Consider This Your Invitation

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of Sydney's legendary Hibernian House Vintage and Retro Sales, Dear Pluto is your new favourite shop, friend, cinema and second home.

Please join us for a drink (or two) to celebrate our GRAND OPENING on the evening of September 17th at 5a Wilshire Street, Surry Hills. Dear Pluto's collection of hand picked garments and accessories from decades past will be available for purchase on the night, at the same low prices you've come to love us for.

Dear Pluto: No garish shop-fronts, no flashing signs, no bells and whistles, no pretension, just a whole lot of retro goodness tucked away in a laneway between Crown & Bourke St.

Degrassi Junior High

Wow. I just deleted a whole post and I don't even know how. And you know what? I could Control Z but I think it's a sign. It's definitely a sign. I'm not in the right state of mind to be blogging, especially about that time I thought I was a werewolf. It's raining, cold, grey as all hell, I'm kind of grumpy and I'm pretty sure I just called Bobby the c word because he didn't peel the garlic properly. It might (but probably doesn't) have something to do with the fact that I'm still a little hungover from Saturday's trio of parties, one of which had a bar tab and another of which was within stair-climbing distance of my place in which sat, eagerly awaiting my frequent visits, a large bottle of vodka and a bag of goon. Side note: Did you know that they don't even say goon in England? They call it 'boxed wine'. Doesn't that just make it sound so much more classy than it actually is? Goon doesn't deserve class. Take down the streamers and show it for what it is: Horrible, egg containing, preservative ridden, acrid tasting goon. And it's WONDERFUL. So much so that it deserves capitals. Much like the third party of my Saturday evening, which was, from what I can remember, pretty bloody awesome. Admittedly, I spent most of my evening speaking to complete strangers (albeit, apart from one odd, incredibly-keen-to-give-out-entirely-unrequested-autographs fellow, absolutely lovely strangers) rambling on to them about the beauty of vintage and retro clothes and encouraging, neigh, insisting that they drop along to my market this weekend because basically, it's going to be one big friendly-on-the-pocket party. I NETWORKED, baby. Not sure how true to the word 'party' the event's actually going to be; we'll be sellin' poppas of the fruity kind not the sniffable kind and it'll be during daylight hours only so, in all honesty, it's probably going to be a lot more low-key/kid friendly than I might have made out. If you do happen to turn up really drunk however, I promise to show you to the toilet where you'll be more than welcome to spew your guts up. Because that's just the kind of person I am: Accommodating.

Of course, last Saturday's party was themed (because all the best ones are), and the theme was Degrassi Junior High. Whilst the actual number of people dressed up was rather low, it was great if only for the simple reason that I had an excuse to go all eighties. Again.

I should add that the night was in celebration of the amazing Miss Marissa Ziesing (above), whose birthday it was. I hope you had a suitably brilliant evening, Marissa. I'm pretty sure I forgot to say 'Happy Birthday' on the night. I'm remarkably talented at things like that. I do hope that announcing it publicly, to the billions of readers of my blog (hah!), makes up for that tiny nugget of forgetfulness.



Fashion Launches Rocket Launches (above) played a set in the early evening. Unfortunately, we missed the better half of it (or what I'd hope, all things considered, was the better half) so I'll reserve my criticism for another time. In their own right, they're each very talented musicians.


See? Networking.

How Sweet It Is

Parisians, it feels safe to state, love their vices. Cigarettes oft (it's like often but older) haphazardly dangle from lips, wake-up coffees are replaced as the choice of drink no later than the early afternoon by red wine, cheese is bought by the kilo and, of course, macarons are enjoyed for every occasion one could think of. Wedding? Macarons! Baby shower? Macarons! Thursday? Macarons! And a good thing that is, because otherwise Laduree perhaps would not still be around today, some one hundred and fifty years after it's establishment. Laduree is the most famous, and certainly the best, patisserie in Paris for macarons. So famous in fact, that Laduree sells 12,000 macarons a day.


I first fell in love with the delicious clouds a few years ago, in the days when I often spent my evenings leafing through recipe books. It became my dream (well, one of my many dreams) to travel to France and try one of these magnificent looking creations. Of course, regarding myself as a little cook, I made numerous attempts at baking them. Alas, they all failed miserably, leaving me with flattened lumps ofmacaron and bowls of runny filling. Having never tasted or even seen one in the flesh certainly didn't help my exploits.


So, last week, it was with a huge smile on my face that I skipped into Laduree in Paris, and bought my very own box of six macarons. Actually, Bobby bought me my very own box of six macarons. We've already established that I have next to no money. But oh, they're wonderful! They're fluffy little clouds plucked from heaven which melt in your mouth better than M&Ms ever did. Melt in your hand not in your mouth my arse, M&M. Laduree make these macarons in all the colours of the rainbow and enough flavours to have you dizzy. They're made freshly each morning and with each box of macarons comes a little leaflet, containing a brief history and the date you're box of mouth-watering goodness was made. They're worth every cent and, even if you're as poor as I, I absolutely insist that you treat yourself to one (or six) next time you find yourself in Paris. Or get your boyfriend to treat you. Or a stranger. I saw a man put on a puppet show on the tram and, you know, he got a fair bit of money from it. So that's an idea. I'm just saying, given how delicious these things are, I know kids who would go to further lengths.


Paris, if this is what it feels like to love your vice, I'm with you. Just watch out for the withdrawals. You might just end up on the cigarettes and alcohol.