I think it is unanimous among the female species that a man in black tie can only ever be a good thing. But, when we see our men dressed up so ‘fine’ do we find it insanely sexy because of James Bond’s legacy of suave, or is it the man beneath the bow?
3 months ago I told you about the Northerner and surprisingly it’s still going strong. My track record so far hasn't been the best, but then again a London bird likes to fly free. The thing is this one's different, I know all 'cupid struck' say that but I think I fell in the love moment he sang fly me to the moon dressed in black tie. How could I help myself...?
Let me start from the beginning. Last you heard I was London bound, head over heels for this mysterious Northerner… whether it was the accent or the eyes I’ll never know. Various trips up north and down south turned into an almost weekly occurrence, and soon we were texting, calling, fb chatting and skyping religiously… though he did always like to keep me on my toes. I must admit I have been most uncool with this one, but when you meet someone who understands and ‘loves’ the uncool in you, you take it and run.
Of course, I have made effort to see him way up, but being a London girl, I couldn’t help but tempt him down and drag him to my favorite place in London, Trafalgar Square. It was as we kissed in front of the fountains, under Nelson’s watchful eye, that I knew the hopeless romantic in me had been let loose.
Finally, a smart enough event came up and I was able to see the Northerner in my territory (Kits) in his black tie, and that was it, as I undid his bow I realised he could have been there in jeans and a jacket and he still would have been better than any Bond I could have wanted.
Tuesday 2 November 2010
Wednesday 11 August 2010
The Magic Waistcoat
It’s been a while but I got back to London safely after a fantastically draining holiday. I’d delve into the gory details about the epic beach romances, and fights outside clubs but it would take an eternity to write up. Instead I question the magic waistcoat. We all have one, maybe its not a waistcoat but an item of clothing that seems to have magical powers. Every summer I whip out my magic waistcoat and feel power and vitality that may only be explained by the vast amounts of tequila that I seem to drink wearing the magical apparel.
After a short-lived romance with a vintage French man, I decided to live a little so there I was in my magical waistcoat, dancing, living, breathing the fumed air of a very dodgy club with my closest friends when across the dance floor a young northern gentleman watched in fear as my hips moved in the way they only can in said magical waistcoat. I danced on unknowingly…
The next night slightly more sober and appropriately dressed, I attempted to control a riotous friend who had decided to elope with a Mr. Hudson lookalike. Though this could not be helped, the lookalike had a gorgeous brother… and thus ‘looking after my friend’ suddenly became no hassle at all. While she had found a nice boat to cuddle in, I found myself looking after another rather sleepy friend who’d missed the first cab home. The last femme standing (or rather slumped in a chair with a few signs of life) I finally had a chance to talk to the brother, however this was short-lived. Although I had imagined the opportunity had been missed I managed to arrange a meeting with the brother on his last night.
At this point you may be questioning how this brother relates to the magic waistcoat… funnily enough, after hours of talking, I discovered that while I may have been in a drunken haze of crazy dancing, the northerner who had seen me was this brother. The magic waistcoat struck again, but this time I hit gold.
My heart racing with the excitement of a new potential love interest the rest of the holiday sped by, night by night, empty without his teasing company and I was desperate to return to England and see the Northerner again.
To be continued...
After a short-lived romance with a vintage French man, I decided to live a little so there I was in my magical waistcoat, dancing, living, breathing the fumed air of a very dodgy club with my closest friends when across the dance floor a young northern gentleman watched in fear as my hips moved in the way they only can in said magical waistcoat. I danced on unknowingly…
The next night slightly more sober and appropriately dressed, I attempted to control a riotous friend who had decided to elope with a Mr. Hudson lookalike. Though this could not be helped, the lookalike had a gorgeous brother… and thus ‘looking after my friend’ suddenly became no hassle at all. While she had found a nice boat to cuddle in, I found myself looking after another rather sleepy friend who’d missed the first cab home. The last femme standing (or rather slumped in a chair with a few signs of life) I finally had a chance to talk to the brother, however this was short-lived. Although I had imagined the opportunity had been missed I managed to arrange a meeting with the brother on his last night.
At this point you may be questioning how this brother relates to the magic waistcoat… funnily enough, after hours of talking, I discovered that while I may have been in a drunken haze of crazy dancing, the northerner who had seen me was this brother. The magic waistcoat struck again, but this time I hit gold.
My heart racing with the excitement of a new potential love interest the rest of the holiday sped by, night by night, empty without his teasing company and I was desperate to return to England and see the Northerner again.
To be continued...
Tuesday 6 July 2010
A Hole in the Sole…
Cheating. Cheating can be painful, wrecking, but also gloriously satisfying. Having seen the best and worst of cheating I find the subject quite interesting. Although many avoid the act, some people just can’t help themselves.
Talking to a friend the other day who’d just cheated on his girlfriend, I was trying to extract from him his reasons for doing something so commonly known to cause pain. While he was torn with the attraction to the girl, he was so sure of his feelings for his girlfriend. What is it that makes people who claim to be in love so able to drop all sense of … well… sense, and do something knowing full well that it could be such a mistake? Are we so unsatisfied as people, needing the constant reassurance of being wanted, that we can’t see what we have?
Sure enough we all have our reasons for cheating. While some do it out of pure boredom and are just looking for a little passion in their life, some do it out of spite or loss of self-security. When an ex cheated on me I was hurt, yes, but also forgiving because of his honesty. In my opinion, everyone makes mistakes, but when I slipped up he instantly ended it. This hypocrisy was frustrating but also made me question the value of honesty in a relationship. If in the end being honest means potentially losing something good, maybe it's better to live with little dirty secrets.
Learning from past mistakes and a wise friend, I decided not to ruin things with the dark haired CPF by telling him about drama with the ‘indie boy’. While I had been frustrated by the CPF's behaviour with a ‘friend’ of his, I had met up with indie boy with the intention of making myself feel better. Having friends who were also angry with the dark haired CPF, and the support of Strongbow I guess I had taken to moment and run with it. But telling the dark haired CPF was not an option. As we were not anything 'official', just close personal friends. I realised that I had no obligation to tell him, just as he would have no obligation to tell me. Yet, because of the number of times he spoke about not kissing or being with anyone else since we had met, I felt almost… Guilty. For the time being it wasn’t burning a hole in my soul. However, playing around Hyde Park with the wise friend and her gorgeous lab, coming to this conclusion did create a hole in the sole of my favourite pair of pumps. So, I decided that a new pair of shoes would be necessary to take my mind off of everything.
Rummaging through pairs of shoes in the sales, nothing felt as comfortable as my last pair. So I ended up leaving the shoes and walked back home sore-footed and questioning my decision. Was my guilt about not telling such a small and what was really quite insignificant thing to the dark haired CPF subconsciously affecting my ability to find comfortable shoes? If I did get it off my chest, would I then be able to find guilt-free comfort in the sales, or would I create unnecessary drama out of nothing? Probably.
My friend told his girlfriend, and although she was forgiving he told me that it wasn’t the same. I reassured him, telling him that that was normal and it would sort itself out eventually, and seeing him so down about it definitely stopped me confessing.
After all… Every girl is allowed a little bit of fun…
Talking to a friend the other day who’d just cheated on his girlfriend, I was trying to extract from him his reasons for doing something so commonly known to cause pain. While he was torn with the attraction to the girl, he was so sure of his feelings for his girlfriend. What is it that makes people who claim to be in love so able to drop all sense of … well… sense, and do something knowing full well that it could be such a mistake? Are we so unsatisfied as people, needing the constant reassurance of being wanted, that we can’t see what we have?
Sure enough we all have our reasons for cheating. While some do it out of pure boredom and are just looking for a little passion in their life, some do it out of spite or loss of self-security. When an ex cheated on me I was hurt, yes, but also forgiving because of his honesty. In my opinion, everyone makes mistakes, but when I slipped up he instantly ended it. This hypocrisy was frustrating but also made me question the value of honesty in a relationship. If in the end being honest means potentially losing something good, maybe it's better to live with little dirty secrets.
Learning from past mistakes and a wise friend, I decided not to ruin things with the dark haired CPF by telling him about drama with the ‘indie boy’. While I had been frustrated by the CPF's behaviour with a ‘friend’ of his, I had met up with indie boy with the intention of making myself feel better. Having friends who were also angry with the dark haired CPF, and the support of Strongbow I guess I had taken to moment and run with it. But telling the dark haired CPF was not an option. As we were not anything 'official', just close personal friends. I realised that I had no obligation to tell him, just as he would have no obligation to tell me. Yet, because of the number of times he spoke about not kissing or being with anyone else since we had met, I felt almost… Guilty. For the time being it wasn’t burning a hole in my soul. However, playing around Hyde Park with the wise friend and her gorgeous lab, coming to this conclusion did create a hole in the sole of my favourite pair of pumps. So, I decided that a new pair of shoes would be necessary to take my mind off of everything.
Rummaging through pairs of shoes in the sales, nothing felt as comfortable as my last pair. So I ended up leaving the shoes and walked back home sore-footed and questioning my decision. Was my guilt about not telling such a small and what was really quite insignificant thing to the dark haired CPF subconsciously affecting my ability to find comfortable shoes? If I did get it off my chest, would I then be able to find guilt-free comfort in the sales, or would I create unnecessary drama out of nothing? Probably.
My friend told his girlfriend, and although she was forgiving he told me that it wasn’t the same. I reassured him, telling him that that was normal and it would sort itself out eventually, and seeing him so down about it definitely stopped me confessing.
After all… Every girl is allowed a little bit of fun…
Wednesday 30 June 2010
True Love vs. Thigh High Lies
My first encounter with le CPF (close personal friend) was a totally unexpected event. That evening, as all the best ones are, had been totally plan-less until I was invited to a friend of a friends’ house. I walked into the cosy Bond Street flat wearing a beautiful pair of purple suede thigh high boots and when I looked into the living room I saw a quiet, gorgeously dark haired man. While previously glued to my phone trying to sort out a mess of a friend/relationship with someone, I put down my bb and introduced myself to him. As he looked me up and down I felt this desire to talk to him, but I was so struck but him that it took a number of shots before I could work up the confidence to start a proper conversation… and even then it was quite a challenge understanding his heavy Caribbean accent.
A couple of days later he texted me and we started to meet up. To begin with I had told myself that someone so shut-away was really not what I needed for anything serious, yet here I was, 3 months later feeling something else entirely. As I fell for him, the mostly optimistic person that I am had obtained a nervous disposition. So I did what every London bred girl would do… I went to the pub.
After however many pints I called an old friend, Indie Boy, and got him over to the pub. Unfortunately, my drunk self then found the need to call the dark haired CFP and tell him things that no self-respecting (sober) Red would EVER say. After a half hour screaming match about his relations with a female friend, and a certain male friend of mine, one of us hung up… and that was it.
Sitting on the train en route to a bbq just outside of London, I started to think. Was our ‘relationship’ full of games and jealousy possibly because of the boots? If I had worn a pair of pumps and a sack like dress would our 'relationship' be less fuelled by sexual attraction and more by our feelings towards each other.
Having listened to my friends’ thoughts on the dark haired CPF I decided that no matter what I’d worn that night, our ‘personal relations’ were probably doomed from the start. Getting my heart broken as I grew up my mother always told me that I was just kissing frogs, and that it was something I needed to do in order to find my prince. Yet as soon as she uttered the words, I started wondering about the uncomforting truth... if there really are 'princes' for everyone?
So when my relations with the dark haired CPF started going pear shaped, I called my mother and was consequently told that he was ‘just another frog’. Always wanting drama and excitement in a relationship, I haven’t necessarily chosen the easiest paths in love. As I sat questioning my mother on what I had done wrong, I realised that maybe I should ignore my heart. Then again… that’s what friends, wine and Häagen-Dazs are for.
So vive l’amour... for now...
A couple of days later he texted me and we started to meet up. To begin with I had told myself that someone so shut-away was really not what I needed for anything serious, yet here I was, 3 months later feeling something else entirely. As I fell for him, the mostly optimistic person that I am had obtained a nervous disposition. So I did what every London bred girl would do… I went to the pub.
After however many pints I called an old friend, Indie Boy, and got him over to the pub. Unfortunately, my drunk self then found the need to call the dark haired CFP and tell him things that no self-respecting (sober) Red would EVER say. After a half hour screaming match about his relations with a female friend, and a certain male friend of mine, one of us hung up… and that was it.
Sitting on the train en route to a bbq just outside of London, I started to think. Was our ‘relationship’ full of games and jealousy possibly because of the boots? If I had worn a pair of pumps and a sack like dress would our 'relationship' be less fuelled by sexual attraction and more by our feelings towards each other.
Having listened to my friends’ thoughts on the dark haired CPF I decided that no matter what I’d worn that night, our ‘personal relations’ were probably doomed from the start. Getting my heart broken as I grew up my mother always told me that I was just kissing frogs, and that it was something I needed to do in order to find my prince. Yet as soon as she uttered the words, I started wondering about the uncomforting truth... if there really are 'princes' for everyone?
So when my relations with the dark haired CPF started going pear shaped, I called my mother and was consequently told that he was ‘just another frog’. Always wanting drama and excitement in a relationship, I haven’t necessarily chosen the easiest paths in love. As I sat questioning my mother on what I had done wrong, I realised that maybe I should ignore my heart. Then again… that’s what friends, wine and Häagen-Dazs are for.
So vive l’amour... for now...
Tuesday 22 June 2010
Can rules of shopping apply to ‘the first date’?
When a friend of mine went on the all-important first date last weekend, I was surprised to find such a cool and confident girl reduced to the trivial worries that plague the minds of many.
Should she kiss him? What to talk about? And the most stressful of all… what to wear??
It was at this point that I calmly explained that the rules of shopping could be applied to dating. When it comes to shopping my frugality makes me a firm believer in the ‘sleep on it’ rule. If you see something you like and you are not 100% sure, sleep on it and the next day you will know. I also explained that with shopping we all have our moments of weakness, and buy something in the confidence that we can return it, but to remember that this is not the case with dating. If one goes too far too quickly, it may be impossible to ‘return’, and to be quite frank… it ruins the magic.
That night while she was busy enjoying herself over dinner, I started to think about a recent situation of my own. Having possibly gone too far a little too quickly with a certain CPF, I pondered over whether or not we had reached the point of ‘no return’. If things with this guy didn’t work out would I regret my lacking ability to judge him and the situation?
Later, meeting up with my grinning friend and her date, I was anxious to get into all the gory details of her evening so far. I gathered they had much to talk about, so that was not a problem (then again this girl is not one to lack words). Earlier that day another friend and I had been able to help her pick out what to wear. Although the date’s instructions ‘elegant, but not over the top’ had created a small challenge, we eventually picked out a black and purple bodycon dress and black Kurt Geiger boots (yum), eliminating another vital issue. The only thing left to worry about that evening was whether or not to kiss.
The next day over a little drink, and a large interrogation I managed to find out that they hadn’t kissed. Whether or not this was because of my explanation of the ‘sleep on it’ rule I am still unsure. All I know is that things between my friend and her man are going well, and I expect many more dates in the future.
But we shall deal with that as it comes.
Should she kiss him? What to talk about? And the most stressful of all… what to wear??
It was at this point that I calmly explained that the rules of shopping could be applied to dating. When it comes to shopping my frugality makes me a firm believer in the ‘sleep on it’ rule. If you see something you like and you are not 100% sure, sleep on it and the next day you will know. I also explained that with shopping we all have our moments of weakness, and buy something in the confidence that we can return it, but to remember that this is not the case with dating. If one goes too far too quickly, it may be impossible to ‘return’, and to be quite frank… it ruins the magic.
That night while she was busy enjoying herself over dinner, I started to think about a recent situation of my own. Having possibly gone too far a little too quickly with a certain CPF, I pondered over whether or not we had reached the point of ‘no return’. If things with this guy didn’t work out would I regret my lacking ability to judge him and the situation?
Later, meeting up with my grinning friend and her date, I was anxious to get into all the gory details of her evening so far. I gathered they had much to talk about, so that was not a problem (then again this girl is not one to lack words). Earlier that day another friend and I had been able to help her pick out what to wear. Although the date’s instructions ‘elegant, but not over the top’ had created a small challenge, we eventually picked out a black and purple bodycon dress and black Kurt Geiger boots (yum), eliminating another vital issue. The only thing left to worry about that evening was whether or not to kiss.
The next day over a little drink, and a large interrogation I managed to find out that they hadn’t kissed. Whether or not this was because of my explanation of the ‘sleep on it’ rule I am still unsure. All I know is that things between my friend and her man are going well, and I expect many more dates in the future.
But we shall deal with that as it comes.
Friday 18 June 2010
Jackets off… Time for a formal introduction
After my last post I realised how rude I have been! Let me introduce myself, I’m Red. Born and bred a Londoner, I have always been surrounded by life and culture. I love watching people; be it walking down the street or on the tube, every face has a story. As a voyeur, I relish the chance to watch the lives of those around me, but as an enjoyer I thrive on the drama created by not only myself, but those around me too.
The best days of my London childhood were always the weekends. Long lie-ins and lunches at my family’s favourite Italian place, which when lucky was followed by afternoons of window shopping at Harvey Nicks.
The great thing with London is that you can be surrounded by rich conservative dressers in designer suits one minute, and the a bus ride later you can be swimming in a sea of platformed goths in Camden or indie kids in Portobello. Fashion and art are so relevant in London, one of the globe’s cultural capitals, and even better it’s only a train ride from the romantic capitals of Europe.
I have always been consumed by the idea of fashion and romance. Not necessarily people’s love for material things, but that how we dress is affected by our life and mood. (A large part of which can be manipulated by our emotions and relationships with other people.)
So I hope you enjoy my thoughts and ideas.
Lots of Love
The London Red
The best days of my London childhood were always the weekends. Long lie-ins and lunches at my family’s favourite Italian place, which when lucky was followed by afternoons of window shopping at Harvey Nicks.
The great thing with London is that you can be surrounded by rich conservative dressers in designer suits one minute, and the a bus ride later you can be swimming in a sea of platformed goths in Camden or indie kids in Portobello. Fashion and art are so relevant in London, one of the globe’s cultural capitals, and even better it’s only a train ride from the romantic capitals of Europe.
I have always been consumed by the idea of fashion and romance. Not necessarily people’s love for material things, but that how we dress is affected by our life and mood. (A large part of which can be manipulated by our emotions and relationships with other people.)
So I hope you enjoy my thoughts and ideas.
Lots of Love
The London Red
Thursday 17 June 2010
Woman in a Man's Shirt.
Can wearing his clothes mean more to him than you?
During a recent visit to a CPF’s* house I came to think about the intentions behind wearing men’s shirts. While I have always conceived the fact that wearing the shirt of a male friend may be the ultimate attraction to him, I started to delve deeper into why.
It struck me that while a woman may wear a shirt to retain the smell and the feel of her man, be it a Harvie & Hudson oversized or a Lacoste polo, a man might give you his clothing in subtly possessive fashion. I gather with younger men who live together that wearing an item of their clothing can be their way of making their mark on you, thus protecting you from predators while you walk around with the strongly attracting aroma of endorphins. However as a woman wearing my man’s clothes I feel a sense of sharing and belonging.
I spoke to a friend of mine on the subject who has recently been going through the trauma of giving back what I gather is an extremely comfortable shirt to an ex lover. While she has a ‘real’ intention to give back the shirt, she also has a sneaky ability to avoid the return. I still question whether this is a way of avoiding the man himself, or keeping the trophy as a memory.
Hearing of my friend’s trouble then made me ask myself whether it is in fact the feel of the clothing that we fall in love with when we grow an attachment to our men’s clothing, or what the clothes symbolize. Personally, the idea of wearing a part of ‘him’ means more to me than the actual shirt, however a close relative of mine has a rather impressive stash of shirts and various other items of men’s clothing that she has collected over the years. This even includes an old boyfriends Eton scarf, which a number of years later he offered the trade for his Bentley – how sentimental! Does this show that the clothing symbolizes more than the intention to show his ‘candy’ to his friends?
I think I’d follow suit and keep the scarf… it’s not everyday you can wear a scarf that’s sentimentally worth 50 grand … then again… maybe I’m just too romantic.
*close personal friend
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