour time frame after every single nail starts to chip I have never really bothered with it much. But I really think that this colour has change my perspective and thusly my life. Already I can see the difference in how I hold myself and go about my day. Rather than simply order my sandwich at Charlicks deli, when asked for my selection this afternoon I waived my arms about, gesticulating wildly and practically screamed at the poor man "I'll have the SALMON!! With some LIGHT CREAM CHEESE and some CAPERS if you don't mind!!" in a ridiculously posh voice. I think I simultaneously gave him a heart attack and poked the woman behind me's eye out. For a few minutes I couldn't figure out what had possessed me, for a possession it is. My personality has been transplanted with that of a pompously posh camp cabaret singer cum opera diva. Then I figured it out.

It's the nail polish. I will name the shade Diva Rouge and hunt every aisle in every store until I find the exact hue and buy a dozen bottles.

Confidence and panache in a bottle? Who couldn't use a bit more of that?
*Note: my fingers never seemed that stumpy in real life.

Friday, 12 June 2009

Ascot Preparations

12th of June, 2009
In a week’s time I will be arriving in luxury bus glory to that venerable highlight in the social calendar year, Royal Ascot. This year, several of my nearest and dearest have banded together to hire a beautiful bus stocked with champagne and chocolaty goodies in order to avoid the hassle of public transport (there is nothing worse than arriving at the Royal enclosure perspiring and dishevelled. The looks that the gate keepers give you could shatter diamonds into pieces).

Transport, however, is only a minor hurdle in comparison to the mountainous task that is before me this weekend. The Outfit. I have booked in two marathon-like days complete with itineraries of the must-hit shops and boutiques. First on the agenda is Beyond Retro in Great Marlborough Street (if you see a crazed girl ripping through racks of 1950’s prom dresses and scrabbling wildly through the hat stands please stand back and do not make any sudden movements. If we are reaching for the same a particularly beautiful fascinator in an oyster hue please accept my apologies in advance, I will reimburse you for all emergency room costs). This icon of vintage shopping is one of my favourite places to go in London. Sometimes I’ll find myself there without ever having consciously planned to go shopping. I’ll just come-to within its subterranean depths idly stroking a red velvet riding jacket, or sliding my feet into a pair of bright yellow satin pumps. It has the appeal of your mother’s closest and jewellery drawer as a little girl, secrets promised within with new things to discover every time.

So standby for my next update, hopefully complete with pictures of me victorious in my perfect Ascot-esque outfit!

Frustration in Film

12th June, 2009
Last night I got screwed and not in the good way. Although my primary source of income is as a …………. in the media industry, I also do a bit of acting. The first pays in cash, the second nourishes my soul (but is conspicuously monetarily challenged).

The whole story:

So I got a role as a reporter in a feature that is being submitted to the Black Hollywood Film Festival in LA - pretty happy. Then three days before filming I contract a bacterial infection in my glands that puts me in hospital (and a subsequent body suit) for two days straight (still in body suit now). They send me date/time of filming at midnight the night before. Feeling quite frankly like I could die. Regardless I get up in the morning and head out to another audition that I'd already set up (filming is scheduled for the afternoon). Still feeling like I could die but struggle to audition. Call both audition people and filming people to see if one of them can do Sunday instead as doing both audition (in the sticks) and filming (in Shoreditch) seems impossibly Everest-like. Neither budge. Internal sigh then I suck it up and get to audition, do audition, leave audition and trek to Shoreditch where I meet a friend to while away the hours in Hoxton Square with nibblies and papers. Call half an hour before call time to check it's going ahead. They say yes, come now. So I get up, they call to say, no wait. I sit back down. Half an hour later I call again, they say they're running behind schedule (big surprise), can they shoot my scene tomorrow. I say, ok. I go home (I live in South London). Next day call to say when do they want me, they say 9pm. 7pm I call to make sure shooting is going ahead, they say not today. They'll call me to get me in sometime that week. Two weeks later, multiple emails/texts/voicemails on my side - their side nada. Last night finally text back saying and I quote "MM we are in LA. We have finished shooting. As you couldn't make it on Sat we readjusted the schedule. We really wanted you for the role but you said you couldn't make it on Sat morning. Regards etc".

WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE SMOKING?!?!?! GRRRRRRRRRRR!!! I don't know how I could have been more accommodating.

And that's how the little blonde girl from Sydney got screwed by the film makers of London town. A cautionary tale indeed.

Saturday, 6 June 2009

The Train to Liverpool

I’m currently sitting on a train whisking me rapidly toward Liverpool, home of those behemoths of music history, the Beatles. For some reason, when I was regaling everyone with what I thought were rather spiffy long weekend plans, the first question to leave every single person’s lips when told the destination was invariably ‘Why?’. And that, I think is one of the most permeable differences between a person born in a particular country, and one living there on a less permanent basis. Particularly when the conversation involves going anywhere other than London for a long weekend, at least within the borders of the UK. Even the spattering of native Liverpudlians among my acquaintance seemed almost horrified at the thought of me exiling myself to the cultural wasteland that apparently is Liverpool. I’m unsure as to whether I should be worried by this or not. Nevertheless, it is far too late now. A friend of mine who works within the music industry approached me a few weeks ago with a proposal. She was covering the Liverpool Soundcity festival for work and said that were I to come along she would procure for us press passes for the event. If there is one thing that I never turn down, it is the chance to see the inner machinations of the culture industries. I’m not really fussed as to which industry it is, whether music, fashion, film or tv; I find them all equally fascinating. And they inevitably supply wonderful opportunities to watch would-be celebs and on the odd occasion, the real deal celebs, in their natural habitat.
So off to Liverpool I go. 3 hours in a train is softened ever to slightly by the rather dishy young thing sitting opposite me. Lord knows it would be incredibly rude of me not to offer him a glass of my rather lovely New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, wouldn’t it? And I’m nothing if not polite.

Friday, 8 May 2009


As the title implies, this is the beginning. The first post of my new blog which I hope will afford you some kind of entertainment as I grapple my way through the hectic life I lead in the media industry in the great capital of culture that is London.
Now, I’m not claiming my life is a constant rollercoaster of premieres, parties and air kisses, although there is a definite element of that as part and parcel of my job in the media industry. For the most part I struggle with the daily things like everyone else. Work, men, friends, family, sometimes even the smallest task, like getting up in the morning bemoaning my lack of anything even resembling fashion that I can wear without looking like a leper who dresses in a dark closet, seems to be an almost insurmountable mountain instead of the molehill that it would appear to be to many other (some would say ‘normal’) people. In any case, I hope that my foibles and faux pas give you a giggle at the very least. After all, at the end of the day you can really only laugh at yourself, right?

Hopefully loud enough to drown out the tittering coming from everyone else.