Mama knows best.

There’s something heart warming about receiving a parcel, especially when you’re living in a foreign country. When I got back from work today I saw in reception a parcel with what could only be my Dad’s uber large handwriting. Basically, I order things to my house in England so my parents are forced to forward them on to me so as to avoid paying extortionate p&p charges, sneaky eh. And my mum’s parcels are the crème de la crème; not only did she send me the stuff I ordered but she also sent me Sinutabs (the best decongestion tablets ever) and some cute little flowery tea dresses made by her own two nimble hands. That’s what my mum does for a profession, as it were.

I remember sitting cross legged on her desk in the sewing room watching her cutting out patterns, piecing together wedding dresses, gowns and the like. She’d never do my textiles homework for me though. It’s a shame that I’ve only just started to appreciate her pursuit, and I never paid more attention. I can sew a button on or hem things but that’s as far as my capabilities go.

She’s basically altered all my clothes since I can remember and until I knew how to choose my own clothing Mum made all my party dresses as a child. When I reached that difficult adolescent age I refused to wear her creations as I thought it was a bit of a faux pas. Now I’ve come back round full circle... thank-you madre!

my dear friend Sophie

Ever since she encouraged me to start a blog, I've promised her I'd dedicate a blog to her.

1.       People here in Spain can’t pronounce her name, so some call her Shopie instead.

2.       She absolutely loves Scholl foot products and doesn’t stop talking about how much she wants all of them.

3.       Her biggest fear is that someone will make her count absolutely every single grain of sand in the world.

4.       She used to set her alarm at like 5am so she could shower and then go back to sleep before work, until she realised that this is the most stupid idea in the world.

5.       She is currently en paro. Which is Spanish for unemployed. She got fired because of the crisis.

6.       She thinks she hates a lot of things.

7. My favourite thing to do with her is laugh.

8.       She’s obsessed with Ebay and watches on average about 10 things at a time.

9.  She’s even more obsessed with Kano, and doesn’t fail to mention him at least once a day.

10.       When she is quoting what someone else says, she always puts on the same voice.

11.   She introduced me to two of the best Spanish cereals I have ever tasted in my life; Chocolate Pillows and Crousty 4 fruits. We eat them from mugs.

12.   When she’s drunk or falling asleep she has what we like to call a limp hand, or the K-hole hand.

13.   When she got DC++, instead of downloading amazing films, she downloaded utter shit like Night at the museum and Just my luck.

14.   Everytime she asks if we should watch a film, I always say The Break-Up, and she always says no.

15.   She always wants to watch The Business, to which my reply is no. So we always end up watching Grey's Anatomy.

16.   She likes to throw clothes on innocent Spanish strangers while they’re sleeping.

17.   She once got asked to go for churros and cocaine with Mike Skinner in Madrid. She went, but turned down the cocaine.

18.   She likes to dance to the music in Carrefour which attracts attention from the check out boys.

19. She cooks goooooood food.

18.   She loved this French boy for a while. And she loves Chuck Bass.

19.   She nearly cried once after a Columbian got a little too carried away.

20. She always sings the first line of Candle in the Wind.

21.   She's a sexy little critter she is. Hahahahaha.

22. We like to talk in lithp to one another. Eg. You're tho methy thopie. 

23. She has strangely perfect nails. 

Sofi Sofi, Sofi Sofa, cada dia te quiero maaaaaaas.

 

bye bye tie die

There are a few reasons why you should never put your denim jacket in a bucket of bleach and then pop into work for a couple of hours:

1. your flat ends up smelling like my school swimming pool.

2. the following photo really explains all.

So, that's 5.50 and a whole afternoon i'll never get back. 

ps. this is partially, if not fully, the fault of my best friend. Cheers GOOF.

still a Sesame Street fan...

Monday Monday, so good to me

I had a perfect Monday. Which almost always never happens.

8am wake up. Don’t snooze at all today. Muesli with about 2 tablespoons of sugar. Fit in some reading time on metro. Work more chilled than last week as people are actually answering their phones today. Everything functions on a Monday.

11.05am. Online banking tells me student loans are in. Hello.

Get sent out to shops to collect things. Despite a taxi driver yelling at me as I made him go through about 10 one way systems to three different places and wait for me each time I went to get something, it was quite nice being driven around. One of my fav shops in Madrid is called Ekseption which stocks everything from The Row to Oscar de La Renta. Anyway, they had these really cute fluorescent style string bracelets with mother of pearl charms by Aurelie Bidermann. Couldn´t shop on the job unfortunately.

2pm. Go to the most amazing beautician called Alice in Wonderland. It even has a mini-sized door and it IS actually wonderland. Quaint French music, flower wallpaper, teacups and bunny rabbits. Walk around chic Chueca with Shopie and keep seeing amazing restaurants. I wish I lived there. We avoided the magnetic pull of all the bistros but finally gave in and had a menu del día at cute little Italian restaurant. Doughy bread is the best.

Continue strolling in the sun and we find an awesome Californian sunglass brand called Sabre. Gave in and bought a wide framed aubergine pair a la Juno. Not the cheapest of sunny Gs I have to admit. I cannot under any circumstance break these ones. I call it the first day loan syndrome- first day expenditure does not count. I should have bought more.

6pm. Gym gym. Realise it’s actually a steam room not a sauna they have in the changing room. Yes! Fortunately not busy. Went mental on the steppers and my iPod didn’t run out of battery which is usually what happens as I am incapable of charging anything to full battery. Tengo agujetas hasta las orejas.

10pm. Fruit salad and Spanish TV with Soph. Still don’t like kiwis mate.

Now. Uninterrupted Grey’s Anatomy in duvet. Perfect.

A rediscovered treasure

I have this bag. I absolutely adore it; it is a postbox red weaved clutch that is too big to actually carry and a pain but I use it anyway. It was my mother’s; one of the many many bags I steal from her extensive collection of gems from the 80s and beyond.

Anyway, about a year and a half ago, I wore it on a night out and an acquaintance of mine approached me and proceeded to ask why I had brought my folder out to a club. Maybe it was because the huge clutch bag phenomenon hadn’t really set off yet but I laughed it off anyway thinking it was hilarious and consequently wacked him over the head with it. Maybe it's a male thing. A friend told me she was once asked by male friend why on earth she was wearing two coats. She was in fact trying to pull off an American Apparel nylon windbreaker under her winter abrigo. She wasn't wearing two, stupid. 

A year passes and the bag (like the majority of the things I own) gets lost in the deep, dark, depths of my wardrobe. Yet after a yearly and natural reshuffle I rediscover it much to my delight. So I rocked it last night to a friend’s fiesta, and someone asked me why I had brought a hot water bottle to a party, above all in Spain. Oh dear.

So if you see me out and about, the huge red thing I am struggling to carry under one arm is most likely to be my bag guys. I don't even use hot water bottles. 

 

the diary of an intern

One pair of Louboutins. Some Marc Jacobs ballerinas. A Miu Miu skirt. One Gucci clutch. And that Balmain denim military jacket that sold out in Madrid in one afternoon. Thousands of Euros worth of attire in just two, albeit large, shopping bags. I haphazardly skip my way down calle Serrano inbetween the shoppers and business men. I get back to the office just in time for the phone call with the girl from Prada.

This is the life of an intern for the fashion department of Spanish Vogue. Little fashion obsessed preened creatures that tiptoe around the office observing, pleasing and doing what we are told to without so much as a flutter of an eyelid. We are the assistants’ assistants. Scanning, phoning, carrying, picking up or dropping off clothes/bags/flowers/food- these are to name but a few of my daily tasks. The better responsibilities include requesting clothes from fashion houses on behalf of stylists for photoshoots; the not so good jobs include organising the cupboards full of backdated French, American, British, Russian and Japanese Vogues. The plus side is that I have an endless archive of publications at my disposal. My favourites include precious British and French Vogues from the 1990s.

A lot of people ask me what I wear to work. The fact of the matter is, I wear what I want. Sometimes I dress up, sometimes I wear my battered Converse. It is after all, a fashion magazine. Fashion is subjective; beauty is in the eye of the beholder etcetera etcetera. All the stylists, naturally, look effortlessly stylish whether it be in their Chanel pumps or puma retros. They own what seems like an endless number of coats, jackets, dresses and boots. Moreover, they all have an air about them, as if they’ve just rolled out of bed fresh-faced and elegant, throwing on the first thing they come across in their wardrobe. I am yet to perfect this- I think it’s a Spanish thing.

The head of my department always looks impeccable, petite yet chic in her over sized blazers, flowery dresses and tassled boots (she has the same ones as me and this makes me happy). As for my fashion editor- need I say anymore- she looks incredible every day. She towers above the rest of us with her Chanel bags (she must have at least 4) and Vuitton heels. Did I mention she rides a motorbike?

Heels- now this is something of a grey area in the office. I, for example, would not wear heels in the office. Not because I do not love them, sometimes even prefer them to flats, but because heels represent professional standing. There is a heel hierarchy. It’s a pretty safe bet, for instance, that the fashion editor will be wearing high heels. Sometimes she will sport some New Balance vintage trainers, but most of the time, it’s the 6 inchers. The junior stylists, however, wear chunky heeled boots, kitten heels or flats. I, as a meagre intern, therefore, tend to stick with my French soles or brogues, and the furthest I have ever gone was to wear some chunky ruffled mary janes, and even then that was with tights.

So, from my experience so far, I have come to the conclusion that the Devil does not wear Prada. Anyway, if he was to wear anything it would definitely be Armani.

HOLA

Hello

I am new to this. I have decided to jump on the blogging bandwagon, because diaries are so

1990s. I've had a diary ever since I was 12 years old. I tend to only ever write in it when something really good or something really bad happens.

 

I need somewhere to write about all the stuff inbetween..