working the crowd

I was slightly taken aback (in a good way) the other day when I noticed a friend actively working the crowd and bringing to life what otherwise would have been a brief and possibly unmemorable chance encounter between a group of people. The reason I noticed this phenomenon was not so much because I recognised some of my own moves and tactics in my friend's highly skilled social display, but because I was mesmerised by her huband's reaction. His palpable sigh of relief at not having to get involved himself but let his wife do the work combined with his very endearing facial expression which screamed "Isn't she good?" made me smile, albeit in an exasperating way. I also promised myself that I would write a post about it, so here we all are.

You either do or you don't, right ? Well, as I said before, I, like my charming friend, am one of those that do. At social gatherings with the husband I am not the one who sits back and observes, looking cool and sophisticated. That, would be him. No. I'm the scary one with the broad smile and matching body language who's coming right atcha in a bid for some contact. I can't help it and I don't make excuses although sometimes I admit, it would be quite nice to "have the day off" and let someone else do the PR.

So what's it about? "Why does she do it?" you ask. I can guarantee that a deep-rooted need to people-please is a huge part of it just as much as a genuine belief that we are all humans and no matter how northern you are, inside every person male or female, is a big need to communicate, to connect and to feel loved. Or not? Isn't that what it's all about? Sure, there's upbringing. My parents for example, taught me a) to be compassionate and b) to shake hands properly, openly and with a smile on my face.

Of course once you start using words such as "social" and "communication" it's hard not to touch on  the whole subject of social media - that amazing new world in which we're all finding great new ways of  communicating like never before. Where does that leave our social behaviour and ability to connect with others in the real world? I for one believe that the tweeting, chatting, blogging, commenting and "liking" is actually helpful as we are learning to express ourselves and communicate more than ever before. 

What do you think, dear readers? Maybe you'd like to answer some of the questions raised above and below with your own valid and highly valued opinions? It would be fantastic to hear them so why don't we get a little conversation started....

1. Do you work the crowd for your other half or are you happy to let him/her do the talking?
2. Is it important to connect and communicate with others socially and how do YOU go about it?
3. Do you make the first move or do you prefer to let others come to you?
4. Do you think upbringing is the key to our social behaviour?
5. Does all this matter? To connect, to communicate....?
6. How are your kids' virtual and personal communication skills going?

Thanks for reading and thanks so much in advance for participating - if you prefer to remain anonymous you can send an email and I will publish your comments without names on the comments form below.

social

Nowadays I often wonder what it would feel like, to live in the big city again. Four years ago we opted out and decided to make a massive change in favour of our children's upbringing and our own sanity in terms of social pressures and that whole middle class safety-in-numbers thing. We've always liked to do "our stuff" slightly left of centre and to conform is our idea of hell. We love that we have our imagination and our dreams and aspirations "in tact", like a virgin in a bubble floating through time*, with lots of optimism on top.
You may laugh but to us this was our USP and believe it or not, it really is what keeps us going to this day. We both (him indoors and me) still have our dreams together in our little box and never for one minute have we felt like we're chasing rainbows. I try to define this aspect of our lives but fail miserably each time because I don't like to justify it. It may not have always been an easy ride, what with the odd sacrifice and set-back, but always our little box, drawing us forward relentlessly. "What's THAT about?" I've often wondered, thinking of myself as naive and totally, utterly idealistic. It doesn't last long however; then our dedication and the courage of our convictions come soaring right back with great vigour and renewed energy.
We (here I refer to earthdwellers in general, not just to Mr R and moi) make our decisions by following our dreams and our gut, right? Tell me we're not the only ones. Tell me, that in this supersafe country of caution-loving, risk-hating, money-hoarding individuals, we are not the only idealistic, risk-taking, caution-into-the-wind-throwing dreamers. Tell me it isn't so. Tell me also that 4 years ago there were others like us, in a super-cool city with gorgeous friends and family around them that thought: ok, we're off, we're gonna get us something better/different/challenging/mind-blowing. Obviously both of us have some sort of deep-rooted need to explore and expand/alter the status quo on a fairly regular basis (no..., really?).
So, here we are, 4 years down the Swiss lifeline and my biggest fear is that our wanderlust may set in again. I do hope not 'cos I'm really rather tired of moving, rather happy and raring to go career-wise.

Do I need a bit of reassurance? Do I want confirmation that we made the right choice(s)? Not really. Because today, as I'm sat here in my teeny village I feel like the world lies at my feet. I have the most amazing family, the most incredible friends (local and international) and I have him indoors, the sons and soon a dog.

Plus I have Twitter (alright, and Facebook) and I'd be so dead without them.

This whole post was in fact born from the idea of "giving thanks to social networking sites" (an ode to, if you like) but as often is the case, I got rather carried away and only managed to get to the point here, at the end...

What I'm trying to say, rather badly, is that if like me you have a strong need to socialise, Twitter for example keeps you going, love, doesn't it? It works for me, and I feel like I'm in touch with what's going on in the outside world, in my kind of world. Can't imagine my life today without either one of them.

I have a constant battle with my other half who really struggles with Twitter. He says to me regularly and with much scorn: "Talking to your imaginary friends again?" or "They're not real, you know" (he really IS a very very nice man). I remember to breathe and I let it wash over me. I know he'll "get it" one day. It's just taking him that little bit longer, bless.

*sounds crazy but describes it perfectly, bear with me.

outside the box

Well let me tell you that it's at times like these when I think that it's certainly not about Style! Emotions have been running high of late. What with vulcanos throwing up their ash and causing total European havoc and of course the elusive warmth of spring leaving much to be desired for, we're all feeling a bit let down aren't we? Add to that the last soul-destroying, persistent shreds of a much churned over world economic crisis together with a looming election (if like me you have part of your heart anchored in the UK), and you may as well throw in the towel.

Well, being the incorrigible optimist that I am, I just refuse to believe that we are on any friggin' slope to nowhere. On the contrary. This, to me, is the moment when we gather strength from the things that really matter. Simple things. Take the vulcano. I bloody LOVE that volcano because for one thing it's reminded me that flying is not as vital as all those Easy Jet and BA ads would make us believe. Let's just regroup here for a moment and remember there are other ways to travel. Train. Bus. Car. Heck! How about bike? Better even to just stay put. And hey, it's only a journey. This is nature being kind, not cruel.

Alright, I'm done with that. What I really came here for is to tell you about my recent trip to Milan. It's the Salone (actually it's SO over now, it finished on Sunday, keep up!). Carpe Diem and all I decided to grab the interior designer husband by the hand and head (by train!) to Milano Centrale for a bit of FuoriSalone-fun (totally fab iPhone App called Interni Guida FuoriSalone is a bit of a winner!). We're slightly over the Halls in Rho and decided it would be much more exciting to head for Tortona and Lambrate for a bit of cutting edge design. We weren't wrong. Of course we really should have taken 2 days (maybe 3) and some comfy shoes (omg the blisters on my heels!) to really do the "fringe event" any justice but it was totally worth it. Loads of inspiration and beautiful exterior and interior furniture offered up delectably in picturesque, ivy-clad courtyards and canal-side settings. Unbelievably, we live one-and-a-half-hours away from Milan yet in the past 4 years have never bothered to take the time to go (en amoureux, as my friend Alec would say) and roam the streets of this lovely city - especially as professionally and personally speaking, architecture and retail are somewhat of an obsession of ours. Sheesh! Well, we've already made our next appointment and this time, we'll be taking the kids.
Ultimately our conclusion was that no matter how happy you are or think you are (!), it's quite important to make the effort to step outside your comfort zone every now and then (whether you live say in Ticino or California - off the top of my head now). Otherwise you really may as well throw in the towel.

I am SO finished

Hello my darlings! Whilst last February seems to have been alight with frenzied productivity here on the blog, I've just noticed that we are already halfway through February twentyten and not a peep has been published. Accept my apologies for this annoying inconvenience and let me just announce that I am disrobed of this God-awful winter mist and ready to chatter away into spring. I want to take you back to this and let you know what happened next.  Oh, don't worry it all weaves back into the whole Style-thing, I'm not about to force you down my own little Memory Lane just for the hell of it. Consistency is paramount.
Well, after the beaches of southern California (still the best and please take me back there NOW) I decided that No, this was not quite the 'feel' I was after. Instead I pursued my true love. London. I left all my beloved loved ones behind and boldly boarded that plane headed for Gatwick and a promise of exciting Londoney things. A juxtaposition of two locations more opposed would probably not have been possible. From the laid back, barefoot, bareskinned sandy, sunny beach-life, I arrived smack-bang in the middle of Barbour-clad-hooray-Henry-Fulham (Parsons Green, guys - need I say more?) and was duly kitted out in Laura Ashley's latest pinafore (I know! the words "impossible" and "OMFG" are dancing round my dreamy head too right now). And guess where I was going to start my post-California-High-School-of-Distinction education? No, not the London School of Economics, nor Kings College or the Royal College of Art; heck! not even RADA! (chip on my shoulder, moi?) No dears, I was teetering off to Knightsbridge's Brompton Road, to Lucie Clayton Secretarial College (Finishing School to you and me) to be groomed and finished well and proper.  The only thing that keeps me from NOT EVER MENTIONING THIS IN PUBLIC is the fact that Joanna-goddess-Lumley was a pupil too. Admittedly she took the modelling course that was oh-so popular throughout the 60's and 70's whereas I decided to go for the sensible, emancipated 80's option and chose Shorthand (I am soooo good at it, yet it serves me not a jot) and Typing (I am soooo fast at it) and, I hope you're ready for this, Flower Arranging (you'd never know), Grooming (I insist that Mum not Lucie taught me everything I need to know here) and Law (consisting of a very dishy, only just graduated London lawyer popping round to have his ego massaged by a room full of 19 year olds). People, the stories I could tell on this unbelievable excuse of an "education" and how I could make your eyes water by revealing the fees!
I suppose the only real skill that I can boast having gained over, I dunno, YOU LOT, is that I know exactly how to get IN and OUT of a sports car in a mini skirt, without flashing my knickers. A very useful skill if you're a wannabe posh bird, say from Cheshire, pursuing a more 'lucrative' life in London. Let me also add that at the school there was in fact, in the middle of the grand classroom, the ludicrous wire frame of a sports car into which we had to gracefully climb in, and out of. Oh, I just don't have time for this. I like to laugh about it now because finally I can (!) and I realise that it really was a very special place once (not in my time unfortunately). And of course in spite of it all I met one of my best friends there. Sarah A. She was my saving grace and got me through it with so much laughter and so many jokes that live on to this day. We both knew it was a stop-over to bigger and better things. Incidentally we both ended up in fashion (she went to Rifat Ozbek and I went to Katharine Hamnett) and that was seriously cool. So, a worthwhile educational experience nonetheless? It probably was. At Lucie Clayton's we were all part of something unique which just about cut the mustard, then. Now it would most certainly be laughed off the edge of a cliff and of course it's not called "Lucie Clayton" but has been relaunched as the imposing and politically correct "Quest" with not a flower or young lawyer in sight. It would interest me to know how much really has changed since my time there.
So, back to Joanna Lumley. Would she have ended up as Purdy or Pats WITHOUT the Lucie Clayton connection?
I DON'T THINK SO.

One of my favourite quotes and one that keeps me going, keeps me running, keeps me doing what I love doing and generally drives me to the next block. Thought I'd share it with you.

apron-time

                                  

As the nights draw in and the going back (or is it forward? I'll never get the hang of it I swear, it's just useless, why don't we abolish this custom, who's idea was it anyway? Answers please!) of the clocks looms, we're not out and about so much. Instead we're at home more and generally busying ourselves with indoor activities. Or at least that's what I've been doing. The heating's on and of an evening we're already very well established in our light-the-woodburner-routine. It's kind of nice and you don't feel so guilty for resembling a sloth, as the weather really doesn't entice us to any sort of outdoorsey activity. Heavily engrossed in all these homely thoughts and non-activities, while proudly wearing one of my many aprons (you don't want to know how many cakes I've baked in the last week!), I got to thinking about my kids and how much time, effort and most of all parental love goes into ensuring that theirs are perfect lives. While we are all "of course" individuals, making our mark and making a difference where possible, we all tend to flock together when it's about what we want for our children. We all want the same for them, don't we? Coming from divorced parents I tend to overcompensate for a lot when it comes to my children's wellbeing and happiness but I'm pretty sure that the majority of us parents just want our kids to be as unburdened as possible ie. carefree, happy, stable and most of all safe (incidentally I am pretty sure that both my own parents, divorced or not, still want exactly that for me too). So, with our two sons slowly growing into young men, I'm savouring baking them cakes, cooking them lunches and generally sitting with them during homework-time or telly-time and even just perching on their beds while they sleep (I am hopefully not the only mum that STILL does this). I am of course hoping that all this will stay with them forever and that when they look back at their childhood, they will have warm and happy memories flooding through their heads. At one stage during this thought process I actually asked myself how I would know that they are living a happy childhood now...? "Hi darling, so c'mon, out of 10, how d'you rate your family life?" A blank stare would have been all I deserved for such an irresponsible question, yet I was tempted, if only to give myself a laugh and a pat on the back for having a wicked sense of humour.

Well it won't last forever this childhood thing, and let's face it, after my recent revelation that Patsy Stone's my evil inner twin, the homemaker personality won't last that much longer either as she'll soon be hit over the head with a Marc Jacobs 'Stam' or a bottle of gin. But realistically now, it will have to come to an end eventually as I'm sure the girlfriend or wife won't appreciate waking up to mother-in-law, sat on the end of the bed with a tender look in her eyes...

Maybe it'll be me who needs to let go of the apron.

I have a thing about aprons (vintage aprons, please) and while scouring for a suitable image for this post I came across the one above from a lovely blog dealing in exactly that, vintage aprons! Delightful.

reflection

Ah, to have time to myself again, what luxury. Not only have the kids gone back to school BIG TIME, but even Mr R has found projects far and beyond which means I have not only time to myself but also the house to myself - 80% of the time - and to me this is having my cake and eating it too. The feeling will probably give way to "routine boredom" after week 3 but for now it'll do nicely. The stillness and the month of September. My friend is right, it's probably the best month - ideal temperatures, splendid colours and the smell of mushrooms, peaches, plums and particularly the vines that are ripening beautifully in the vineyards nearby. And then of course the novelty of having to wear real clothes again, gone's the summer uniform of shorts and flipflops. Now we can rummage through our wardrobes, edit out what really can't be worn again and add what's needed for the new season. I tend to need and like less and less things, the spectrum shrinks to just the one look or better, one style. Thank God! No more experimenting, thank you! I know my (3) colours and I know my shapes. I spent yesterday afternoon sifting through my bulging drawers and shelves and just dumping stuff that's been hanging around for the last 3 years without so much as a glance, let a alone an outing! One good (but also very, very bad) thing about living here, is that I'm just not tempted anymore. No more Topshop, no more Selfridges or countless shoe shops to lure me and trap me into spending ridiculous amounts of money. I couldn't spend it if I tried round here. You wouldn't either, unless you're an ageing German, monied tourist. There are countless benefits to living in this part of the world, and retail therapy ain't one of them. I pretend that "it matters not a jot" but I get so annoyed by the lack of vision of our local retailers and when I visit the Big City (ie. Zurich, London, Munich or Milan) I feel like I might burst as I am just not used to having that much choice anymore. It's sheer hell, you can imagine (please laugh now). But then I remember the good bits and how shopping is now very, very, very, very low down on my list of priorities and I ask myself: is that not how it should be? And I am happy with my answer.

basic needs

Just back from 3 weeks in a tent and now I'm wandering 'round the house thinking what to do with all the space and all these rooms? The biggest revelation of all time, was how ridiculously little we need to exist comfortably and happily. There was less of everything; less clothes, less gadgets, less clutter, less THINGS! And it felt good. Incidentally this revelation seems to slip very fittingly into the current mood - a welcome slap in the face to all that dreadful excess we've been subjecting ourselves to recently and the warm and faintly familiar recognition of what it is that really matters to us. Not only do I feel lost in these rooms, but I also feel odd sleeping in them, behind 25 cm thick concrete walls. My flimsy blue Coleman Lakeside 4 was a joy to get into every evening, with it's pale blue sleeping chambers and white mosquito net - listening to the wind, the sea, the birds and the sound of footsteps on eucalyptus leaves. Of course I heard the odd snore, some night-time chatting and countless zips being openend and closed, but they did not bother me as much as I thought they might. All of us co-existed in simple, quiet harmony, taking time to sit down for breakfast (properly), fetching water, sweeping our little patch, making coffee, chatting with other campers about the beauty of our location and which fish to grill for dinner or which beach to go to that day. I doubt whether I will ever feel the same way again about that luxury all-inclusive holiday that I used to dream of. I'm already planning our next camping trip; the only ingredient I simply cannot do without though, is the sun. So we might have to stick to summertime camping. Preferably back in Sardinia or other parts of Italy where the sea is turquoise and the food is seriously good.

My other immense campsite/beachside pleasure were books - just reading whenever and whatever I liked without snatching the pathetic 4 minutes (at most) in bed before nodding off helplessly. On holiday I manage to actually finish a book - this is unheard of at home, where it takes me a minimum of 3 months.

The above photo showing our plastic cups is courtesy of Mr R, who was very inspired by the recurring colour theme of reds and blues throughout our holiday.

youth on the other side

Why is it that I always know with absolute certainty that I would appreciate things (more) in my life 20 or so years after they have occured? My youth for example. I would really, truly, fully appreciate just how fabulous it is to be 22 today. I would make a MUCH better 22 year old NOW! I think I would have a better time now. Not back in blimmin' 1990! All this started with a tremendous slap in the face earlier this week when I realised that the heartmelting singer Paolo Nutini is 22 years old. Young enough to be my son, in fact. Don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem being in my forties (much) - it's just that I look incredulously at the vast number of young people around me. There's so many of them. I used to be them. There was a time when nobody was younger than me except babies and schoolchildren. Now 'suddenly' (ha!) pretty much 80% of the people surrounding me are younger than me. And they all look so confident, groovy and sussed (did I ever look like that?) with their entire lives ahead of them. I know, I should just wake up and smell the cigar smoke, but I don't want to. I'm kind of teetering on the edge, not quite ready to take the plunge into mature womanhood, grey hair and all (although I am warming to the idea, what with all the style forecasts pointing in that direction anyway...). I still hanker after those years of carelessness where wrinkle creams existed only in ads, not in my bathroom cabinet. What'll it take for me to get over it and just let go? A few more chromotherapy sessions would help. I'm not so much worried about being old(er), I'm more mourning my youth - I enjoy looking at young people but I also feel a teensy bit sorry for myself because whilst I was their age, I felt immortal and very, very empowered. These days I have a ticking noise in my ear, it's not very loud - in fact some days I can hardly hear it at all - but it's definitely there.

I sympathise with all the ladies that are in this age group - a bit like me teetering on the edge or well and truly over the edge but not able to come to terms with it or embrace that new part of womanhood. Most of my friends are so cool about it and just don't give a damn and that's how it should be. But there are a few that are anxious and feel under quite a bit of pressure to look a certain way. Studying the likes of Überfrau Helen Mirren above, it does become blatantly obvious to me that to be happy with the outside, you need to be happy on the inside. And now, in a final attempt to get things into perspective, please repeat after me: "There's no solution to ageing, because it's just not a problem".

The picture above of Helen Mirren is one of my all-time favourites and speaks for itself, I think.

sisters

Today was a hectic but good day - busy but hugely inspirational. You know, when you're just walking or in my case driving along and your mind (nevermind the car) is speeding at 180 km/h (that's approximately 111.84 mph) productively coming up with one fantastic whopper of an idea after another. I was on fire. Even the radio station kept playing ONLY fantastic songs, and that makes all the difference. Inspiration and optimism in spades just rushing through the brain. Great stuff. I started thinking about my sister, whom I absolutely adore beyond reason, and immediately realised that the next post had to be about her. It was obvious that I would write about her at some stage, but today it all took shape and crystallised into this perfect image and story which I will now try to coherently present before you.

I'm lucky enough to have gone from being an only child (albeit a happy one, I must admit) to becoming, at the age of 12, a sister to a sister. I never dreamt that I would ever have a sibling and when she was born, it was incredible. It was just the timing of her arrival that was not so good for me; I was at the cusp of becoming the worst teenager ever to walk this earth and spent the following 4 years struggling with my very own industrial sized hormonal tornado ripping its way very impressively through my emotions. So I always felt like I wasn't really there for her, and in fact I wasn't. I left home very early and had a patchy (yet very loving) long-distance relationship with my little sister. We are and always have been incredibly close, an unspoken invisible bond that is just there, no matter what. Now that we finally live in the same country again, I feel much more complete and get an incredible sense of fulfilment knowing that if I wanted to, I could see her at a moment's notice. She inspires me and makes me so proud, my sister. A determined young woman with an amazing heart and huge talent which is so brilliantly put to use in her current career.

So, that's the basics sorted now let me find the style thread... Ah, yes, there it is: The Force is strong in this one.
Apart from being blessed with an amazing physique, she truly knows what works on her and what doesn't. Never putting a foot wrong, she has a very personal and unique style which is first and foremost modern, young, subtle but edgy and incredibly pleasing to the eye. I wish Mr Sartorialist would browse 'round Zurich more so he'd get a shot of her. Her chosen colour palette is warm, earthy and never garish, complemented of course without fail by the most cutting edge hairstyle as well as (and this is obviously a family thing that our mother started in 1972) the biggest sunglasses she can get her hands on. All this is delivered effortlessly which makes it even more powerful and beautiful. How much I love looking at her, absorbing her radiance, her warmth and also her style. You couldn't copy it if you tried.

nip me!

I remember last summer, lazing on our local beach by the river Melezza. Heaven on Earth as far as I'm concerned. Here, this location, this little village, these people, you see we are so blessed that it can bring tears to my eyes. So many special components make this place unique and very lovely. In the summer it just beggars belief for me. School's out in say, mid-June, and from then on depending on everyone's holiday schedules, we tend to congregate at our very own village beach. The beach is located beyond the football fields and the tennis courts (so if you have sporty kids you can just send them up for footy training or to the tennis coach while you continue working on your tan) and last summer we spent practically every day down by the river with the locals. It's so funny. In the winter and the autumn months you bump into neighbours and local friends at the post office, the bakery, the deli or the bar but in the summer you're lying half naked next to yes, you guessed it: your neighbour and your local friends. It's great. I love it. Sometimes an exotic fish comes along. Like last summer. A friend of a friend appeared, in a white two-piece looking like some sort of mythical goddess. I had never seen anything like this before. Sure, she was maybe a few years younger than me (5 at most) but she was something to behold. Not a single ounce of fat on her, not a rake either though. Toned perfection. No cellulite, skin the colour of honey and as soft as silk, jet black hair all luscious waves and those curves. And she's got 2 daughters under the age of 6! Oh my God. If I was a guy I would have drooled. Being a girl I just pretended not to notice (so glad Mr R wasn't there). Did I mention her breasts? The most perfect things I've ever come across in my life - insanely lovely. I had to really concentrate in order to continue pretending that I hadn't noticed anything at all (one doesn't want to appear rude, it just won't do), especially when she came over to say hello. I felt even more prune-like than normal. A few weeks later I found out that all this beauty was not of natural origin, but reconstructed and the result of several cosmetic surgery procedures. I felt first and foremost relieved and then reassured of course and a bit smug. I'm one of those weirdos that confidently (for now...!) says: Accept your wrinkles, love them, they are part of you - you can look good with them, glamorous, sexy, whatever! Of course never say never but knowing myself as I do, I'm pretty sure I won't be going down the nip/tuck route. Ever. Amazing though, what a surgeon's knife can do. I have since reclaimed my status as a nature girl and proudly picked up my style thread where I'd bloody well left it. That was after temporarily losing my head by agreeing to have a few no obligation consultations with dishy Dr Christian. Relax, all is where it was and where it should be and I have since found my way again, naturally.

photograph above courtesy of NIP/TUCK (FX) showing Julian McMahon as Christian Troy, Joely Richardson (some impostor actually) as Julia McNamara and Dylan Walsh as Sean McNamara.

the f-word

Since I entered it ceremoniously, this world of the big four-o, I've become more and more aware of a constant feeling of being on the edge - not in a nervy way but in a "teetering on the edge of a very steep precipice" kind of way (think Cathy in Wuthering Heights or the second Mrs de Winter in Rebecca just for that extra, windswept drama effect). Which is a lot more scary and quite a new sensation for me. It doesn't leave me either. Actually it just gets stronger. Things feel decidedly different to me now. Day to day things, they seem much more important, more serious and I have a very definite sense of urgency about me which suggests that I'm watching an imaginary clock ticking away while running at an increasing speed to make things happen. Even my children's comments seem more poignant to me. Probably because I'm referring back to my own childhood when I remember making the conscious and rather stubborn decision to stop counting my parents' ages once either of them had reached 40. When I hit forty I didn't think it would make a blind bit of difference, I laughed at the thought of it: "Bring it on!" I used to shout. I don't shout anymore, now I'm fairly quiet about it. All my determination and nonchalance is nowhere to be found, in its place an overwhelming sense of life and its meaning, and how precious it is and how living for today is paramount and how every second counts. That's what occupies my mind these days. I wonder if all this is normal? Fortunately I am an incorrigible optimist - so while I'm teetering up there on the edge of that precipice, my mantra 'the best is yet to come' is also ringing quite loudly in my ears. Other welcome side effects of being forty (at least for me) are confidence and assertiveness. They make life so much smoother and more enjoyable. Like I said, I wonder whether it's just me...?

make-up anyone?

So I waved and kissed our Easter guests goodbye on Saturday and promptly burst into tears. I don't know about you but I've completely given up on maintaining my composure at farewells, it's such hard work plus it just seems a bit, you know, insincere. What's the point in putting on a brave face when your heart is breaking? And with the guests gone I found myself in the middle of town, by myself and in no great rush to get back to an empty house. Instead I made tracks for our only department store where I like to have a little peek now and again at the relatively new and exciting arrival on the ground floor cosmetics department: the Bobbi Brown counter. As far as make-up's concerned this, I feel, is as good as it gets. Feeling just a little bit washed out and blue I didn't offer much resistance when the chirpy male make-up artist (Abdul "on a whistlestop tour of Europe visiting all the Bobbi Brown counters" and working his magic on the likes of me by giving very good face) invited me to take a seat for a "quick make-over" in the latest spring colours. I made a half-hearted attempt at declining but soon decided that it would be kind of cool for once to be professionally worked on like that. I might even learn something. Yeah, so make-up. Where do YOU stand on that one? I've always been fascinated by it, heavily influenced by my mother and all that advertising. Once I got into my teenage years I experimented constantly and looked incredibly scary most of the time, trying desperately to ascertain my look whilst coming to terms with my own 'colouring'. I've not been blessed with perfect skin and so the 'no make-up' option was not for me (not in a million years) - instead I developed my own little life support team of products, without which I'd never show my face in public. Ever. I know exactly what works and what doesn't on my skintone and because I would give anything not to have to wear make-up in order to look halfway decent, I have, over time, tried to perfect that natural, sunkissed look that suggests hardly any make-up at all. Since we moved to this part of the world it soon became obvious to me that there is none of the high-gloss sophistication that I used to encounter on a daily basis in the UK. Instead you have pretty much 2 very defined camps: the I-would-never-dream-of-wearing-a-scrap-of-make-up lot (bless them for they have the courage of their convictions) and the I-think-the-black-lipliner-look-is-a-winner lot... Ok, I lie: there are those of course who fall in between these 2 extremes choosing to wear make-up and looking just great. But there really is very little emphasis on make-up over here - which is a good thing as natural can never be bad, right? Well, sort of. I suppose it's just one of those things, you either do or you don't. And on Saturday, after my little make-over I was glad that I'm one of those that do. Abdul confidently applied his art to my face and made me look like me but better - it was great. Admittedly I wouldn't necessarily wear eyeshadow or lipgloss during the day, but it made a difference to my mood - I felt refreshed and bright and, thanks to Abdul, I learned how to improve my complexion with the clever use of a brush....

so here's to you, Mrs Robinson

Ooooh I can hardly type for excitement! The temperature today hit 23 degrees and all thoughts of winter and cold are suddenly filed away together with silly worries about doom and gloom - at least till November. Now it's the new season (and for me the best season, or as they so poetically call it 'round my parts, La Bella Stagione - wonderful, eh?). I'm making way for positive optimism and renewed confidence and am so looking forward to new beginnings.

Which brings me swiftly to the point of this little story. New beginnings, change, change, and more change... It's that time again. The big question, the big dilemma. Is it time? Can I still pull it off or is this (ie. the sneaky suspicion I may have reached that dreaded state of mutton-dressed-as-lamb) the perfect bloody excuse to go and chop it off once and for all and shut the hell up about the blimmin' hair? Here I am, wafting around as always with my long tresses like some ageing Rapunzel. Of course I've had long hair all my life so it's as much part of my character as my character but I do get to this stage every 3 years (it's like clockwork) where I just have to go through this process - and this time, you're coming through it with me. Were it not for the sheer terror/cold fear of completely losing my identity, I would have done it years ago. It's always the same: I spend weeks lusting after 'my perfect short hairdos' (see above) and it reaches feverpitch till I walk into the salon and every single time without fail some young whippersnapper of a coiffeuse talks me out of it because she, just like me, has absolutely no backbone. Sounds harsh? Well, if only I had a little of the Annie Lennox about me (that divine bonestructure, such angles, such precision) or the soft voluptuousness of Marilyn. But alas no, I am me! And it takes exactly this process (I can feel it, I'm almost through it) to realise that I do really love this long hair thing and that it just suits me and my style perfectly. I will never forget Mr R's words to me almost 20 years ago (and a few more times since), about how he thought older women looked fantastic with long grey, salt and pepper kind of hair....Well, sir, sticking it out with me may just be starting to pay off because it looks like that's gonna be my look pretty soon. Move over Annie and Marilyn, make room for Anne Bancroft.

If you can't quite remember just how fabulous Mrs Robinson looked, go refresh your memory by visiting this week's post on The Women's Room.

mothers and daughters

I will be honest, when I have moments like these, when I gently, lovingly rummage 'round my memories and remember unbearably precious and magical times with my mother, then I really do wish that I too had had a daughter. No matter how difficult the relationship is or was, and let's face it, some memories really should be banished forever, a mother does tend to achieve icon-status during the course of any daughter's adult life.
There is, I believe, a subtle difference between having personal style and being stylish. I love personal style more because it's just so natural and cannot be mimicked (as hard as I may try, Mama, I just cannot be you!) - but that's the beauty of it. Personal style is perfectly achievable as it does not really conform to any rules, it's pure you. I delight in spotting people with great personal style; first and foremost because they radiate confidence and secondly it's as if they are carrying a closely guarded secret which they can never reveal. It's wonderful, don't you think?
So today, in a house that is dominated by all things male, I decided to retreat and go wondering down memory lane where I came across some beautiful photos of Barbara, my mum. From laid-back beach lounging, to high-gloss airport lounges, she pulls off all the looks that I love. And here is where I pay tribute to her and her own very personal style. There is absolutely no doubt that I owe my mother everything in the style stakes - she's always been my sole inspiration (circa 1972 onwards, especially the Manhattan and London eras) and I will always keep trying to look even just a bit as good as her. Maybe a little has rubbed off, because I think that it's a daughter's privilege - to carry her mother's style torch through the generations. You see how lovely it would have been, to have also had a daughter?