If you ever need a florist in Australia...

I love sending people flowers. I love receiving them too, so I've always figured if sending them gives even half the joy I get from an unsolicited bunch of flowers, then it's money well spent. My mother is an extremely talented amateur gardener & professional floral designer, (she does lots of super stylish weddings and sweeps the board at the local garden show with her flowers too), so I grew up learning to appreciate the glory of a good florist.

One of my best friends from school lives in Sydney now with her new husband. When they married last year I couldn't attend as I had already been asked to read at A's wedding in London over the same weekend and, lacking a tardis, would have been hard set to get from New York to Australia to London and back to New York in the space of five days.

So back to flowers. I spent hours on the old interweb looking for a florist in Australia that could do a bunch of flowers gorgeous enough for my beautiful friend. She also happens to work at Pacific Magazines, so a certain standard of chic was required too.

I drew a complete & utter blank. Maybe the hip Oz florists fear the interweb, because they certainly aren't lurking on Google. Oh God the horrors. It took me back fifteen years to the good old days of Teleflora: yellow, purple and white mixed sheaths of maidenhair fern, chrysanths, freesias, carnations & gypsophila (baby's breath), all tied up with that shiny plastic-y ribbon.

Then, after many hours of fruitless searching, I came across Prickly Pear, and wept for joy. Finally: an Australian floral designer with some balls. They describe themselves as 'Australia's best on-line florist' and, if one hadn't checked out the truly dismal competition, one might think that they were guilty of hubris. But no.

I chose these for her 'Sorry A grabbed me for her wedding first' bunch:And these for her 'Happy housewarming my darling girl' bunchI can't recommend them highly enough: ravishing arrangements, great communication, prompt delivery. Shiny gold stars all round.

Boeing Boeing

Funny how things can change. I was in the slough of despond yesterday, and today things seem much perkier. (Thank you all for your kind comments & emails). Prescient Dressed & Pressed is so right: cake is always the answer. Or, in my case, a roll of pre-made Tollhouse cookie dough.

I managed to sleep before 3am, and consequently am awake bright & early today without feeling that my half my day has been wasted. It’s a beautiful day, not as hot as yesterday (knocking 80F) but clear & fresh. I’m revelling in the humidity-free sunshine. It won’t be many weeks before what equates now to a perfect English summer’s day turns in to an urban sweat bath.

Just when I was at my grumpiest yesterday afternoon, wonderful, uplifting O rang to get a number and then,, on the spur of the moment invited me to take the place of her husband (away on business) at the theatre that night.

We convened at Joe Allen with her two urbane & beyond charming GBFs at 7 for pre-theatre supper. I love going out with O: she’s by far my most fashionable and chic friend (two things that don’t always go together), and so together we tip-tapped our way to the compact Longacre Theatre round the corner, she in her strappy & very complicated lizard Louboutins and me in my vertiginous brown suede Michael Kors sandals.

My first Broadway experience! And one much like the West End, to be honest, all gilt proscenium arch, boxes and velvet curtains, although no usherettes with ice cream trays around their necks in the interval (boo) and a standing ovation at the end, something that rarely, if ever, happens with restrained English audiences.

We were to see a preview of Boeing Boeing, directed by Matthew Warchus who transfers the production from London’s Comedy theatre. The play is a 1960’s French farce, made immediately obvious by a wonderful modernist standing set (Barcelona chairs, glass desk & pendant lamps)) with seven doors. (All farces need lots of doors so that people can hide, misunderstandings can be created, and characters can appear at precisely the wrong moment).

A truly stellar cast got the audience on-side from the off. Glorious Englishman Mark Rylance, (the only original cast member), Gina Gershon, Kathryn Hahn & Mary McCormack star alongside multi-award winners Christine Baranski (Cybil) & Bradley Whitford (The West Wing).

I found the actors’ projection somewhat screechy to start with, Hahn's overly mannered American air hostess sounds like an aural cheese grater & Baranski's housekeeper's faux French accent is less than authentic, but the sheer exuberance & physicality with which the compact cast throws itself into the script can’t help but engage an audience ready to clap each famous actor’s first entrance.

We were swept along on a rising crest of hilarity that threatened but never broke into hysteria. The cast knows just when to milk the script, which is very much a period piece (minxy air stewardesses, TWA & PAN-AM, telegrams), but the concept of a confirmed bachelor juggling three air hostess fiancées as they fly in & out or Paris - & his apartment - on carefully calibrated airline timetables has stood the test of time and makes for a thoroughly amusing evening.

All's well that ends well...

The big freelance contract that I was worried would slip through my fingers with all the job dithering has turned out well. They rang this morning to say they want me to continue consulting and if I have to stop when the other job kicks off then so be it. Otherwise I will continue to consult for them. Genius. Until it was resolved this morning, I hadn’t realised just how much it was worrying me.

And, most importantly, the babydog is on the road to recovery, and apparently wriggling about in ecstasy in London.

Gah

God I’m in a staggeringly bad mood today. I wasn’t going to bother blogging, but then I thought, I know some people think I live a charmed life: New York, fashion, etc, etc and they would be right to a certain extent that my life here is pretty damn good, but that doesn’t mean everything works out all of the time, & maybe I should blog when I am hot, cross & bothered.

I KNOW, and count my blessings every day, that I lead a life that is not what many people consider to be the norm. Most of all, my life and my work are interchangeable. I don’t work to live.

But that doesn’t mean that I am Pollyanna, all hoppity, skippity, beaming rays of sunshine. I’ve got PMS, my dog is still ill, & my new job is still so caught up in a mire of paperwork and other people’s schedules that I am starting to despair of it ever actually happening.

I’ve been hanging in limbo for nearly a month now, waiting for it all to kick off, and if I wait much longer other, not quite so exciting, but definitely interesting & well paid, freelance opportunities are going to slip out of my grasp. I’m running the risk that I will have no work at all, and that scares the beejesus out or me. Being freelance means that you are always balanced on the knife edge of feast or famine , & if I have to keep waiting I’m going to start lurching towards famine. And that’s what’s making me so appallingly grumpy right now.

It’s like someone is holding the most beautiful couture frock in the world, made precisely to my measurements, just in front of my nose & swinging it there on a hanger but not letting me wear the bloody thing.

Dating option number three. Round two

I’ve complained before that online dating in America is a minefield. America may be the land of the free, but it’s also the land of the free to lie about your height, weight, looks, career. Most people I meet, with just one exception so far, are fatter, older, shorter, less shiny, less sparkly versions of their on-line personas. I never had this problem in London. I mainly used a site called loveandfriends.com, and every person I met was exactly what I expecting. I made some great friends and always enjoyed the experiences.

My theory is that it's much, much easier to meet people in person when you're out & about in New York than it is in London, where asking random people out is still not the norm. Therefore the people on-line dating in London are more normal, whereas the ones on-line here in Manhattan are often the ones who really find it a challenge to meet dates in the real world. (Plus, of course, out of towners, and shy people.)

The only person I’ve met in New York who didn’t enhance their profile was S, the guy I dated last summer, who didn’t actually write a profile. He just filled his on-line form with non-sequitors and bonkers-ness, his theory being you’d either get it. Or you wouldn’t. And he was exactly what I was expected: sexy, intelligent, amusing, leftfield.

So to dating option number three. So, recap, we never made it on our first date as my friend X ended up in hospital. He then went on holiday for two weeks. Monday afternoon we emailed & he suggesting meeting that evening on his way home from work. That gave me precisely twenty minutes to get ready and to the subway to meet him.

I’ve never, ever gone out in the evening wearing jeans (well not for since pointy high heels, boot cut jeans, & sparkly tops were the last word in hip, and & that’s a looooong while back), but twenty minutes? Not a lot of time for putting together a hot date outfit. So laundry day meant jeans, loose navy cotton dobby top, gold chains, beige suede wedge platforms were just going to have to do.

I saw him from across the street and just thought, yup, another one. Short, plump, geeky. He was kind and sweet, a perfectly pleasant guy with whom to have an early evening drink, but dynamism wasn’t his outstanding characteristic. If we hadn’t had our professions in common, there would have been little to talk about.

He chose a bar round the corner, which is where the evening became more memorable. The guy sitting just inside the door turned out to be a guy from a magazine called ooh, let’s call it Bonfire, with whom I went on a blind date last spring. Of all the bars in Manhattan…

Two days before my date with Bonfire guy, I had been invited to a Bonfire party at Barney’s. I hadn’t wanted to mention it to Bonfire guy in case he hadn’t been invited (magazines don’t always invite all their editors to see & be seen dos) & I didn’t want to embarrass him or be seen to be showing off

Turns out I needn't have been so thoughtful of his feelings as he was all about the showing off, as he was exceptionally pleased with himself for working at Bonfire. (He'd mentioned it in his very first email to me. I never tell people my name or who I work for.) Anyway he was there at the party, & we both recognized each other. The first question he asked me was why I was there. Because I was invited, I replied.

Fast forward to our date. Two minutes in he started heavily interrogating me as to why I was at the party, & who I knew to get invited. This really, really pissed me off. I really didn’t see why I had to play that game. Friendship or relationships should be based on chemistry & compatibility not social usefulness. Anyway, eventually I just cut it off with a raised eyebrow and an ironic ‘because I’m just very, very important’. He let it drop. We sat & chatted and went our separate ways.

We’ve had no contact since but what made me chuckle was that he was obviously on a blind date too. And whenever he thought I was looking over at him, he started leaning into to her across the table, and then relaxing back when he thought our attention had strayed. I’m afraid I ignored him. Very mature, LLG.

Target needs to re-think its eco strategy

More Earth Day thoughts.

Eco bandwagon-jumping makes me all hot, cross & bothered. Either do it properly or don’t do it all. I’d like Target to explain, please, why they think that ordering a job lot of oil by-product nylon shopping bags is helping to create a greener planet?My own bag arrived folded in a thick cardboard envelope marked ‘A gift for you and the environment’ in my subscriber copy of Vanity Fair. When I opened it there was a stink of chemicals from the bag itself. The sleeve asks shoppers to carry it for’ an easy way to reduce waste in your community’.

Are they on crack? Not only has the bag been shipped from China, it's made from extremely dubious chemicals that I don’t want my fruit & veg kicking around in, & they’ve just created a wholly unrecyclable shopping bag, and cardboard envelope which will be thrown out. (And it’s irrelevant that the envelope is made from 100% post-consumer waste.)

I am extremely unimpressed.

Francoise Olivas designs: A way to mark Earth Day

Ethical clothing is now a serious option for those who love fashion. I suggest celebrating Earth Day by checking out the beautiful collection from new designer Francoise Olivas who, as she puts it, strives for ethical beauty. I particularly love her Stravinsky's Stripe Dress (look no 12/13 & Three of Cups (look 16/17).

I'm going to lift straight from her copy as she describes her motivation better than I could:

It's hard to feel beautiful in an exquisite dress knowing that people halfway across the globe toiled long hours for mere pennies a day to create it. The richness of Francoise Olivas designs comes from our fair trade practices and alliances with traditional artisans from around the world. We rely on our global partners not only to assist us with producing our garments, but to inspire and collaborate in the design of our pieces as well.

Additionally, we respect and marvel at the grace and charm of the environment. We aim to use only environmentally friendly fabrics and yarns, and to restore natural dye practices. Simply put, we endeavor to create a line of products that are gentle on the world in order to be gentle on your mind.

The Francoise Olivas brand is a harmonious blend of form and fit, emotion and color, excellence of artistry and inspired originality. Our collection gives a nod of respect and appreciation to the diversity of cultures in our world, while extending a social, economic, and environmental handshake.

My London to-do list

I’ve been making a list of the things I’m going to do when I get back to London. Leaving aside the issue of my carbon footprint, I’m thrilled at the prospect of a couple of months in both cities.

Eating Vietnamese on the Kingsland Road with Miss P is at the top of the list. I think about the food there more than is good for me. I once briefly dated an older banker who lived in Chelsea. When he asked my favourite places to eat in London and I said the Hackney Vietnamese restaurants, he thought I was joking. (He had expected a Hakkasan or Wolseley type of answer). He found it inexplicable that I could choose a genre of restaurant whose dining accoutrements included plastic chairs & paper napkins. But it’s all about the food, I tried to explain. We didn’t last.

That’s not to say an indulgent power breakfast at The Wolseley or Cecconi's won’t be on my list. I am sure one of the kindly London fashion PRs will oblige.

There will be some light shopping. COS for sure and maybe a trawl through the High Street fast fashion retailers to pick up the kind of inexpensive & easy summer pieces that it’s impossible to find in New York. I’m thinking somewhere hideous like Brent Cross where I can get it all done in the most efficient manner possible.

Daunts, the best independent bookshop in London has four branches, two of which are within walking distance of my London place. The babydog & I shall certainly be dropping in on the way to the Heath for a spot of advanced ball throwing. (If she's feeling better by then. Sigh.)

A leisurely bike ride down the canal from Camden to Haggerston Lock, through Islington and Shoreditch on a sunny day is a blissful experience. It’s a true green oasis in the heart of London, bordered by railway lines, factories, and warehouses, some converted into chi-chi lofts, others still very much in working order, where ducks & herons, moorhens & kingfishers exist equitably.

And, speaking of birds, when the weather is warm I am so going swimming in both the Parliament Hill Lido, & in the Ladies Pond on Hampstead Heath. Unless you are an aficionado, the latter can be a hard sell. A proper pond, with ducks, & weed and, sometimes, rather cross looking swans, it has a thrust out pontoon (continually manned by lithe female lifeguards) with a ladder, so you can either climb or dive into the murky water. It’s so cold that you catch your breath, but after a few strokes you acclimatize and the temperature is perfect. I used to swim from May to September, and in August it was actually sometimes too warm. The water, although a funny brown colour, is kept fresh by the underground River Fleet which rises from a apring at Kenwood at the top of the Heath, & runs beneath the ponds.

It’s just simply one of the best outdoor experiences in London. Swimming the length of the water, sometimes in the rain, pausing at each moored lifebelt to look around at the encircling trees and blue sky, it’s easy to imagine oneself many miles from civilization. Until, of course, a plane on the Heathrow flight path zooms overhead.

Bicycles & bookshops, dachshunds & The Heath, food & restaurants, swimming & fashion. Pretty much sums me up then.

My version of a quiet week...

After my rampant socialising of the past two weeks, I took it down a whole octave this past week. I wrote a lot, had some great work-related things going on (the Grazia mention, two big fat commissions and an excellent protracted conversation with the lawyers regarding my work visa) and confined my socialising to a couple of strawberry vodka lemonades on the roof at Soho House in the wonderful 25C sunshine, a brief foray into the Diesel party with Sexy S & Ginger on Friday (full of twenty-something children in hipster outfits), & some quiet meals with girlfriends.

Mexican at Rosa Mexicano on Monday with lovely L & her son, in town for a long weekend to vist his dad who is shooting a movie with Kirsten Dunst in the city, and then an early supper, blood orange margaritas & more guacamole at Mexican Mama on Tuesday with BA & N for a catch up & wedding dress consult. (I am going to turn green if I eat any more avocados.)

We ate burgers & fries & drank cheap red wine at the counter at Florent in the Meatpacking on Friday and, most memorably, mezze on Thursday at Pylos, a modern Greek restaurant on East 7th with a tiny street front that opens into a sophisticated and grown-up minimal eating space. (I love the East Village for its constant architectural surprises like this.)We ordered lots of appetizers mezze style, amongst which were an artichoke moussaka that practically had me licking the dish, a plate of sensational deep fried haloumi with grapes and a sweet reduction, and a Greek salad that was so much more than the sum of its parts.

Although we've drunk excellent Greek wine here before (retsina remains a distant memory), a bottle of Champagne was drunk to toast BA's engagement and I tried to forget that in the one block walk from my apartment to the restaurant with BA I had managed to buy a pair of aubergine patent, hidden platform Mary Janes with a four inch heel by Pour La Victoire from Coco & Deliah, a brilliant little boutique (with a very good on-line offer) just past my front door.

They were half price in the sale & bought to replace my burgundy ToSho versions which I have worn into the ground since I bought them with JD's dissie card in Sept 06. Even if I don't wear them until next season, I know I'll get loads of use out of them. Have I done enough justification now? I don't know what's got into me of late. I've bought more stuff in the past week than I have in the past two months put together.

In London, I rarely get led astray by retail. Even in the relatively posh bit of North London in which I have a flat, the nearest shops to me are a Londis, a dodgy offie, a granny salon and the local*. It's just not quite the same somehow.

Oh, & now I have something else I want to save up for: this beautiful necklace that Queen Marie dedicated to me over at Kingdom of Style.

*translation for my American friendsLondis: Chain of bodega type corner stores (without the deli counter)
Offie: Off-licence liquor store (meaning you can't drink on the premises)
Granny salon: Hairdressers catering to the Senior Citizen market with £10 specials on perms and weekly wash & sets
Local: The pub

Images: nymag.com

My new hat

Speaking of vintage hats (see below), this is my latest find:It was $24 at the Brooklyn Flea and is in absolutely mint condition. I bought it from a stand of excellently sourced vintage accessories, run by Marie & Ian, the charming couple who run this vintage site. I am flying back in July for a wedding on an estate in Scotland, and I think this may fit the bill perfectly.

Although goodness knows what I'll be wearing then. I'm on a be healthy regimen right now (I refuse to use the word 'diet') as my summer clothes are somewhat tight. It also doesn't help that my new job is looming and I really do not want to have to invest in a whole new working wardrobe when I have so many beautiful pieces stashed away both here & in the attics at my parents' place in England.

So, healthy regimen it is then. Certainly no take aways - & that's not as easy as it sounds. Every restaurant in Manhattan from the dodgy Chinese round the corner to Le Bernadin will package you up supper if you ask nicely and, as mentioned before, there are eleven restaurants on my pretty East Village street alone.

I've developed my own skinny version of Nachos, (my abiding vice), which involves half a cup of brown rice, black eyes beans stewed with an onion & stock, grated vegan soy cheese (it's so wrong, I know), fat-free sour cream, and home made pretend guacamole made with half an avocado, cherry tomatoes and a lot of chili sauce bashed up with the pestle & mortar, with a handful of coriander on top and maybe some cubed marinated tofu in with the rice for some more protein. The dish is surprisingly delicious, with lots of umami taste, & filling too.

I just wish there was a healthy alternative to bloody Creme Eggs.

Meme-tastic

We haven't had a blogosphere meme on here for a while, (my all time favourite was this one) so thank you my friend The Glam Guide who has tagged me to name six unimportant things about myself:

1) My first cat was called Sylvie Pilchard Jubilee
2) I’m often mistaken for a man on the telephone
3) I’m addicted to Crème Eggs
4) I collect vintage hats
5) I won the school General Knowledge Prize three years in a row at Junior School
6) I can’t wink my right eye

I tag: Wee Birdy, Stylist Stuff, Nonsense on Stilettos, Tales From The Runway, Suzanna at Le Style Sauvage and Jenny at Slaves to Fashion

Nuptial dressing

I thought finding the perfect dress for BA was going to be a long haul. We've been surfing bridal websites all week, (Amanda Wakeley was looking good), and had next weekend pencilled in for some preliminary trying on sessions at Bergdorfs & various salons uptown.

The wedding date isn't fixed yet (maybe October) but, given that BA is returning to England in the near future and her bridesmaids are in NYC, and the long lead times for ordering bridal dresses and the length of time it usually takes to make appointments and try on frocks, we thought there was no harm in getting started.

Then on Wednesday, as I barrelled along East 9th on my bike on my way to Soho House for drinks on the roof, I caught sight of a dress that looked similar to the shapes BA likes in the window of a store. I pulled a drastic braking manouevre (not so easy in four inch wedges I'll have you know), and pressed my nose up against what turned out to be the window of Selia Yang, a tiny one room bridal salon in the heart of the East Village.

I persuaded BA up there after closing time on Thursday for a squint through the security shutters and, we later made an appointment for this afternoon.

Turns out that although the East Village location may be a one room wonder, Selia Yang is a very highly regarded New York wedding dress designer with anoher showroom in Tribeca. And about to be in the public eye too, as one frock in the current collection is the wedding dress featured in the upcoming Patrick Dempsey & Michelle Monaghan vehicle Made of Honour.

So, to this afternoon. Susan, the salon manager, picked out five or so frocks. The dress from the window was second in. And bingo. Dress search over. She looks utterly ravishing. The dress is pure distilled essence of BA. She couldn't look more beautiful. Now we've just got to find three bridesmaid's frocks for three girls with different bodies & colouring that work with the dress. Piece of cake.

I am not radioactive, just lightly tanned

Well I am now furnished & burnished by EzeTan’s sun. Spray tans can be somewhat disconcerting if you haven’t had one before. The spray contains an immediate bronzer so you walk out looking all California golden then, during the course of the evening, you become progressively more tanned as the colour underneath develops.

By morning you look like Cat Deeley.

Of course the bronzer washes off in the shower leaving a lovely golden base. (Although I would never leave the apartment in my mahogany state, I do love it as my eyes go a piercing bright blue and my hair looks incredibly blonde in contrast. I’ve never had a tan that deep in the real world so I rather like the fantasy aspect of it all.)

It doesn’t leave your sheets orange, but I do bleach them in the summer as some colour definitely rubs off. I also keep a separate towelling dressing gown for when I am tanned. And I certainly wouldn’t advise sharing your bed with a boy the night you have a spray. You will smell odd and your tan will rub off rather too quickly.

There’s been some debate in the comments as to whether looking tanned is good or not. I certainly embrace the milky white nature of my natural colouring in the winter, enjoying the contrast with the winter palette, but the bright blues, pinks & yellows, & fuchsia lipstick I love wearing in the summer (& remember NYC is HOT) look appalling against my pale skin. And, if I'm going to be getting my legs out without the protection of 120 denier Wolfords,(& I wear pretty short sundresses as a matter of course), then they are going to need a little perking up.

Part of me thinks it’s irresponsible to promote tanning in any way when a real sun tan can kill. But the other part knows that, as a natural blonde, I just look better, plain & simple, in the summer with a very light golden colour.

I just wish that women didn’t still think it a good idea to bake themselves in UVA & UVB to achieve that effect.

It’s important to note that spray tans give you no protection whatsoever from the sun. I wear a dermatologist recommended SPF15 moisturiser containing the most upto date sunscreen by La Roche Posay on a daily basis throughout the year, even in the depths of winter, and always, always carry sunscreen & SPF lip balm from spring through to autumn, whether I am in the city or on the beach.

Nivea sent me their new DNAge Cell Protection Anti-Aging Face Sun Cream SPF50 spray a couple of weeks ago. It's been developed especially for the backs of hands, the face & décolletés: the areas which show sun damage the quickest.

Although it smells absolutely hideous ('fresh, subtle fragrance' my arse), it’s a convenient size to carry around for spraying on the hoof.(Although I'm somewhat dubious about a few of Nivea's claims. Best to treat it as a sunscreen not a miracle anti-ager.)

Give me sunshine

There are an awful lot of helicopters buzzing around, so I presume they must be Secret Service and news crews getting ready to cover the hoo ha of the Pope’s visit. I can’t say it’s making much of a material or spiritual difference to my life right now, apart from ensuring I stay below 14th Street as I reckon it’ll be chocka in the skyscraper-y part of town tomorrow.

I hate to rub it in, as I know London is grey, but it’s progressively getting warmer here: 21C today, with a scorching 25 planned for tomorrow. Altho, given the utterly schizophrenic nature of NYC weather, no doubt it’ll be freezing and pouring with rain by Sunday when I’ll want to be by the pool on the roof deck at Soho House.

I’m off for my first spray tan of the season this afternoon. I bought a mega package at EZ-Tanning on Fifth last summer, so they worked out at $10 a throw, a steal compared to £20 a pop in London, & I still have some left. Several girlfriends have been trying to convince me that my English Rose-ish complexion and skin look lovely as they are, but I just can’t be doing with looking like a bottle of blue-tinged skimmed milk.

Of course, I haven’t actually exposed my skin to the sun since, well never, as I had eczema as a child and was incredibly fair so beaches were anathema & I burnt to a crisp within about 30 seconds. I’ve always worn high factor SPF, hats and covered my shoulders and décolleté when outside and it’s paid off as I don’t have any wrinkles or crow’s feet yet.

To be honest tho, it wasn’t so much from vanity as from a combined fear of skin cancer (I’m in the highest risk group – Northern European blonde with moles & freckles), and the fact that I get sunstroke & keel over pretty rapidly without a hat. Also I am sure that I can hear my cellulite sizzling in the sun like bacon on a griddle.

Still, there is an element of idiocy in my decision to spray tan: dunking myself in all those chemicals when I eat organic and will choose paraben free moisturizers. I guess that’s the essentially dichotomous nature of the 21stC female.

Posetta Babydog

The absolutely worst thing about being away from England is when there is a crisis back home. When I woke very early this morning and saw that there was a voicemail from my mother I knew something waa wrong.

My sister & I are besotted with Posy, our miniature wire-haired dachshund. She looks like someone did a scribble on a page and added stumpy legs. She's contrary & naughty and came from Dachsie Rescue so she's always a little unpredictable. Lots of my friends referred to her as Kujo when she arrived, as she was a very damaged little dog and used to fly at strangers in a frankly terrifying manner, especially for something so little. (She'd already been re-homed as uncontrollable three times, & we were her absolute last chance.)

We've bombarded her with love & affection over the last three years and she is a different dog now, although we never allow her around children as we suspect she was tortured by toddlers in her formative years, given her reaction to small people. She also hates tall men in big shoes, which also says something. Altho I guess when you are only eight inches off the ground, 6'4" is going to look like a horrid mutant hairy giraffe.

Of course she is ridiculously spoilt, but we love her dearly for her energy, enthusiasm and balls. She thinks nothing of taking on rottweilers and retrievers on the Heath. Who, needless to say, just stand there looking bemused, as if to say, "You're a midget. Why would I be scared? Go and bark somewhere else".

She also sleeps upside down along my side with her head on my shoulder when I come back to London. I'm not mad keen on this but, frankly, it's easier to acquiesce as she'll spend the night jumping on my head if I turn her away. And God she looks adorable. (She doesn't usually sport a mohawk BTW, that was just for the photo.)

Anyway, many dachshunds have problems with their spines eventually, and Posydog is confined to her bed with a swollen disc for a month. My sister tells me she whimpered all night with pain, so the vet gave her codeine this morning and she is better now.

We have a pact that we will not be those indulgent dog owners who subject their animals to huge amounts of pain, surgery & distress just to assuage their grief at the idea of losing their companion, but goodness it's hard. H is home all day (she doesn't go out to work) with the babydog* and I can't imagine her life without her companion. The vet says that if Posy stayd in her bed for a month, then she should be fine, and back to her normal boisterous self. Here's hoping.

*She's known as the babydog because she is ridiculously tiny for a dachsie, especially when compared to Maudie the Jack Russell, and ASBO & Violet the gormless whippets, who live with my parents in the country.

APC bag

I really, really want this APC bag. It's not horrifically expensive, although more than I usually pay for a bag. It fits my criteria of not being an It bag, and will not be instantly recognisable when I wear it. I'm planning on wearing a lot of navy blue & grey this summer and it would look perfect as a "color accent" as my American chums would have it. iT'S $345, about £180.

Topshop New York

American fashionistas have October 10th inked and highlighted in their diaries: Why? That’s the day that Topshop will open on Broadway in SoHo. That means that the New York fashion editors who usually spend most of London Fashion Week in September shopping in ToSho Oxford Circus have only a scant month in Europe to wear their bargains.

After all, the show season ends in Paris on October 6th, so they’ve got four days to wear their new purchases in New York, before consigning them to their assistants.

It’s one thing wearing Topshop when you can only buy it in Europe, but which fashion maven wants to be seen in the same dress as the bridge & tunnel crowd, darling?

Leaving on a jet plane...

It's looking increasingly likely that I am about to be spending waaayyy too much time commuting across the Atlantic. Which is why I bought myself this glorious necklace in gold by Erica Weiner at the Brooklyn Flea on Sunday. It seems kind of appropriate for a new stage in my life. It comes in brass $35, silver or gold plated ($75).

My grandfather was an aircraft designer at De Havilland's both during and after the War, where he was awarded an OBE for his work as part of the small crack team that designed the Mosquito, which played a vital role in winning the War, and the Comet, the first jet airliner. I don't really remember him much as he died when I was a child, but my mother has the gold Comet suspended on a chain that the wives of the designers were given in commemoration. I rather like the idea that I can wear a 'plane too in honour of my grandfather.

For a fashion editor, I'm not very good at spending money on my wardrobe. As I complained before, I don't have a fashionable figure so designer clothes don't really fit me. I don't buy it bags (God forbid) or expensive shoes, preferring to rely on vintage (as you know), sample sales and judicious High Street picks. In an ideal world, I like things that last: beautiful, well-made proper luxury rather than mass-tige products. Most of all, I jhave worked from home for seven years, so haven't needed a huge wardrobe.

Of course now that full time employment is looming, I'm starting to shop more. And it's fun to be able to justify buying things that I normally consider indulgences on a freelancer's unpredictable income: like pretty necklaces on a whim!

Grazia: I love you

Well goodness gracious me. I've been so utterly gobsmacked by the news from London yesterday that Grazia have written about my blog in this week's issue. I was woken up super early by the trash trucks on St Marks, so I extracted my Blackberry from under my pillow (in the manner of a fully functioning addict) to find that Susie Bubble had emailed to tell me that LLG was in the What's Up section. (That girl is seriously quick off the mark - thanks love!)The kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze me: I had emails all day from people who thought I may have missed it, & then a lovely girl just emailed me out of the blue with these scans, which saves me from scouring Manhattan for a copy. And thank you Grazia: you didn't just make my day, but my mother's too!

Celia Birtwell for Express

As it looks increasingly likely that I may be returning to the world of full-time work in the next month or so, I am taking advantage of the beautiful spring weather (same temp as London, but strong sunshine), to ping around Manhattan on my bike, shopping during the day and being a lady who lunches.

Composing an outfit of sundress, tights & sunglasses (I hate this inter-seasonal hot/cold dressing nightmare), I whizzed over to Meatpacking from the East Village (I do not recommend cycling over cobblestones) to meet super stylish ex-Voguette O and adorable baby Oscar at Zampa for lunch.

Afterwards, as we were across the road, I gave O a guided tour of Soho House - I'm proposing her for membership - & we looked longingly at the pool and roof deck in the bright sunshine. I walked her home, and she gave me a pair of her Alaia boots that she's no longer wearing in her baby looking after mode. Very welcome.Then off to Express to check out the Celia Birtwell line. I'm a bit slow off the mark, as it launched a week ago, so I fully expected it to have sold out.

But no, there were racks of it in all sizes, and the dresses have been reduced by 25%. Such a shame that it hasn't had much press, as the designs & finishings are far more detailed than anything boring old Topshop has done with Birtwell to date, & the silk chiffon is beautiful. There are rows of tiny self covered buttons on the cuffs and down the backs of the dresses, giving a very 70's feel. The sleeves and pussybow ties are generously cut too. It's great to see too that she is using her archive prints, so you really feel that you are getting something very Celia Birtwell, rather than the usual High Street dilution of the designers' ethos.

My criticisms? Somewhat stingily cut across the bosom in the medium & large, I was busting out all over which means I am going to have to wear my dress in the evenings rather than as a sundress, as planned. The price point, although a bargain for this Englishwoman who is paid in pounds, but gets to spend in dollars, is quite high for Express and, I suspect, is responsible for the slow sales. (Birtwell is not nearly so well known over here as she is in the UK.)

This is what I bought (please excuse dodgy cameraphone in changing room pics):Lapis Lazuli print pussycat bow blouse. There is some elasticated shirring under the bust, so I fear I will never be wearing this shirt without the cardi - way too alarming on the bust front otherwise. $79.50/£40Beautiful lilac Mini Posh Dot print dress - rather a lot of cleavage going on, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. $128 reduced to $96.Okay - these having nothing whatsoever to do with Celia Birtwell, but navy anything is hard to find, & I love their nautical styling, & they were on the way to the checkout. $44/£22