Tuesday, August 31, 2010


I must confess - wearing this objet d'art kind of makes me feel like I'm wearing a medal (clearly I was one of those deprived kids who wasn't really talented at anything in particular hence serious lack of 'proper' medals for anything resembling an achievement...ho hum...I mean winning a race is just so passe these days...)

The point is - It's like a really cool medal.
That kind of screams 'Amazing sartorial find - take THAT - the rest of you mere mortals!'

It even comes with a slight smug grin of pride story.
The type that begins with - Pointless wandering in the urban jungle. A pair of delicious black calf leather knee high boots which caught my eye (for the record - aforementioned boots were recently also attained...). The usual 'To buy or not to buy' debate due to epic 'Mind is going insane with item-lust but debit card says no' pain. A friendly chat with the kind of amazingly dressed girl in Dries Van Noten-esque pants. Leading to the discovery of the locked secret drawer.

'There are only two left...'
'One of a kind'
'Vintage Russian art-deco pieces from the 1920s.'
'It's by a girl who used to work here - she also sells to Colette in Paris...'
'I think you may have to pay in cash...'

A phone call was made. A kind of dodgy transaction was executed. The hip pocket was a little sore.

But I am seriously majorly in love. Bold and a dash tribal. In a kind of amazing geometric, retro way.
It really is the piece de resistance to even the most bland of ensembles.

Plus - as I said - serious medal lust...

Eat my dust.

But I love you anyway,



PS. It took me FOREVER to get the name of she who is responsible for such pieces of joy - they're by Melbourne lass Anna Rossi who trawls the world for perfect antiques to turn into more adorable pieces of adornment...Definitely getting more love from me in days to come...

PPS. This accumulation of bling is apparently forgivable - so says my horoscopic profile anyway. Don't you just love the horoscopes in Vogue?

Monday, August 30, 2010

Of The Inspirational Femme

Oh role models. Don't you love them?
Those people you totally want to be like.
I'd use the term 'idolize' if a certain pagan friend of mine wouldn't bite my head off while saying that my faith in certain preternaturally cool specimens of humanity is somewhat misplaced.

It's like that person you secretly mentally stalk who is just that little bit too awesome. Or the 'older kid' when you were a knee high little deviant. Or why I did my presentation in high school French on Chanel ('So basically - she was amazing and had several steamy affairs...Chapeau!') Some people were just meant to be followed. A bit like a 'Guide to Life' but better.

I dug out an old scrapbook of collages I made back in the day. Fresh out of school and into the bright new (now totally not so shiny) world of university. Some of it made me laugh. Alot of it made me feel nostalgic (remind me to burn my ex's letters in a bonfire of some perfume I don't wear anymore). And I re-discovered some of the women who made me fall head-over-heels in love with living a decadent, aesthetically indulgent life.

Jane Birkin and her similarly imperfectly beautiful yet irresistible scion (who could resist La Belle Laide). Tomboyish, tousled hair, untamed Parisienne sexiness. In spades. Who else could have made me want to sit around half naked listening to Serge Gainsbourg possibly dressed only in the simplest of high-waisted blue jeans. And maybe those infamous white Repettos.

Jean Shrimpton and her beehive, teased hair and scandalous shifts. Proving that dirty photographers go oh-so-well and hand-in-hand with devastatingly beautiful models (obsession with David Bailey much). I may or may not have spent countless hours in fruit(less) experiments with environmentally damaging hairspray.

Sofia Coppola. The too-cool-for-school princess of a film dynasty. And her gorgeously understated films. Like music videos with actual layers of meaning. Set to the best soundtracks. Ever (which FYI - gave one little impressionable girl her rather impressive musical tastes). You never wanted them to end. A little left of centre. Rebellious in only the most captivating way.

Definitely life lessons worth learning...




Sunday, August 29, 2010

The Best of Franglais

My high school French teacher would hate this video. Et pourquoi?
Possibly because it contains mind-numbing levels of that interesting linguistic creature we fondly call 'Franglais'
Apparently acceptable for us Anglophonic creatures - I mean doesn't it sound classy when you drop a 'tres cool' like it's hot (Qualification: Not ever in a trailer trash accent though...never...)

But alas not for les Francophones...it really does ruin the beauty/sex factor. Even if it means I can actually understand what they're saying...

I'm thinking that Madame would totally change her mind if she saw this kind of 'so cheesy it's kind of amazing' clip. Two skinny garcons (one who kind of looks like Rupert Grint but better because clearly he is oh-so-Francais). Doing the tres Anglophilic retro tennis outfit thing (Having recently just engaged in headache-inducing debauchery at Brussels...this may have been an obsession that has spilled over into this week). To an infectiously catchy little cheerful indie-disco ditty.

Yes - they do sing en Franglais. But, hell, if it's good enough for the APC (oh yes - temple of hipster Parisian cool) - it's good enough for me. Michael Jackson or not.




PS. Chere Madame, please ignore the copious amounts of Franglais in this missive
PPS. Aforementioned episodes of boozy debauched indulgence lead to 'une voix rocailleuse' the next morning. Really quite sexy if there was anyone there to appreciate it. Instant dose of faux Carla Bruni much?

Friday, August 27, 2010


The muse.
She who walks into your life and leaves you all inspired to reach greater and more creative heights.
Or plunge further into the depths of glorious procrastination.

The following gorgeous girls did exactly that. And left me with an itchy pencil finger and my kind of retarded (but now I like to think artistically 'original') colouring with oil pastels (who would have thought coloured pencils were so hard to find in one's humble abode). It's basically true to form. They really are that cool. With a dash of fantasy added in. Every girl needs some. Whether it be a Celine box bag. A whimsical Benoit Missolin bow. Or an oh-so-Parisienne Yves Saint Laurent downtown shopping tote (which clearly you would use for baguettes for that romantic tete-a-tete non)

I think we could all get a little arty-farty today. Or any day really. Plus they're just really really fun to do.
Until the parentals pick up that your 'creative outlet' is wasting more time (and money...ah yes...market research) than originally expected...

Lots of sketched hearts, hugs and kisses



PS. If you do like what you see - I'm actually happy to take custom orders for sketches...for birthday cards etc - Just give me a yell...it kind of makes me feel like there's "purpose" to my procrastination. Method in the madness. Whatever. You know what I mean...

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


All-time dorkfest confession of the year: I kind of love work.

Maybe it's the faux-glam appeal of being temporarily able to call myself a 'workaholic'. The dream of being some uber corporate power-bitch dressed to kill and thrill in noir Prada. Or the ability to perve on boys in suits 24/7 (Hot Asian Guy who Runneth Triathlons - the only one on planet Earth - please come back to make my photocopying days worthwhile again). Or maybe it was just the opportunities to be shamelessly decadent with dressing up. And getting away with it. Mornings spent waiting in the coffee line with my beloved Prada work tote. A different Hermes for each day. Sigh. I'm getting a little misty eyed now. And all because one has to look 'respectable' and 'professional' yes? Yes. You concur.

It's all about the Working Girl these days. So says Vogue Paris anyway. Enough said. Or rather, 'Point, c'est tout...'
And those indulgently 'practical' pieces that take you from the laptop to the swanky bar.
Which is why I loved this Yves Saint Laurent clutch from the minute I set eyes on it (love at first sight...clearly)

Patent. Black and gold. Elegant. Simple. Subtle. Luxe. Like a Le Smoking you can hold in your hand.
Just big enough to hold a modern career girl's essentials. Red lipstick. Phone. Credit card(s). Clearly, I am trying to downsize.
Cute enough for day. With an adorably neat little scarf. Maybe with a little charm to boot.
Perfect with that indecent dress and those disgustingly high heels you have tucked away in that drawer come salacious nocturnal activities come sundown.

Oh so indulgently Parisienne...
And for climbing the corporate ladder in style...
I'm sure Monsieur Saint Laurent would be agree





I've taken to naming my special pieces of bling. Especially the knuckledusters. We have become rather close companions this year even if the family keeps expanding. Impulsively but fabulously.
It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend' (if I was lucky enough to own diamonds)
There's Fred the Boulder and Syd the Snake Ring and Tupac the ghetto 'Yo' ring...

And now, there is Armand L'Aigle. My newest adopted piece of finger candy. From delicious little label Alkemie from the sunny, West Coastal shores of LA.
Seriously I couldn't help myself.

A little neo-goth and sinister (I think there's something rather evil Hitchcock-esque about birds...). It's a little Pamela Love (slightly unhealthy love affair with the talon cuff...). Ironically all-American at the same time (could you get more Stars & Stripes than the archetypical American eagle). Made entirely from reclaimed metals (so it's totally my bit for the environment...totally). An old bullet case in particular so I'm told (which makes it just that little bit more beautifully edgy...kind of like a bad boy version of bling)

Armand definitely packs a pretty punch. And is just a tad obsession-worthy (and kind of initially snooty 'devastatingly beautiful and chic and she knows it' shop girl actually concurs...it made her that little bit more human...)

And really, the more the merrier yes?

Rainbow family. It's like being the Brangelina of bling. Seriously.

Love from us all



Tuesday, August 24, 2010


After all that talk about sex - let's speak of chastity belts...
In my dream world - they come as a novelty companion to my book of smutty pictures...

Chastity or not. I do love a good belt. There's something about the way they pull everything together.
And add a certain degree of edge or polish to anything. Where would we be without that glorious strip of leather to pull in a dress that is just a teeny tiny bit too big (or to make an oversized tank top look like an actually vaguely borderline decent dress...yes yours truly is very very guilty). Or to use as an S&M style whip (for those of us who shouldn't actually be receiving devious lingerie or associated paraphernalia in the mail - yeah I really need to get my mind out of the gutter)

Sadly - the humble belt is one of those much abused items. Its utilitarian glory somewhat tarnished by the presence of tacky buckles (you really want me to stare at your crotch don't you), use of PVC (the plague of my life...aside from a certain ex boyfriend) and ye olde teeny bopper stretchy waist belts (think plague but ten times worse).

So we do a belt dance (like the rain dance but infinitely more purposeful) and thank the high sartorial powers that be for the salvation in the form of Phuong & Seb's Belt Co. My inner dandy man was immediately smitten with their simple, deliciously well crafted, 100% leather (no...I don't constantly smell mine...seriously) hand-made men's belts. Gorgeously utilitarian like belts are supposed to be. Custom made with subtly luxe hardware (what girl who grew up during the Philo reign at Chloe does not love a bit of metal). With initials and more...

It really is the belt of my chaste fantasies...

Possibly better...

And I can knot it for the whole 'I stole this old thing from my impeccably dressed non-existent boyfriend...' effect.
Who could ask for more?
Qualification: You could technically ask for an impeccably dressed piece of man-candy. I would...




The whole range of goodies (including the too-awesome-for-words 'Supreme') is good for the perving at:

And custom orders are taken by the e-letter (i.e. e-mail...)

Guilty As Charged

Speaking of lovers.
This is kind of growing on me.
Seedy in a comic-book/graphic novel-esque sense (thank you Frank Miller)
With Evan Rachel Wood (post Marilyn Manson and ill-conceived raven tressed phase)

The dirtier the better...





I must confess - ever the cynic - I am way over the search for romance and the perfect man.
Apparently French musicians (who come with chateaus and beach villas inclusive) may or may not only exist in Paris.

But there's alot more to be said about lovers.

Ah lovers! Those seedy chance 'encounters'! That illicit affair! And pourquoi?

Tucked away in the August-September issue of Russh (lifesaver if ever there was one) - I stumbled upon an old McGinley snap of the late Dash Snow blissfully engaged in a bit of carnal pleasuring (as many a friend of mine likes to term it). And it has me feeling both nostalgic and inspired. Ah lovers. The intimacy. The slightly shameful smiles. Staring at the floor and mumbling a response to the question, 'So, what have you two been up to?' The devious knowing conspiratorial glances across a room. The unexplained 'disappearances'. The encounters which seem permanently set to the soundtrack of 70s folk-rock (probably just me). Bed hair that is just perfect. Where there's a story behind that messed up outfit. The shared morning after coffee. The forgotten item of clothing.

Yes, I just walked out wearing your shirt.

And touche, I will pick up my bra.

It could be once. It could be forever.

Maybe later.

I'll be back for more.

Love (and I mean it)



Sunday, August 22, 2010

Thrifted Brilliance

First things first - let's get the awkward shit out of the way - I am an op shopping retard.
Yes, while splendiferous sylphic pieces of lady candy like my gorgeous friend Sas manage to find brilliant diamonds in the rough. I have to be the sole person cursed with finding nought but grandma dresses (not worth resuscitating...there was probably a reason why they were put in the bin in the first place) and gold lurex belly dancing outfits (I feel like you get an STD just by looking at them)

After many an ill-fated attempt at grasping the concept of 'vintage chic' - I'd resigned myself to a sad fate of being a spendthrift buyer of the nouveau while staring at bitter, bitter envy at those who boast of those 'amazing $6 loafers they picked up at some godforsaken St Vinnies in the middle of nowhere...and voila...they just happen to be Charles Jourdan'. If this has happened to you...say Aye.

But 'lo and behold - a saviour for those of us unaccustomed to wading our way through mothball scented racks!

I'd heard whispers about the brilliance of the Sydney institution that is Puf'n'Stuff. About how you could walk away with an impeccable vintage outfit. Well mannered retro shoes and bag included. Without wanting to hack off your credit card bearing hand in shame. And REJOICE fellow op-shopping retards for it has landed on our grey Victorian shores! A trip was very much in order. And my oh my, is it a beauty. Adorable pre-selected shoes, boots and handbags and more...in that gloriously beaten up leather (someone has done all the hard work for you)

And the dresses. I'm a little nay...muchly obsessed with the $50 a pop reworked Japanese vintage day dresses. I snagged one. In its glorious demure button-up navy and gold and spotted resplendence. And am totally loving it's retro girly, flippy feel (oh dear Lord, please bring some warm weather our way). With my pre-loved 80s Ferragamos (still extremely proud about that score) - it's kind of making me feel like those smug experts with the op-shopping 'eye'...

'I have a pre-loved outfit...and no you can't have it too...'

Cheating has never been more fun.

Lots of love kids



PS. Puf n Stuff - has landed on Gertrude St. Home of the grunge. You heard it from me. Or Three Thousand. But I like to think me...

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Eat - Do Something X-Rated - Love

I feel like I should do the right thing and put your pretty little hearts to rest.
No, I am not going through a massive chick-lit and/or Julia Roberts-esque soul finding phase.
Oh yes, you too would totally find yourself if you took a whirlwind trip around the world and hooked up with a suave, ruggedly handsome European complete with swoonworthy accent (I haven't actually watched the movie - that's just the plot summary I get from the trailer - I don't think it's too far off...)

But I was putting in my (probably totally unwarranted) two cents worth for a (totally museworthy) friend's creative project.
And (re)discovered these over the weekend.
And then I kind of remembered why I'm a bit obsessed with Terry Richardson.
And Vogue Paris (t'is clearly the season to be La Roitfeld)

It makes me want to indulge in junk food. And kind of reminds me of 1-dollar-ice-cream binges at 7-11 with a friend. Talking about sex. While wearing diamonds (sadly I wasn't wearing diamonds at the time...) But - given that we're in la-la-land, why stop there, maybe in a diamond tiara. And engaging in an illicit affair. Only in a five start hotel room. In amazing black lingerie. There is only one kind. Sensual. Messy. Visceral. It's ultimately about having fun. Perhaps too much of it. Living for decadence. Reckless excess. And possibly having a seedy photographer document the entire thing in all its glorious smuttiness.

Isn't that delicious?

Yum. Yum. Yum.




Friday, August 20, 2010

On A Rainy Day...

There's something about rainy days and puddles which kind of make you obsess about the humble boot.
Maybe it's the fact that water doesn't get in (thank you useless canvas shoes)
Or childhood dreams/memories of jumping in puddles (mind you, unachieved childhood dream - because in glamorous South East Asia - puddles are probably more akin to pools of battery acid...)
Or the fact that they're just 'made for walking' (especially true on that day where featured friend and I trawled from one side of the city to the other and enjoyed a shower au naturel at the same time...only the most fabulous way to be drenched is with good, stylish company...it's something I could see Isabella Blow or Diana Vreeland agreeing with...if they weren't so impeccable...all the time)

In any event - I'm a little envious/obsessed (or demented lovechild of the two...) of my fellow drenched companion's Jeffrey Campbell vaguely nouveau cowboy style gumboot booties. Perfect for puddle jumping. With a hint of unexpected Parisian insouciance (curse you Chloe and Vanessa Bruno for making me drool over quasi-cowboy boots...).

And of course - I could never say no to a well-heeled urban hiker's well-loved companion, a fabulous Balmoral in tan (oh yes...proper terminology...golden star sticker for me)...

It sometimes makes me wish the rain didn't go away...

Momentarily of course.




Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Film Noir & Ballet

When I was like five (Qualifying note: You can totally tell that I am just on the cusp of being reduced to a zimmerframe-using, Botox addicted hag with all this nostalgia) -I really wanted to be a prima ballerina (obviously that turned out really well)
I blame it on the haze of candy pink. Tulle tutus (I still love tulle...some things never die...it's like an unhealthy obsessive fantasy...admit it, you love tulle too). Topknots. And pointe shoes (once again...I swear I kind of live vicariously through my burgeoning collection of Repettos).

I'm a little past the candy pink and the actual like 'physical effort' part of ballet. But seeing the kind of effin' ah-mazing trailer for the upcoming Darren Aronofsky film, Black Swan, really brings out the inner (not-so-dead) prima ballerina in me. It's Natalie Portman in a nice return to form (I like to remember her more for Leon than the Star Wars trilogy). And it's a beautifully nightmarish ballet fantasy for little girls all grown up.

A dash psychotic. Infinitely creepy. Confusing (in a way that I think possibly beats Inception) Breathtakingly deranged yet stunning costumes (Rodarte no less...who could do insane chic better) Sexually predatory French ballet instructors (does it sound wrong to say - 'I wish I had a sexually predatory ballet instructor who looks and speaks like Vincent Cassel). And you can't go wrong with a bit of girl-on-girl action.

It's debauchery in pointe shoes.


No really.





Tuesday, August 17, 2010


Some nifty folks make you happy-shnappy just looking at them.
Like listening to a Beatles album while sipping pink lemonade.
And eating vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

The splendiferous Samara is one of them.
I'm more than a little envious of her ability to pull off eclectic with such aplomb.
Bold colours. Adorable accents. Zany patterned tights. Pieces that kind of elicit a tiny chuckle. And the most amazing, shiny Adidas x Jeremy Scott sneakers. Ever. Major camp footwear envy.

It's a little magpie. With a delicious sort of Marc Jacobs/Miu Miu aesthetic.
A dash eccentric globe-trotter. A bit ghetto-satirical. Which makes me think of Henry Holland and Jeremy Scott in spades. Totally fabulously mix-and-match.

The best part about it is that it's so her.
Laugh out loud hilarious (plus she laughs at my jokes...which is kind of a major point-scorer in my books). Bubbly. Full of intriguing tales and slightly mad-cap yet brilliant ideas (I am now fully inspired to embrace the idea of 'Carpe Diem' week and turning horse stables into uber-camp discos). Mega cute. And just super fun in general.

She's just kind of amazing.




PS. As part of her take on Carpe Diem week - the splendid Ms Samara has entered herself into the Myer Style-Off competition. So yeah...this feature kind of came a little retardedly late but you do STILL have like 24 hours to vote. And that is something worth voting for...

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Baby Got Back

Every girl needs that dramatic piece in her armoire.
Or multiple. Because we could all deal with a little more theatre.
Says she who was tempted to go for broke with a splurge on a Maison Michel headpiece this afternoon
Mind says yes. Debit card says no. Familiar? Surely.

Et voila, could there be a better way to scream 'Look at me' than ye humble backless leotard.
Deliciously body conscious (like I needed another excuse to go on another fad diet or promise myself that I will actually go for runs...mission for 2011 clearly). Shamelessly provocative ('Oh well hello, naked back...'). It's like the sartorial equivalent of a Justin Timberlake video (okay ONE Justin video and yes my musical tastes do sometimes veer towards the trashy...walk of shame...). This little piece of insta-sexiness (like instant coffee but better...because sex [kids don't read this] is arguably better than the humble caffeine hit...) by adorable little label Penny Anne is just the thing to put the capital M into some serious mojo.

Made-to-order and totally handmade by uber-talented Adelaide lass Danielle. In fail-safe black (because we love our fashionista black in Melbourne - plus I mean...it's slimming yes? Yes...). But with embellishments of your choice. From totally out-there feathers to chains to multi-coloured lace. Or simply go monochrome and a dash French maid like yours truly. The possibilities are endless. Talk about super fun. With a capital F.

And because I love appealing to your inner penny pinching, value-seekers. It is totally versatile. Go a bizarre take on tuxedo. Comme moi. For those winter parties that get a little bit steamy. But I'm looking forward to working it with my (new) beloved pair of (actual) vintage cut-offs for those warmer months. It's anything you want it to be. And perhaps a little bit more.

And that's plenty of reasons to love.




PS. Orders are taken via Facebook/e-mail/mobile. So basically the deal is - add Penny Anne on your favourite people stalking tool and go nuts. Literally. I did.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Pavement Kicks

I have a love-hate relationship with the humble sneaker.
Hate because it reminds me (ever so much) about my incompetency in all things athletic.
Exercise? Moi? What about never...
And how I look tres ridiculous (never street-cool) in multi-coloured Air Force Ones.

Irrespective of my inability to pull off ghetto...
I kind of love my uber-chic compadre Sam's Miu Miu deerskin kicks.

Serious ghetto/sporty cred. Sure. But totally edgy/noir at the same time.
And with a dash of superfluous luxe. That just gets better with age.
Plus they're like the shoe versions of my beloved deerskin tote.

Definitely some sweet kicks.




Thursday, August 12, 2010

What Those Girls Did Next...

Recap (for those of us who aren't lovers yet) - I have a gold 'Koh' necklace. Which is kind of fabulous beyond words. Even if they're awesome gold and shiny letter words. And which I (and I think a fair few of you) loved loved loved.

Update - The beautiful and brilliant girls behind the bling are back again!
And in a bigger and better way! It's all about the blockbuster collaborations!
Are you feeling the excitement yet? You should be.

I'm a little obsessively excited with the Dallas & Carlos meets Anna & Boy (whose lustworthy bikinis I covet to no end...even if I am now re-suffering through extensive pilates and gym sessions to ensure I have something resembling a beach body come the summer season) collection. It's totally Madonna in her totally more glorious 'Like A Virgin' and 'Desperately Seeking Susan' (Gaultier cone-shaped bra) phase. Bold. Edgy. The kind of thing that totally puts you in the mood for a debauched 80s pool party. Boombox and heavy synth tunes included. And the shamelessly glam-tastic gold letter necklaces (which yours truly is lucky enough to possess) and kind of ah-mazing chunky word bracelets (that totally make you want to spell LOVE all over again) really put the major icing on the proverbial cake.

It's making me want to put my summer tunes on full blast (oh yeah Funkin' For Jamaica...). Work that booty into shape. And party like it's the Summer of '85.

Even if it is the middle of Winter.