Ailyex vs. Dogboyo

In celebration of The Mister’s Days Off Work, we got terribly excited about the prospect of cake and I got terribly dismayed that I didn’t own rolling pin to brandish at the urchins upstairs. So we rustled up homemade pizza and the ‘chocolate fudge squares’ hanging out on the pink gingham, after a recipe in the Sunday Times’ Style [without the suggested crystalized violets, bless Middle England - I doubt the village fete-ers would approve of my using 'herb' scales to weigh out my caster sugar . . . ] before being confronted with a pile of Stubb CD covers, a pair of scissors and Mr.’s hopeful smile, saying ‘Please cut out the covers so that I can sit here smugly fiddling with the PC whilst you and Aaron bugger them up like wonky imbeciles . . . ‘

Between the chocolate, treating the taptop to an actual functioning battery, trying out some proper gorgeous recipes from Orangette, playing one-of-the-boys with this, the arrival of this and these, plenty of Farscape [ohmygod, new episodes! Excuse me while I get really nerdily excited . . . ], one whole sunny, short-skirty day, boy/girl naps and Mr. not working or rehearsing ’til Monday, it looks like it might be a lovely weekend . . .

I think that my flat is making me hate yellow. To put this in context our entire dwelling space is painted a particularly sad-looking, unloved buttermilk. And I mean the entire flat - every single room, wall AND ceiling, top to bottom. BUT, I do remember liking this sunniest of colours - one of my clearest memories from Reddington - the under 8’s part of my school - is of ‘drawing time’ and of waiting, spring-loaded in my chair, for Miss De Beers to let us choose a colouring pencil from the Big Jar, praying that no one would get to the bright yellow one before me. And I am always envious of Ms. Shim’s pretty yellow prints and notecards. So it must be this flat. Our contract comes up in November and hopefully we shall re-locate to digs more conducive a yellow-loving life, but until then, just about the only yellow item in my life is my trusty Paperchase refill pad, on which I scribble not insightful thoughtful promising prose but funny little creatures and hopeful To Do Lists for the coming days. Which isn’t half bad.

As my first post for Kayte’s Colour Week, I bring you a miniature cornucopia of red and pink possessions:

Clockwise from the top left are . . .

my favourite red gingham alice band,

a fabric lei from my sixth form study room [which also contained 50 pink paper flowers, 1 bead curtain, fairy lights and a chuppah!],

a string of thrifted red beads that lives around my left wrist,

the lid of a thrifted biscuit tin that now holds cotton buds,

more gingham, this time a bow barrette I made years ago,

the perfect red wooden earing,

rings given to me by my mum and sister,

a 12mm cherry ear stretching plug,

a red star pendant given to me by my sis for my 17th,

and a new apple pendant from New Look, all sitting on my trusty Accessorize laptop bag.

I love how a splash of red detail can lift an outfit or a room instantly, adding pep and spice, rendering blotchy skin milky,

drawing the eye to a red-framed print, scarlet pumps peeking from under jeans

or carmine-lidded cranberries amongst the quiet wine glasses of a kitchen shelf.

Okay, so I have a confession to make: I’m a massive whimp. Bass Face and I have lived here for six months and I have not once used the garden. The reason: the upstairs neighbours’ spitting on delivery-men, squalling, lets use our twelve-stone-at-age-eleven bulk to barge past you in the hall, obnoxious kids. Now, bearing in mind that once May comes around Hbert, The Alien and I can generally be found sitting somewhere grassy with a shisha, vodka, smokage and boyswithguitars in tow; it’s ludicrous that I’m sitting inside. So . . . yesterday I set up shop with laundry to hang, Orlando and orange juice, and you know what? Nothing happened. I read and lay in the mini amount of sun out. ‘Twas bliss. And who knew our garden contained so many actual not-dead plants:

AND, continuing Show and Tell Saturday, here’s the booty from thursday’s Camden trip mit la petite soeur:

This cute pocket belongs to a £10 turquoise skirt that reminds me of my Grandpa’s old cinefilms of family holidays. Doesn’t it look like it should really be worn on a sixties holiday to Spain? The Munchkin snapped up an american boyscout shirt and a quilted handbag, Chanel stylee. Not bad at all.