About Yoko Ono
8 hours ago
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Parquet Anchovy *
Oh joy! Point Break is on the telly.
Reasons to love this film:
what's this post title all about?
* this post title brought to you courtesy of Fanny Bailey
Reasons to love this film:
- Vicarious thrill seeking - I will never go surfing/rob a bank/sky dive (especially without a parachute) but seeing it in the cinema on the big screen was as close as you can get. I love the way old Kathryn Bigelow keeps upping the adrenaline stakes.
- Keanu running along the beach in a wetsuit. His run is just wrong. We kept rewinding the video to have hysterics.
- The image of one of the bank robbers in a Reagan mask torching everything in front of him. Sly little bit of political comment sneaked in there.
- Its utter, utter silliness.
- Its utter, utter macho-ness. ('Too much testosterone around here' remarks the heroine at one point.)
- The utter cheesiness of Patrick Swayze as a philosophizing criminal. 'That's Bodhi - he'll take you to the edge. Past it...'
what's this post title all about?
* this post title brought to you courtesy of Fanny Bailey
Saturday, February 24, 2007
He austere a caterpillar *
So, a little later than everyone else, I have read Belle du Jour's book. (Did not really want to buy it, but was happy to find flatmate had it.) It is not v sexy. It is, in fact, a tiny bit depressing.
But what everyone really wants (or wanted) to know is, Is she or isn't she? The jury's still out. What I will say is this - it reads like an automatic writing programme, like a robot might write in some weird way - there is just something very wooden about it. (boom boom!) And I used to read the blog, I don't remember it being that stilted. Can't verify the hotel rooms and horsewhips, but little details, the mundane day-to-day stuff, just sound oddly.
I give you these sample sentences as evidence:
Evidence No 1: (on a former boyfriend) 'a lovely young lad who was clever and always smiled.' Lad? Who uses lad?
Evidence No 2: 'I was varnishing my toe-nails' Who says that? Surely 'polishing', 'painting', 'putting nail varnish on' are more usual.
Evidence No 3: (on Christmas) This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from the ancient aunties. Bring on the wooly socks and the embroidered handkerchiefs please!
Apart from the terrible multiple pile-up of cliches in this sentence, shortly before Belle has said she is Jewish and celebrates Hannukah, not Christmas. How come her ancient aunties do?
Evidence No 4: on boyfriend reacting to the news about her job 'I've been thinking about it and I think it's okay.' Oh. So that's okay then.
Evidence No 5 : on her (nice, middle-class) family 'They don't know officially what I do. They know I'm in the sex trade but that's it... I suspect they officially do know.' Oh well, that was easy.
One of my first questions on reading about a prostitute is 'Do you tell people about it?' What do your family think? What does your boyfriend think? See how gracefully she answers these thorny questions, despatching them in a mere sentence. Hmmm....
I can tell I'm not convincing you. But it is more a cumulative effect you get if you read it in one go. Maybe it's because it's been bolted together out of posts from a blog that it reads like a Frankenstein's monster of a story.
And the writing about sex is detailed, in the way that porn is detailed, without actually telling about how it feels - it really doesn't come across like a real person speaking from inside of an experience, in the way that, say, Mimi tells about stripping or Girl with a One Track Mind tells about, well, anything.
(Hm. Maybe that says more about her skills as a writer than it does about her authenticity as a prostitute, though. )
What's this post title all about?
* This post title brought to you courtesy of Boyd Crandall
But what everyone really wants (or wanted) to know is, Is she or isn't she? The jury's still out. What I will say is this - it reads like an automatic writing programme, like a robot might write in some weird way - there is just something very wooden about it. (boom boom!) And I used to read the blog, I don't remember it being that stilted. Can't verify the hotel rooms and horsewhips, but little details, the mundane day-to-day stuff, just sound oddly.
I give you these sample sentences as evidence:
Evidence No 1: (on a former boyfriend) 'a lovely young lad who was clever and always smiled.' Lad? Who uses lad?
Evidence No 2: 'I was varnishing my toe-nails' Who says that? Surely 'polishing', 'painting', 'putting nail varnish on' are more usual.
Evidence No 3: (on Christmas) This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from the ancient aunties. Bring on the wooly socks and the embroidered handkerchiefs please!
Apart from the terrible multiple pile-up of cliches in this sentence, shortly before Belle has said she is Jewish and celebrates Hannukah, not Christmas. How come her ancient aunties do?
Evidence No 4: on boyfriend reacting to the news about her job 'I've been thinking about it and I think it's okay.' Oh. So that's okay then.
Evidence No 5 : on her (nice, middle-class) family 'They don't know officially what I do. They know I'm in the sex trade but that's it... I suspect they officially do know.' Oh well, that was easy.
One of my first questions on reading about a prostitute is 'Do you tell people about it?' What do your family think? What does your boyfriend think? See how gracefully she answers these thorny questions, despatching them in a mere sentence. Hmmm....
I can tell I'm not convincing you. But it is more a cumulative effect you get if you read it in one go. Maybe it's because it's been bolted together out of posts from a blog that it reads like a Frankenstein's monster of a story.
And the writing about sex is detailed, in the way that porn is detailed, without actually telling about how it feels - it really doesn't come across like a real person speaking from inside of an experience, in the way that, say, Mimi tells about stripping or Girl with a One Track Mind tells about, well, anything.
(Hm. Maybe that says more about her skills as a writer than it does about her authenticity as a prostitute, though. )
What's this post title all about?
* This post title brought to you courtesy of Boyd Crandall
Thursday, February 22, 2007
You be proper *
It's a sorry day when you realise the spammers are better at writing than you are. But I can resist no longer - this weekend begins the week of the spam post titles.
Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about was Photography, specifically Photography and Ethics. My flickr account is mainly full of pictures of inanimate objects, yet I prefer looking at pictures of people, and love taking pictures of people more than anything.
But I have issues with taking pictures of people without their permission or knowledge then posting them online. Many of my favourites on Flickr - like Stpiduko - put 'Ask' projects online, which seems reasonable enough (though I'm curious what they tell people it's for when they ask.)
But the internets are full of people snapped clandestinely on the tube, clearly without knowing someone is taking a photo of them - some of them are beautiful and amazing photographs, but if I came across a photo of me on the internet on my early morning commute, I'd be totally fucking furious, I can tell you.
What do you think?
* This post title brought to you courtesy of Addie Vatina
Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about was Photography, specifically Photography and Ethics. My flickr account is mainly full of pictures of inanimate objects, yet I prefer looking at pictures of people, and love taking pictures of people more than anything.
But I have issues with taking pictures of people without their permission or knowledge then posting them online. Many of my favourites on Flickr - like Stpiduko - put 'Ask' projects online, which seems reasonable enough (though I'm curious what they tell people it's for when they ask.)
But the internets are full of people snapped clandestinely on the tube, clearly without knowing someone is taking a photo of them - some of them are beautiful and amazing photographs, but if I came across a photo of me on the internet on my early morning commute, I'd be totally fucking furious, I can tell you.
What do you think?
* This post title brought to you courtesy of Addie Vatina
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
kaffing
kaff kaff kaff kaff. Kaff kaff kaff. Kaff kaff kaff kaff...
Why am I kaffing all the time, now I've given up the evil weed? Hey?
I sound like Bob Fleming.
Am Unwell, still. Kaff kaff.
Why am I kaffing all the time, now I've given up the evil weed? Hey?
I sound like Bob Fleming.
Am Unwell, still. Kaff kaff.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Life after work
I know most people with proper grownup jobs don't get half-term at all, & I shouldn't be complaining, but it is immensely painful going back to work.The first paragraph about this inspirational lady hasn't half cheered me up though. Can you guess why?
Fashion week
In honour of fashion week, let me share with you the wisdom gained after a lifetime of following fashion:
1. If a clothing item doesn't fit you, it's because it is the wrong size, not you.
2. Fashion crimes I have committed: Bright red boilersuit with many many zips. Ra-ra skirts. Horrible hippy tassel skirts. Monkey boots. Don't do it, kids. *
3. High fashion is just a cannibalized expensive version of street fashion. Do like I do, and scavenge from the bags outside charity shops - you can't get much more street than that.
3. When you are young, through fashion you assert your refusal to join the boring grown-up world, and express your uniqueness and individuality, by dressing like all your mates.
4. People always go on about how radically fashion changes, but really it swings between two very narrow poles - skinny, and not so skinny. Note how it has never become fashionable to walk with a limp, say, or to have a hare lip. (Bring back the days when women used to wear red ribbons round their neck because their friends were getting their heads chopped off, say I... fashion was interesting back then.)
5. Shows like 'What Not to Wear' start with the premise that most people do not look good and need showing the way by fashion experts. Clearly this is rubbish - most of us look pretty amazing, considering that we don't have all the time and money in the world to spend on our appearances. Plus if you feel good about how you look, you tend to walk through the world in confidence and look good to other people. Trinny & Tranny can just bugger off.
6 . When it comes to women's shoes, you can choose either comfortable and ugly, or good-looking and painful, there is no inbetween. (Don't try and talk to me about Camper. Cornish pasties, anyone?)
5. Batwing sleeves are never a good look, no matter what they tell you.
6. PVC is very wipeable, but difficult to get into.
*Actually, if you wore all these items together all at once, they would hail you as a style icon down in Hoxton these days.
any more, for any more?
1. If a clothing item doesn't fit you, it's because it is the wrong size, not you.
2. Fashion crimes I have committed: Bright red boilersuit with many many zips. Ra-ra skirts. Horrible hippy tassel skirts. Monkey boots. Don't do it, kids. *
3. High fashion is just a cannibalized expensive version of street fashion. Do like I do, and scavenge from the bags outside charity shops - you can't get much more street than that.
3. When you are young, through fashion you assert your refusal to join the boring grown-up world, and express your uniqueness and individuality, by dressing like all your mates.
4. People always go on about how radically fashion changes, but really it swings between two very narrow poles - skinny, and not so skinny. Note how it has never become fashionable to walk with a limp, say, or to have a hare lip. (Bring back the days when women used to wear red ribbons round their neck because their friends were getting their heads chopped off, say I... fashion was interesting back then.)
5. Shows like 'What Not to Wear' start with the premise that most people do not look good and need showing the way by fashion experts. Clearly this is rubbish - most of us look pretty amazing, considering that we don't have all the time and money in the world to spend on our appearances. Plus if you feel good about how you look, you tend to walk through the world in confidence and look good to other people. Trinny & Tranny can just bugger off.
6 . When it comes to women's shoes, you can choose either comfortable and ugly, or good-looking and painful, there is no inbetween. (Don't try and talk to me about Camper. Cornish pasties, anyone?)
5. Batwing sleeves are never a good look, no matter what they tell you.
6. PVC is very wipeable, but difficult to get into.
*Actually, if you wore all these items together all at once, they would hail you as a style icon down in Hoxton these days.
any more, for any more?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
recollect
I watched him as he stood mid-stage, holding a triangle and beating out a rhythm with a frown of concentration on his face, my heart went out to him as he stood there, it sounded wicked but he looked a little self-conscious, and sure enough afterwards he told me
‘I feel like an utter twat that bit when I have to stand there all on my own in the middle with the triangle.’ As I looked round, the whole field at Glastonbury was jumping up and down to their music and I felt proud to know him.
He was such a sweet boy when I first met him, and didn’t seem to have the faintest clue just how sexy he was. I remember realising I liked him early on when he came to our house for a party. Sitting cross-legged in the living room, he leaned back too far and fell backwards into the fireplace. ‘Are you alright, J?’ ‘I’m fine’ he said, sitting up with dignity. Everyone was cracking up. It was bad timing when we met because he’d just come out of an entanglement with one of my best friends, and was moving to London to start his music career. He said he was sorry he was moving just as we’d met.
And the next time we saw each other he’d changed, was no longer a sweet boy. His band were struggling, and contrary though it is, lack of success seemed to have made him more arrogant. These days they’re doing quite well, I see their name all over the place and they tour abroad a lot, but stories filter back of prima donna behaviour, internecine warfare. They've lost not one, but two female lead singers, who've both gone on to have stellar careers without them. He seems always restless, consumed with something or other. And I’m kind of glad we never got involved, because sexy as he is, he seems like very very bad medicine.
‘I feel like an utter twat that bit when I have to stand there all on my own in the middle with the triangle.’ As I looked round, the whole field at Glastonbury was jumping up and down to their music and I felt proud to know him.
He was such a sweet boy when I first met him, and didn’t seem to have the faintest clue just how sexy he was. I remember realising I liked him early on when he came to our house for a party. Sitting cross-legged in the living room, he leaned back too far and fell backwards into the fireplace. ‘Are you alright, J?’ ‘I’m fine’ he said, sitting up with dignity. Everyone was cracking up. It was bad timing when we met because he’d just come out of an entanglement with one of my best friends, and was moving to London to start his music career. He said he was sorry he was moving just as we’d met.
And the next time we saw each other he’d changed, was no longer a sweet boy. His band were struggling, and contrary though it is, lack of success seemed to have made him more arrogant. These days they’re doing quite well, I see their name all over the place and they tour abroad a lot, but stories filter back of prima donna behaviour, internecine warfare. They've lost not one, but two female lead singers, who've both gone on to have stellar careers without them. He seems always restless, consumed with something or other. And I’m kind of glad we never got involved, because sexy as he is, he seems like very very bad medicine.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Cheapskate's haircut
So, on an economy drive, I went to the London Esthetique for a pedicure from lovely smiley Nina, and then to the Famous Hairdressers' Training School for £11.00 haircut (the last time was a hundred years ago for moral support when Emma got her beautiful long locks chopped into their famous bob. She went in all Rapunzel and came out all Louise Brooks, a process that took a mere 4 hours.)
My student (we'll call him Som) is from Thailand via Malibu - I wonder what his story is, must be very expensive studying in London and he has a house in Malibu - we're getting on fine and I take a piece of paper & pen to DRAW what I mean so none of those Hairdresser-speak/English mistranslation problems need ensue - then his tutor (I'm guessing Italian) appears.
'What you want - it's very eighties. We want a clean, modern, strong shape. At your age, you think, yes, I must keep the length, but if people see this, they think, this woman, she thinks she is still in the Eighties.'
Miaow, pussycat! Retract those claws! I'm not taking this from a man clad in stonewashed pre-ripped jeans, cowboy boots and a leather waistcoat, like he's channelling Sam Fox. Okay then, whatever you say. Because though I know we can happily discuss this for hours like we're designing and decorating the Sistine Chapel, at the end of the day you are cutting a couple of inches off my hair, which will return to Bride of Frankenstein Jewfro at the first hint of rain.
Snip snip snip... cut cut cut... it is a really good deal, but it takes hours, as they have to check with the tutor every step of the way. And as Som applies the hairdryer and the straighteners, (yes, it takes both to tame the Slaminsky mane) a familiar shape begins to appear in the mirror. The man refused me an eighties cut, but there's something about the style that reminds me of...
Yes. Ladies and gentlemen, he has given me a Rachel cut.
My student (we'll call him Som) is from Thailand via Malibu - I wonder what his story is, must be very expensive studying in London and he has a house in Malibu - we're getting on fine and I take a piece of paper & pen to DRAW what I mean so none of those Hairdresser-speak/English mistranslation problems need ensue - then his tutor (I'm guessing Italian) appears.'What you want - it's very eighties. We want a clean, modern, strong shape. At your age, you think, yes, I must keep the length, but if people see this, they think, this woman, she thinks she is still in the Eighties.'
Miaow, pussycat! Retract those claws! I'm not taking this from a man clad in stonewashed pre-ripped jeans, cowboy boots and a leather waistcoat, like he's channelling Sam Fox. Okay then, whatever you say. Because though I know we can happily discuss this for hours like we're designing and decorating the Sistine Chapel, at the end of the day you are cutting a couple of inches off my hair, which will return to Bride of Frankenstein Jewfro at the first hint of rain.
Snip snip snip... cut cut cut... it is a really good deal, but it takes hours, as they have to check with the tutor every step of the way. And as Som applies the hairdryer and the straighteners, (yes, it takes both to tame the Slaminsky mane) a familiar shape begins to appear in the mirror. The man refused me an eighties cut, but there's something about the style that reminds me of...
Yes. Ladies and gentlemen, he has given me a Rachel cut.
Happy Valentine's Day, my preciousssses. And while you're at it, go and wish Sevitz Happy Birthday - he cunningly arranged to be born on Valentine's Day so he'd always get lots of cards.
card from the marvellous Meish.org
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Home
Remember this post? I went to this place today:
to look at these - (my, they pack those key workers into that key worker housing - it's worse than battery hens, and you have to pay a lot for the privilege.)
On the way back, I passed this, and couldn't help sighing over it a bit...
to look at these - (my, they pack those key workers into that key worker housing - it's worse than battery hens, and you have to pay a lot for the privilege.)
On the way back, I passed this, and couldn't help sighing over it a bit...
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Wedding Day
'So, do you want to get married?'
'Me? I'm not bothered. But they say it's time... And I'm not interested in all that in-love stuff. I'd rather do it this way.'
Today I went to the wedding of a colleague, out in the wilds of Essex. She's 21. Last year, one arranged marriage fell through as the two families argued. When it broke off, the boy started leaving her abusive messages on her voice mail. Just as she got over that, the next one was set up... and it all went ahead. She'll be moving in with new husband, his sisters, and the inlaws, having never left home before. The in-laws are older than her parents, very traditional - wouldn't let them see each other much before the wedding, and told her off for cutting her hair. I'm crossing my fingers for her.
We rocked up at 12.30 pm, as it said on the invitation, to find some sharply suited youths in the banqueting suite. 'We're here for R's wedding.'
'R? We don't know the bride's name, we're friends of the groom. Is she from Whitechapel?'
They told us everyone would probably start arriving maybe around 2.00,
2.30 ish.
'Welcome to an Asian wedding...' they said, as we headed back to the high street to find a cafe to wait in. Different from most Western weddings, which are planned with military precision. Also, this being a Muslim wedding, no alcohol at all, so it was very sedate. Everyone looked gorgeous, with fabulous suits & saris, and enough bling to satisfy the most flamboyant gangsta rapper.
R looked absolutely beautiful, opting for pale pink over the usual red & gold, though she was pale and looked pretty terrified. Flanked by bridesmaid and holding flowers, she sat for hours whilst everyone else ate, having thousands of photos and videos taken. I remember reading somewhere that it's traditional to look sad at the thought of leaving your family, I'm hoping this is the only reason.
The groom was way over the other side of the room, and they only came together towards the end. They both looked about 12, and about as prepared for marriage as two twelve year olds. Still and all, I guess it's got as much of a chance as any Western love match at working out.
image from http://www.abeautifuldayphoto.com
'Me? I'm not bothered. But they say it's time... And I'm not interested in all that in-love stuff. I'd rather do it this way.'
Today I went to the wedding of a colleague, out in the wilds of Essex. She's 21. Last year, one arranged marriage fell through as the two families argued. When it broke off, the boy started leaving her abusive messages on her voice mail. Just as she got over that, the next one was set up... and it all went ahead. She'll be moving in with new husband, his sisters, and the inlaws, having never left home before. The in-laws are older than her parents, very traditional - wouldn't let them see each other much before the wedding, and told her off for cutting her hair. I'm crossing my fingers for her.
We rocked up at 12.30 pm, as it said on the invitation, to find some sharply suited youths in the banqueting suite. 'We're here for R's wedding.'
'R? We don't know the bride's name, we're friends of the groom. Is she from Whitechapel?'
They told us everyone would probably start arriving maybe around 2.00,
2.30 ish.
'Welcome to an Asian wedding...' they said, as we headed back to the high street to find a cafe to wait in. Different from most Western weddings, which are planned with military precision. Also, this being a Muslim wedding, no alcohol at all, so it was very sedate. Everyone looked gorgeous, with fabulous suits & saris, and enough bling to satisfy the most flamboyant gangsta rapper.
R looked absolutely beautiful, opting for pale pink over the usual red & gold, though she was pale and looked pretty terrified. Flanked by bridesmaid and holding flowers, she sat for hours whilst everyone else ate, having thousands of photos and videos taken. I remember reading somewhere that it's traditional to look sad at the thought of leaving your family, I'm hoping this is the only reason.
The groom was way over the other side of the room, and they only came together towards the end. They both looked about 12, and about as prepared for marriage as two twelve year olds. Still and all, I guess it's got as much of a chance as any Western love match at working out.
image from http://www.abeautifuldayphoto.com
Friday, February 09, 2007
Cabin fever
Greyness... concrete closing in... If I don't get out of London soon, my head will fall off. Or something.
Rachael has been tempting me with tales of eccentric clubs and attractive people in Berlin, & seeing as I haven't been for years, and the last time I went, we hitch-hiked there (and ended up being stranded in the dark & having to spend a night in a truck stop disabled toilet on the border of France and Germany - though being a German truck stop toilet it was as clean as, if not cleaner than, a suite at the Ritz) I think around Easter, it's time to go back and do it in style. *
This is all a preamble to tell you that I was doing a little light researching of places to stay - if you know of anywhere, please do feel free to recommend - when I came across Propeller Island City Lodge. Can it be for real? Rooms based on prison cells, complete with toilet in the corner; rooms with cages; rooms with padded green leather walls; or, for the discerning wannabe vampire, rooms with coffins to sleep in. Those crazy Germans. Go check it out, and tell me what you think.
* BiB, if you are reading, and around, I will be demanding to meet you for a drink.
Rachael has been tempting me with tales of eccentric clubs and attractive people in Berlin, & seeing as I haven't been for years, and the last time I went, we hitch-hiked there (and ended up being stranded in the dark & having to spend a night in a truck stop disabled toilet on the border of France and Germany - though being a German truck stop toilet it was as clean as, if not cleaner than, a suite at the Ritz) I think around Easter, it's time to go back and do it in style. *
This is all a preamble to tell you that I was doing a little light researching of places to stay - if you know of anywhere, please do feel free to recommend - when I came across Propeller Island City Lodge. Can it be for real? Rooms based on prison cells, complete with toilet in the corner; rooms with cages; rooms with padded green leather walls; or, for the discerning wannabe vampire, rooms with coffins to sleep in. Those crazy Germans. Go check it out, and tell me what you think.
* BiB, if you are reading, and around, I will be demanding to meet you for a drink.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Unwell
Languishing at home today with (let's see,what's the most ladylike Victorian illness?) the consumption. Instead of using the time intelligently to catch up on planning and sorting out my finances, am frittering it away with YouTube, which I'm loving at the moment. I think Del especially might appreciate this - Snoopy & everyone else getting down to 'Hey Ya'. It fits quite uncannily.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Lyrical
I take song lyrics far too seriously, ever since the days of studying closely the sleeve liner notes of Parallel Lines. ('I will give you my finest hour, the one I spent watching you shower' seemed impossibly rude when we were 7, and sent us into fits of giggles). In a music meme, one of the questions was 'what's your favourite instrumental?' and it made me realise how much I love song lyrics. Well we've discussed the bad ones, but here's your chance to vote for the good ones.
I would vote for John Lydon - it takes an incredible, lively intelligence to write 'There's no future in England's dreaming' at the age of 19, (on a comparable level with Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at the same age, I think) followed by the prophetic 'Happy to have, Not to have not, Big business is very wise, I'm crossing over into enterprise' from 'This is Not A Love Song' in the early years of Maggie-Thatcher-Milk-Snatcher's reign of evil.
Go on, post your favourite lyrics in the comments box. And tell us why.
I would vote for John Lydon - it takes an incredible, lively intelligence to write 'There's no future in England's dreaming' at the age of 19, (on a comparable level with Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at the same age, I think) followed by the prophetic 'Happy to have, Not to have not, Big business is very wise, I'm crossing over into enterprise' from 'This is Not A Love Song' in the early years of Maggie-Thatcher-Milk-Snatcher's reign of evil.Go on, post your favourite lyrics in the comments box. And tell us why.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Brassiere
I've done pants, now it's time for bras.
Bras are a wonder and a mystery. In recent conversation with Em, she mentioned how they only seem to have one bra size in sunny Spain (34B I seem to recall), mysteriously the same for wispy little lace numbers and huge corset-style granny bras. Fuck it, you can see them thinking in the Spanish bra factories - size, schmize - stick another 34B on it.
Spain doesn't seem to have the modern innovation of different measurements and cup sizes either - a request for a 32C was met with a baffled 'En España, no hay. Hay en Inglaterra?' (We don't have them in Spain. Do they have them in England?!') Because women come in standard issue shapes and sizes, as we all know.
Interesting bra facts:
- 85% of women are wearing the wrong size bra (my not-at-all rigorous scientific research suggests.) I was among them, til I went to Selfridges one day and found myself upgraded from a 34B to a 30DD. DD! I was one happy bunny, til I found this size is impossible to find.
'If you can't find a 30DD, go up two inches in the measurement and down one in the cup size' said the saleslady. Bra physics is an arcane and complex branch of mathematics, into which I feel there has been insufficient research.
- Rigby and Peller make the Queen's bras, though since no one has ever seen them, probably not even Prince Phillip, I don't know why this should impress us. Apparently the highly trained staff don't even need a measuring tape, they just take a quick look and can find you the perfect size. I bet that's one skill they never expected to have on their CV.
- The world's most expensive bra is $15 million, though it may be made from rubies and diamonds, it still looks like something you might see on a Vegas stripper.
- When some little tinker stole my credit card details last year, they went on a shopping spree and got an £80 haircut in a Glasgow salon, stereo equipment, and tried unsuccessfully to buy out the entire stock of Figleaves, a shopping site which is underwear nirvana. I applaud their good taste, I would have done exactly the same.
- Madonna's conical fifties style rocket bra, designed by Jean Paul Gaultier for her Blonde Ambition tour, nearly had a backing dancer's eye out. (Actually I made that one up.)
- Elle Macpherson's bras are great, though Kylie Minogue's, not so much. But my favourite (despite the name) are Princesse Tam Tams.
Bonus link if you have read this far: this site is hilarious.
bras
Bras are a wonder and a mystery. In recent conversation with Em, she mentioned how they only seem to have one bra size in sunny Spain (34B I seem to recall), mysteriously the same for wispy little lace numbers and huge corset-style granny bras. Fuck it, you can see them thinking in the Spanish bra factories - size, schmize - stick another 34B on it.
Spain doesn't seem to have the modern innovation of different measurements and cup sizes either - a request for a 32C was met with a baffled 'En España, no hay. Hay en Inglaterra?' (We don't have them in Spain. Do they have them in England?!') Because women come in standard issue shapes and sizes, as we all know.
Interesting bra facts:
- 85% of women are wearing the wrong size bra (my not-at-all rigorous scientific research suggests.) I was among them, til I went to Selfridges one day and found myself upgraded from a 34B to a 30DD. DD! I was one happy bunny, til I found this size is impossible to find.
'If you can't find a 30DD, go up two inches in the measurement and down one in the cup size' said the saleslady. Bra physics is an arcane and complex branch of mathematics, into which I feel there has been insufficient research.
- Rigby and Peller make the Queen's bras, though since no one has ever seen them, probably not even Prince Phillip, I don't know why this should impress us. Apparently the highly trained staff don't even need a measuring tape, they just take a quick look and can find you the perfect size. I bet that's one skill they never expected to have on their CV.
- The world's most expensive bra is $15 million, though it may be made from rubies and diamonds, it still looks like something you might see on a Vegas stripper.
- When some little tinker stole my credit card details last year, they went on a shopping spree and got an £80 haircut in a Glasgow salon, stereo equipment, and tried unsuccessfully to buy out the entire stock of Figleaves, a shopping site which is underwear nirvana. I applaud their good taste, I would have done exactly the same.
- Madonna's conical fifties style rocket bra, designed by Jean Paul Gaultier for her Blonde Ambition tour, nearly had a backing dancer's eye out. (Actually I made that one up.)
- Elle Macpherson's bras are great, though Kylie Minogue's, not so much. But my favourite (despite the name) are Princesse Tam Tams.
Bonus link if you have read this far: this site is hilarious.
bras
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