The Little Old Lady

I'm 110% sure I'm going to make an awesome old lady. You know the way that sportsmen talk about giving it 110%. That's how confident I am. I'll be the grandma with the four cats, huge glasses, pearl necklaces, lots of lace and killer style. I'll be the red wine that peaks in it's late '60s. I know this because, truth be told, I'm more or less an old lady already. And I can only get better at it with practice, right? I'm weary of going out more than once a day lest I exhaust myself too much for the evening's activities, I wear stupendous grandma undies (my thinking is that everything else is high waisted, so why shouldn't my undies be too?) and lately I can't take off my lace gloves or pearl necklace, not to mention my houndstooth jacket and little old lady hat. I love cats and squirrels and while I'm no gardener, I bought a coriander plant the other day.


On a separate note, we booked our trip to Paris the other day, we'll be arriving on the 6th of May and staying till the 12th. That means there's only three weeks till we can indulge in cheese, wine and baguette's in Paris' left bank and, sadly, only four months till we return to Sydney.


Finally, I'm going to leave you with a music video for The Wave Pictures because, while I'm not far from being an old lady, I can't say I'm a fan of Val Doonican. We ventured out to Brighton to see these fellows last night. If you can get past his voice (it might take a little while) they're very good indeed. Read Bobby's review of their latest album here.



P.S. There's a cat that lives down the street from us in Eastbourne who has very short legs, so much so that when I pet him he sometimes falls over, and so we have (very creatively) called him Short Legs Mini Cat McGhee. We've even made a song to go with his name. And it's only just clicked that he's probably a Munchkin cat and/or a dwarf and now I feel really guilty. I just want everyone to know that I have nothing against little cats with little legs. There's nothing wrong with being little. Unless you're a pair of undies.

Cheer Up (You Miserable Fuck)

Yeah, I know. I look like a miserable fuck. But what you don't understand is that it's all part of the image (at least that is what I'll tell my Mother when she asks why, in my latest English photos, do I look so depressed and why don't I come home now?) But you see, usually I don't wear this much black and blue but I'm afraid this jacket just brings out the dark - and early '80s - side of me. And, I really like it. You know, personally, I think I'd make a pretty awesome goth/emo.

Bobby calls it all my 'disinterested junkie look'. I told him that I'm not that bad of an actress and once I was in an episode of Blue Water High. If I want to do junkie, I can do junkie. Case in point:

Headband: Made from some lace from C&H Fabrics. It has since been reincarnated into a pair of gloves.
Top: £1.50 from St. Wilfred's, a charity shop in Eastbourne. It's pretty close to being crowned the best charity shop of all time. Last week Bobs got a pair of suede brogues from there for 30 pence.
Vest: U-Turn, a Sydney second hand store.
Leather jacket: A Brighton second hand store called Traid for £2. It's real leather too, would you believe? I love the military aspect to it.
Gold rose broach tied around some leather: 75p from St. Wilfred's sister charity store.
Shoes: Bought yesterday at a charity store for £1.
Bag: Also bought yesterday at another charity store for £1.50.

And look who came to suss out what we were doing when we were taking photos. It's only GARFIELD!


By the way I totally met Garfield's future wife the other day. I know this because she was also ginger and also very friendly and also came when I called her. I should totally hook them up. It doesn't classify as kidnapping slash catnapping if I'm only taking the cat from his home so he can make out with his future wife, right? Oh and don't ask me how I know that Garfield is a boy and Mrs Garfield a girl. Because I don't. And I'm not prepared to go poking around to find out. I'm an emo, not a pervert.

Today's Lesson

Today marked the climb of the Eastbourne charity shop count from 19 to 20. Did I mention I'm in heaven? Definitely in some kind of heaven. Whilst I found very little on the clothing front (only a white blouse. Albeit an awesome double-breasted white blouse), I bought more shoes than I have in the past year. TWO pairs. I know, right? Don't laugh. It's far more difficult than one might think when you're a size 41 veggie lady who's heart won't let her buy new leather goods and refuses to get a proper job. Life is hard. Today's lesson, straight from charity's mouth to my attentive ears, is that vintage men's shoes hold the future. So expect much of them as I tot around in androgonous patent things and second-hand leather. Along with the shoes of today, I'm also very much in love with the backpack. And the owls. And everything.

From left to right: Patent shoes, £1. Handbag, £1.50. Owl vase, £1. Pearl necklace, 50 pence. Back pack, £3. Little owl (he packs a punch, such a heavyweight little guy), 50 pence. Blue sectioned shoes, £1.

All together, I came away with change from a tenner. Rather, Bobby came away with change from a tenner. The English are yet to give me a bank account (apparently, what with the recession and all, having me stimulate the economy by spending my foreign money in the country is a BAD thing). Oh well, who cares? Where are your two pairs of shoes HSBC? On my size 41 feet, that's where.

Headline News

That's right folks, I'm in the newspaper. Right between the football news and a story about a couple of John and Yoko impersonators. Okay, I kind of lie. About the 'right between' bit. Not the "I've got the long hair and round glasses but my mother's maiden name is McCartney so I'm more like Paul really" bit. I couldn't make that up if I tried. Well done John, well done. To be honest, I'm actually in the football news. And my name isn't technically mentioned. But I'm fairly sure Bobby doesn't have any other vintage obsessed girlfriends that he's taken to the football recently. Fairly sure. You'll have to click on the pic to read it. Or you could just read it in the text below the photo. But you know, both ways work.


"I gave my Australian girlfriend her first taste of English football last week. Being an integral part of the super trendy Sydney fashion scene, she is far more interested in high-waisted trousers and vintage dresses than watching 22 men with Toni & Guy haircuts chase a piece of leather around some grass, but, knowing what a big part of my life football is, she was happy to come and see what gets me so happy/angry/frustrated/depressed on a Saturday. Bearing in mind the only other sporting occasion she has ever attended was an Aussie Rules game played at Melbourne’s world-famous MCG in front of about 90,000 fervent fans, I had to try to choose a match that would equal that occasion for atmosphere and thrills. So, with that in mind, the most obvious thing to do would have been to take her to England’s important World Cup qualifier at Wembley on Wednesday night. I didn’t do that though. Oh no. I decided to give her her first sample of English football in a place that is perhaps least representative of its passion, noise and excitement. That’s right, we went to Withdean to watch a goalless draw between Brighton & Hove Albion and Tranmere Rovers.

"We sat in the north stand and I did my best to explain what was happening on the pitch (“The Brighton player is kicking the ball to another Brighton player… oh, he’s kicked it straight at the Tranmere player.”). She seemed to take it all in, although, as Brighton's Dean Cox almost scored a cracking volley, I noticed her absently reading the list of ingredients on the back of her drink bottle. Later, as Tranmere fired in a corner, she was instead focusing on pulling a loose thread from her jumper. I’m sure we can all sympathise with the fact that her attention wandered at regular intervals and, for the most part, she actually rather enjoyed the game, even though she didn‘t get to see any goals. While she may not have sampled English football in its most indicative environment (like at a ground where the stands aren‘t a million miles from the pitch), she did at least get the full Withdean experience in just one afternoon. She got to see how the warmth of the sun can create a typically lethargic atmosphere, and how the inevitable rain causes everyone to reach for their ponchos. She saw fairly poor football punctuated by some decent moments, heard an equal amount of wit, moaning and expletives from fans, and got to join in with the occasional chant of ‘Albion’. Oh, and at least Brighton didn’t lose. I suppose, actually, in that respect, it wasn’t quite the full Withdean experience after all."


If you're into football and live in England, you can find Bobby's column in The Argus every Saturday. It's a good read, even for someone like me who more often than not can't tell the players from the cheerleaders.

Who's Got The Crack?

So it's been over 24 hours since I came back from my half a week in London and I'm pretty sure I'm having big city withdrawals because I'm super tired and cranky as all hell. And seriously craving tea. Smoked tea. With soy milk. Which is what people coming off the crack and/or big city want, right? On second thoughts this might have something to do with not having smoked a whole cigarette since being in England. I might just be going smoke-mad. Either way, Lapsang Souchong me up please.

To make the breaking of my London cherry as painless as possible, we stuck mainly to the usual touristy things. We saw the London Eye from below, played where's Micky Mouse (like Where's Wally but real and just generally much better), visited modern art gallery, the Tate Modern, accidentally shat on God's face (according to the no photograph religious bouncer/priest man/pope) by taking photos inside Saint Paul's Cathedral, hung out in Soho, wandered along Portobello Road, marvelled at the snow they sell in Harrods, did lots of rather average vintage shopping, ran around Hyde Park a couple of times, had a beer in the National Gallery and I think I spent more time on public transport in the last few days than I had in the weeks and weeks preceding. All that sweat, smoke, pollution and undergrounding is disgusting and awesome at the same time. Not unlike seeing a lamb being born, which I was privilaged/cursed with seeing last week.

Bobby eating an apple at the Tate Modern.

Saint Paul's Cathedral.

Vintage shopping at The East End Thrift Store.

Pastels on Portabello Road.

Harrods.

Snow in Harrods.

Sunglasses: £2 from Primark

Top: £4 from an Eastbourne charity shop.
Purple tights: Left overs from one of my Vintage and Retro Fashion sales.

The conclusion of all this is I need more Mickey Mouse, pastel and smoke in my life, pronto.

London Calling

I just got in after a train ride back to Eastbourne from London. I only have one word to describe the city: Manic. The kind of awesome maniacy that occurs in Manic Street Preachers or The Bangles singing Manic Monday. Not "O.M.G. I'm totally manic. Look! I have two different coloured socks on! Manic!". Well, maybe a little bit. But mostly no.

More to come as soon as I get my arse back into gear. In the meantime, here's some eye candy from the streets and pubs of London.

A child's toy box from 1897.

I totally want a cane.

London ladies amongst the pastels of Portabello Road.

Click on the picture for more detail, the dress was amazing.

It's incredible how ancient the pubs are in Europe. This one made me feel as though I was in an old crime film with muted colours and wonderful fashions.

The Duke of Westminster is rumoured to have emblazoned the Chanel logo on London's lampposts as a letter of love to Coco Chanel. Mr. Bobby, I would like owls on all the lamposts in Eastbourne please.

Three Cool Cats

Yesterday I was visited by the most gigantic and flat-faced ginger cat that has ever existed. He was like Garfield but real and more awesome and nowhere near as unfunny as I hear the film is. This Mr. Garfield had me grinning all day. My cat in Sydney (she's being looked after by my housemate Char for all you RSPCA spies in the room) likes to headbutt my fist when I put it close to her. I understand this is common of cats. Garfield however, decided that he was too cool for that nonsense. He decided that licking is the new headbutting.

We're going to a friend's place for cheese and wine tomorrow evening. What's Gorgonzola and Camembert crossed together? Cambozola! Snap! (Courtesy of the cheese aficionado Elle Hall.) Yum yum meow.

Scarf and pleated skirt: Both bought the other day for £1.50 at a little Eastbourne second-hand store that overflowed with bric-a-brac.
Cropped top: A hand-me-down from my Mother.
Belt: 50 pence from another Eastbourne charity store.
Gold tights: American Apparel
Gloves: A left over from someone else's '80s themed party.