Happy Camp

Some places are just meant to make you smile (and quite possibly spend copious amounts of money in a spendthrift haze)

Musa is one of those places.

Gloriously camp. It's like the grown-up, glittery Barbie Fantasy House of every girl's dreams (Seriously, you didn't?). Covetable pink couches. Showgirl lights in the change rooms. Bubble features. And all things shiny and fabulous. A rhinestone studded shoe phone. One of the best rainbow brogues I've ever seen in my life. Kanye sunglasses (now all I need is the mega fur coat). Shameless bling. Super-happy clothes with polka dots. And colour. Lots of colour. Happy Socks. A live runway show playing on the wall. Like a bogan sports bar except ten trillion times better. Faux-grass and oversized fantasy rocking chairs outside. With really lovely friendly people inside. And yummy Pan-Asian nosh to boot. So basically you can get takeaways of both the edible AND non-edible type.

What more could you ask for really?

Maybe Malibu Ken would seal the deal...
But really a girl can't complain...

Especially with good takeaway

Love

xx

Bec

Catchin' Some Rays

So you can totally blame my beloved future-evil-world-dictator friend for the catchy pun in the title.
Rays of sunshine and stingrays...okay...no you probably get it. And I most likely don't need to spell out the more than evident 'dad joke' element of the line. A weak moment for one whose American Psycho tendencies come with usually rapier-sharp wit. And a penchant for nearly poking out people's eyes with cocktail toothpicks.

This is by far one of my favourite little finds from the tropics.
Ba-da-bing-and-boom
My stingray bracelet. Um...no not of the happy kind of 'we drew a picture of a stingray and put it on a bangle' as part of a paltry attempt to educate little girls on the variety of wildlife on our planet. But rather more of the brutal 'I killed a stingray and...voila...made a pretty piece of wrist adornment out of it' (My personal uber-bitch Anna-Wintour preference)

Before you throw your RSPCA picket sticks at me - I am totally not a fan of animal violence. I love animals. In fact - I totally wanted to become a vet when I was younger then realized I wasn't cut out for the job when my two wrongly named hamsters (I got the genders mixed up) died in my care.

But there's something about leather (and no...not PVC...no love for the fake things in life) that's just so beautiful (For the record- I totally fell into the same trap with my beloved Yves Saint Laurent deerskin tote). Stingray leather. It's just that extra little bit more esoteric and special. First spied on a Balenciaga 'Lego' belt I could barely afford. Then on a pair of Givenchy heels I still dream about to today. It's a pretty cool feeling having something just a tad 'alien-esque' on your wrist. Especially when they're the limited-by-the-piece, hand-made babies of a Malay ex-supermodel (now happily married to some gorgeous European with two disgustingly cute Eurasian babies...yeah...the type of people who make you want to kill yourself).

It's a little subtle. Loving the Melbourne grey? Just a bit facetiously glam. Definitely odd (I've had questions ranging from 'Is that a mosaic?' to plain 'Um...what the hell?'. And one of my favourite things for the season. Perhaps a little ray of happiness in my rather gloomy-shloomy semester of boredom.

Sing it with me now...'You are my sunshine...my only sunshine...'

Okay maybe not.

Curse you, lame pun friend.

Love & Sunshine

xx

Bec

Stiletto

As the ever-chic and sublimely wise Giovanna Battaglia (yes she of the impeccable outfits and 'rumoured to be dating Vladimir Restoin-Roitfeld' fame) says - 'The lower I feel, the higher the heel!'

And good Lord, rarely have words rung truer.
There is nothing like a pair of skyscraper heels and abbreviated skirts to make you feel all happy (and like you actually have desirable legs...)

Bad-ass platforms, wedges, chunky, artistic, bizarre...the bigger the better and I love them all (and secretly you do too...no really...you do...especially when they raise you to above average height...it's your inner 'I not-so-secretly fantasize about being a supermodel and not waking up for less than 10000 bucks a day' girl...)

And then there's the stiletto.
Could there be a better symbol for glamour and seedy illicit affairs?
Clearly my mind is far too often in the gutter.

Yes - they do make for some awkward 'teeter-totter' moments (and even worse disasters when caught in drains when drunk)
And point taken - they are rather 'delicate' hence the occasional 'tear-inducing-heart-breaking' heel breakage incident
On the flip - I'm sure they'd be an effective weapon for causing some pain. Have you tried jabbing someone in the foot with a stiletto heel? Highly amusing. But perhaps not on the receiving end.

But nothing beats a pair of black, metallic-heeled (sadly non-vintage but really one can't complain) Ferragamo stilettos. A mini LBD. A lychee martini in hand. And lounging around in a hilariously facetious bar with a pool feature (yes...a pool feature). For making you feel like a whole new woman. Or a faux-fantasy-supermodel at least.

Lots of love & glam

xx

Bec

Mi Casa

As Dorothy said - 'There's no place like home'

And indeed she was right.

Nothing really compares to lazy days in the tropics. Childhood homes filled with memories of idyllic evenings. First kisses. Tragic awkward teenage moments. Spending everyday in the pool with your 'like totally cool' posse. Home made iced lemon tea. Slightly insane relatives. Family ghosts. Eight course banquet dinners. Getting a decent tan. Putting your feet up. The fish fountain. The faux-cave and the rather salacious action within. Mahogany benches and sunsets. Adventures of a rather well-travelled bag. It's a little bit jungle. But tamed of course. Letting the afternoon sun dry up droplets of pool water on your skin. It's a little bit insane. They call it 'going troppo.' But it's a beautiful eccentricity.

And all too perfect for me.

I miss it already.

Love & Sun

xx

Bec

A Touch of Hermes

Slightly superfluous background note - I was originally hoping to greet you with some nice happy snaps of my home away from home (possibly also so you can secretly go 'I hate you' and then I can smugly smile and say 'Well...yes...naturally...I was actually warm for a change...') but then Blogger decided to be a bitch and not process the photos. Maybe it's out of computer envy. Possibly. In short, story for another time.


But the tropics would not be the tropics without the requisite South-East Asian indulgence of retail therapy. Never has the Visa been worked so hard in its life. Actually no that's a lie. But anyway. And there's nothing like a bit of Hermes and tea. I'd like to take both at the same time. But I can't actually afford the tea cups even if Elle Macpherson (yes she of the bras and The Body) tells me that I should. I couldn't resist taking a little piece of the fantasy home with me. The fantasy involving me and a Birkin bag. And not much else.

Possibly a few decadent silk scarves that I could turn into a dress. Luxurious nonchalance.

Like the Twilly. Kind of ridiculously pointless. I mean, it probably doesn't even constitute an actual real scarf. But deliciously pretty in a kind of classic, traditional spoilt princess kind of way. She who owned a pony at the age of five when the rest of us dreamed. And eventually morphs into the type of woman who 'lunches', has an affair with the Costa Rican pool boy and owns a wardrobe full of Hermes bags (the Kelly, the Birkin...god forbid...also the Constance). This is disturbingly starting to sound like my own twisted fantasy. But we can all dream.

And even if all that never happens. And we end up stuck in libraries in very gray wintery conditions. Getting lost in Le Monde d'Hermes. Playing with that Twilly. With an old broken cup of tea. And the scent of Annick Goutal's Petite Cherie in the air. It comes pretty close.

Keep it dreamy and pretty today my loves!

Love (from she who is depressingly back in Melbourne)

xx

Bec