My clothes have been stripped from my motley array of vintage hangers and bundled into a big box, and my ancient and battle scarred bag is packed to the gunnels, and now we are somewhere in transit to St Kilda. See you on the other side!
PS. Congratulations to my cousin Tess on the occasion of her wedding. Just look at this little tiny taste of the luscious loveliness of her beautiful day:
I've never had headband mojo, not even in my younger day - I don't think my head is correctly configured for them - I've never been able to successfully wear an alice band either. This hasn't been a problem for me, on the whole, although I did try to emulate the headband stylings of Kylie Minogue and Lady Miss Kier circa 1990, with predictably unfortunate results (which I luckily have no photographic evidence of, for once). The hotpants I could manage, the headband - no.
You and Bjork, love still.
I'll come clean and say this headband was never meant to be on my incorrectly configured head at all - I had to pay for it after the little dude recklessly broke it in Sportsgirl, trying to force it around his small head twice. Thankfully he'd pulled it off the sale rack so it only cost me four dollars, but still the guilt of inattentive parenting, along with the pointy judgemental expression on the face of the teenage sales assistant weighed heavy(ish) on my heart for about five minutes after it happened. Remind me never to take him into Hermes or anywhere else he could potentially break stuff which costs actual proper money.
Deer in headlights + slightly cross-eyed = photo taken in the mirror.
it's still humid, and I'm still shiny
Any headband on my head will end up inexorably working it's way upward, crawling up my cranium to create the Mururoa Atoll mushroom cloud effect as per King of Headbands, Bjorn Borg:
I went through a weird phase when I was about 19 when every guy who approached me in a bar or night club was a Boris Becker lookalike. The room would be full of grunge dudes, or hair metal fools, or shoe gazing indie boys, yet somehow the one who'd try to buy me a drink would inevitably be a slightly gingery, decidedly sandy, freckly and germanic sort of person, wearing a powder blue tracksuit or similar, and on one memorable occasion, actually carrying a tennis racquet. I never worked out what was causing this strange phenomenon, and eventually it stopped and I started getting hit on by those architect-looking guys with the square glasses, but maybe they just sensed some innate Bjorn Borg-ishness about the shape of my skull? That's as good a theory as any advanced at the time.
I came upon these magnificent beasts hanging on a rack in cut price hellhole Valleygirl, and I was moved to capture their majesty with my somewhat less than megapixel phone. Yes, indeed, these are photo print distressed jeggings. Cotton lycra leggings printed with a photo of ripped acid wash jeans. They are so very, very awful, yet strangely mesmerising and almost exquisitely terrible in their post-modern recontextualisation of something or other. I would have bought them if they hadn't cost nineteen dollars, just to look upon them in awe whenever I felt like it (instead of having to furtively photograph them in a changing room).
sorry, blurry, not enough pixels to my name
The printed on worn patch on the bum is pretty nice...
...and so is the printed on photo of trodden down cuff
I'd like to see someone wearing these unironically, it would be like seeing a Yowie (australian even more dubious version of Bigfoot) in the wild, in fact I'd even be happy seeing these worn ironically by some hipster youth - but I think it would be tricky to tread that very fine line and pull it off. Irony is a demanding mistress and has brought many a youth undone...
Thank you a million trillion to The Village Markets, and to all the people who came and gave my Gold Coast wardrobe a new home. I'm going to miss this little market and all who sail in her - lovely, laid-back, and lots of fun!
You can just about see the side of my head in that photo above, I'm in there somewhere spruiking my wares, but if you could see me you'd know I was stomping around in my sort-of newly acquired tan leather nineties boots:
three bucks, where else but from the op-shop.
There I am from another angle (which makes me look like I've just randomly plonked myself down in a local park all alone), and you can see that, along with the boots, I am wearing the hardest working frock in show business. This old faithful, seen in ancient times here and here and here and not much since we've been up here in Queensland. Looking at those old photos of coats, tights and rainy days reminded me how much the climate comes into play when it comes to style. I wonder if Melbourne will bring me a blogging renaissance, just because it's more fun to play with layers and accessories and all that when an icy wind is blowing in off Port Phillip Bay and there's no sweat dripping off the end of my nose? Plus, you know, the whole Return to the Scenester Ghetto thing.
doing the hard sell
I have to go and roll around in my piles of cash now, Scrooge McDuck style, and admire the vast empty spaces in my soon-to-be-ex walk-in wardrobe.
I've seen the square toe come and go again a few times over the years now, and I've never really liked them. In concert with my hobbit legs and flipper feet the square toe tends to give me a bit of a hoof effect, and Bovine Be-Hooved Hobbit Lady isn't exactly the look I've always yearned for, in fact I would go so far as to say I have actively sought to avoid it. So these shoes are a bit of an aberration, and I need some assistance deciding their fate.
They came with their own little shoe tree things, but I fear they are round the wrong way here.
My question here is quite a simple one - albeit one which requires a certain amount of crafty clairvoyancy and fashion forecasting to answer - do I keep these square toed Ballys or do I send them back into the op-shop gene pool? Is Miuccia really going to swing us all back into the square dance with flat-fronted feet? In six months will every shoe in every shop be shovel nosed and this pair will be a part of the pack, or will they just make people recoil in dismay at my obvious misstep?
The three tone python-ish leather, all over fabulous quality, (and those shoe tree things) were all quite winning, but I would never have bought these if I hadn't been shopping with Melbourne in mind. It was actually a few months ago now, just when I started thinking about moving, and I set out on an op-shop mission one day looking for coats and cashmere and things I could squirrel away until the cold winter down south. Of course it was about nine thousand degrees that day, and there was nothing in the op-shops except the usual polyester handkerchief tops, three quarter length pants, and bowls uniforms, so I seized upon these shoes as suitably melburnian, and coughed up the cash. I got them home and had square toe squeamishness and shoved them in the back of the cupboard, so I wouldn't have to face up to my buyer's remorse.
Now I'm wondering if I should hold onto them, not least because in a funny way they sort of echo the perfect little edwardian house we will be moving into in just a few days:
So, what do you reckon - stay, go, square toe yes, square toe no?
PS. A bit of a bite size post this one (and the next few), while I move south (and hopefully get some blogging motivation back.)
...is officially over. Anyone still worrying about the ethics of cloning can let it go now - because it's already happening, and I have the proof:
PS. Congratulations husband on wrapping principal photography, now it's time for a bit more little dude lounging, and a lot less 14 hour underwater night shooting (well, time for second unit and post-production anyway, plusa tiny wee smidgen of very well earned lounging).
So how exactly do I get from the land of rainbow lorikeet luau dresses to the bay of black bundling and winter layers ? It's an actual journey, of course, involving logistics and trucks and bubble wrap and aeroplanes, but also a metaphoric mission from one world to another. My natural habitat lies firmly between the two - my heart is still back in Bondi, truth be told - but having chosen a nomadic life I suppose I have to get used to making these odd transitions from place to place, and wardrobe to wardrobe.
Anyway, rather than grappling with questions of personal identity, much better to just get down to business and cull the hell out of my Gold Coast wardrobe to make space (and funds) for cashmere socks and vintage furs. To that end I am having one last stall at The Village Markets this sunday, assuming the torrential rain can hold off for a day, and I have a vast array of stuff which ABSOLUTELY MUST GO. So if you're in the vicinity come on down and say hello, and avail yourself of my low, low prices and a bit of little dude love into the bargain. Here we are at the last markets - little dude proudly displaying his campfire, me proudly displaying my 3 chins!
PS. here's the creepy bit. Really should have known better than to watch this in an empty house...
PPS. Coloured dress - Mimosa (christmas present), silver leather sandals $17 Biscote sale, earrings $2 Diva sale. Black silk shirt $2 op-shop, black stud leather sandals $29 Blonde Bamboo sale (how Gold Coast is that shop name?!), necklace $70 Bikini & Book (more Gold Coast-ness).
1. No broadband at the moment, so no real posting until I fight my way free of the seventh circle of dial-up hell.
2. We are on the move again - heading to Melbourne (or Melvin as the little dude would have it) for post-production, in about three weeks time. I'm looking forward to life with poppy seed danish and scenesters once more, have missed them since we left Bondi.
PS. This is the Scary Pirate Movie - it's pretty damn scary, so consider yourself duly warned. Contains pirate references and excessive dizziness (because after all, spinning around in circles until you fall down is pretty much the three year old version of getting wasted).