Rogue, day 2

so yesterday was our second day with the kitten formerly known as charcoal. we spent most of the day out, leaving our little rogue to mew mournfully after us as we left. me to rogue: loka ka! kagabi dinededma-deadma mo kami, ngayong paalis kami saka mo kami iiyakan? i jest, of course, in my usual babaeng bakla fashion, but i was getting a bit worried by the time we left because she still hadn't eaten or done any business.

the morning was spent attending mass and a lunch for ateneo alumni at the parish of st. ignatius because our beloved fr. ben (dumbledore!) was visiting, along with the OAA director and my philo 104 teacher fr. nemy, and marlon's favorite math teacher ma'am jo. i can't tell you what a beautiful, beautiful feeling it was to sing filipino jesuit church music.

i was also completely moved by the opportunity extended to ateneo alumni in singapore to help with funding for scholars. that's pretty much because i was a scholar too. i was stunned to learn that 14% of ateneo college students are on scholarship -- not because it's a small number (it's actually more than decent), but it really hit me how lucky i was to have been that 14% in my time. also how lucky i was to be among the 250 scholars a year who are given scholarships out of the 850 who apply. so marlon and i agreed to set aside a little amount each month to contribute to the scholarship fund, because i know just how much difference a little bit can make to a scholar who really needs the money.

afterwards, we went all the way down to harbourfront to shop at charcoal/rogue's foster parents (FPs) pet store of choice. as the cashier rang up our cat food, cat-away spray, feeding dishes, scratch pad, cat carrier, catnip, cat collar and various other cat paraphernalia, he murmured: "first-time cat owner, huh?" you'd better believe it.

maryosep tantanan n'yo na kami

actually, walang tatalo sa pagka-first time cat owners ng mga FP ni charcoal/rogue. after we got out from our afternoon screening of WALL-E, nagpumilit lang naman silang dalawin ang pusa, ostensibly para i-turn over ang mga natitira nilang mga kagamitang pang-pusa... kahit tumanggi ako (politely of course) at sinabi kong nakapamili na kami. but no nagpumilit pa rin sila. k fine. baka nami-miss lang nila. pagbigyan.

ang mga kasangkapang dinala: litter tray and litter sand (kahit sinabi kong meron na kaming binili), cat-away spray (ditto), pagkain, flea spray para sa carpet, flea powder para sa pusa, mga samu't saring laruan, at... dito ako muling tumambling. shampoo. dahil araw-araw daw nila itong pinapaliguan.

diyoskoday. naloka ako. unang-una, naiimbyerna po ang mga pusa kapag sila'y nababasa. ikalawa, ang mga pusa po ay may katangi-tanging abilidad na paliguan ang kanilang mga sarili.

bigla kong na-realize kung bakit ang dialogue ng mga FP ay panay ganito: "gusto sana namin ng pusa, pero wala kaming oras eh." e gaga pala sila. kung pinapahirapan nila ang mga sarili nila sa araw-araw na pagpapaligo at pagpupulbos at 2x kada araw na paglilinis con johnson's baby wipes ng isang hayop na napakalinis sa sarili nitong katawan, e mawawalan talaga sila ng oras!

eto pa ang maganda. ayaw daw nilang makaistorbo, pero bibisita raw sila every two weeks para tingnan kung inaalagaan namin ng mabuti ang pusa. talagang nagkatinginan kami ni marlon sa napakandang non sequitur na ito. buti na lang ay kaagad kong sinabi na mas mabuti kung kada buwan na lang, kung hindi baka napagulong pa ang aming mga eyeballs. haha sorry naubusan ako ng tagalog. siguro dahil ganun na lang ang kabuwisitang naramdaman ko sa taong nais magpulis sa aming pet-rearing skills.

all's well that ends well

...because at the end of the day, we have our rogue and she's worth it. TV time has turned to kitty time, as we discovered the singular pleasure she takes in being cuddled by two simpering humans at one time. in the midst of some heavy-duty double cuddling, she fell asleep in the cozy hollow created by our bodies as we watched TV on our tiny two-seater couch. really, marlon and i completely melted.

that TV cuddle seems to have finally impressed upon her that marlon and i are good humans to have around, because this morning she actually came out of her favorite sub-coffee-table hideaway when we came out of our bedroom for breakfast. plus, she actually came to me when i called her! marlon hasn't quite succeeded yet, as he has yet to undo 26 years of dog training and stop saying "here, boy!" hahaha! but not bad for just two days eh?

Conventional dressing

From The New Republic - I like this because it doesn't just deal with how the women are dressed:

Like his niece, Ted Kennedy, who delivered the most moving (at moments heartbreaking, given the circumstances) speech of the evening, was dressed in navy blue. If, as Diana Vreeland once quipped, "pink is the navy blue of India," then navy blue is the navy blue of politics. All the prominent politicians of the evening--Joe Biden, Jim Leach, John Kerry, Kennedy--wore navy blue jackets, white or blue shirts, and white-and-blue patterned ties. Their ensembles were so similar one began to suspect they had, like a clique of junior-high girls, called each other the night before to coordinate outfits. (Kerry's take, however, was rather more patrician: cornflower blue tie; matte where others' fabrics were meretriciously shiny.) The reasons for all the blue are obvious. It's patriotic, and it's also the party's color. Perhaps more relevantly, navy seems safe and stalwart in this aforementioned time of war and economic insecurity: the color is free from the suspicious slickness of black, and the dowdy, Beta-male connotations of brown. A real man throws on a navy blue sport coat when he cleans up and goes out. Navy blue is a color that will--to quote another commentator from CNN's very deep bench, who was himself quoting Groucho Marx --"play well in Peoria."

Politics or not? YOU decide

I had this idea that with the US election coming up I'd have a post a week where everyone can talk Obama/McCain, but there's a feeling that you want this to be a politics-free zone.

I'm a great believer in democracy so I'll go with the popular vote. Punch your hanging chad in the comments below. One comment, one vote.

But if you're in New Orleans, just get in the car and go NOW.

Ain't she sweet

The strange world of me

I have a deadline. The deadline is actually tomorrow but I managed to get an extension to the end of next week. The deadline is for the book of The Thoughtful Dresser and I have been stuck in London all summer finishing it, and a cold, wet and windy summer. It's not been good or memorable.

But I have done something I have never done before, I have now almost completed buying my Autumn/Winter wardrobe. I broke with the habits of a lifetime and instead of going into a shop and saying, 'Ooh! I like that', I sat down and thought about what I needed, looked to see what was coming in to the shops and then went and got it. Yesterday I bought knee length boots, the day before, ankle boots, the previous week, winter coat. I bought scarves on eBay, a coat-dress at Jaeger and I've ordered a bag which will be in mid-September. One more item and I'll be done. I bought stuff when it had just arrived in the shops, and the sales were still on. They had not sold out of my size.

The clothes are all hanging in the wardrobe, unworn, under protective anti-moth covers, so it makes them feel old before I ever wore them. A little of the joie de vivre of life has gone, the impulsive purchase. I have far greater confidence in the capsule collection of clothes I've chosen. I have some marvelous investments in there. But it feels old. I feel old.

I realise that what I really want is to be rich enough always to wear new things. Change keeps the heart light.

US elections

Two months to go. Since there seems to be a lot of interest in discussing the issues arising from the election, I'm proposing to have an open thread every Friday where you can discuss the past week's campaign.

If any American voters would like to write a guest post, drop me a line at lindagrantblog(at)googlemail.com

A Rogue in our home

there's a new member of the paul-plazo household. she's five months old, covered in sleek black fur with lovely white streaks from each of her eyes up to her ears, and a long hooked tail. her name is rogue, and she is a beauty. 

the cat idea had been floating around since late last year, when i realized that moving out of our askal-populated home in mandaluyong meant that i could have a cat again. though marlon has always been a dog person, he warmed to the idea of a cat when he took into account our busy schedules (cats are way more low-maintenance) and living space (70 sqm is not enough for an active pooch). so we both agreed to get a cat at some undefined point in time, but never really put any work into getting it done. 

then i got really bored at work. with my two big pitches and a couple of promo projects all finished last friday, monday was the first day ever that i actually spent a full day at work without actually doing anything related to work. after making the rounds of my usual online haunts (chuvaness, pep, facebook, et al) there was nothing left for me to do except... google "singapore cat adoption." patay!

the days that followed were completely cat-crazy. i looked at the spca and cat welfare society, learned about the horrifying tale of the cat hoarder,  sent links to marlon and discussed many a prospective pet over yahoo messenger with him. i must have emailed and texted over 10 cat rescuers and "fosters", mostly asking about pure black kittens aged 3 months to over a year old. 

hello charcoal

i got a couple of encouraging responses, but the one i really wanted to hear from was davis, foster daddy to a beautiful pure black cat named charcoal. to see the adorable-ness that sucked me in big time, check out the last cat posted on august 12 here.

and when i finally heard from charcoal's foster, boy was it a whopper of a reply. for a brief moment, i knew what it was like to be angelina jolie, or even madonna. because the adoption requirements and screening process was just... 

basta. as my boss james would say: "have a look."

Name : Charcoal
Age : 3 months
Sex : Female
Type : Mixed black tabby

Note : Needs patience & time to get her warmed up to you as she was a stray kitten and has no contact with human before at very young age. Near missed by a vehicle & rescued. Traumatized due to siblings knocked down by a vehicle. Probably weeks or months to get her warmed up. Once warmed up, she will be very friendly and will stick to you very closely and follow you where ever you go. Very nosy (kay po) & curious, and would like to follow you & see what you do everyday.

Favourites
1. Enjoys running around & playing with you or toys.
2. Loves to be cleaned on her head and face with your wet fingers.
3. Loves to be bottle-fed with milk before going to bed at about mid-nite.
4. Loves to sleep on a hammock.

Dos (Her Routine)
1. Litterbox / toilet trained but need to guide her initially before each meals to familiarize your place.
2. Litterbox : A tray with newspaper and sand (preferred brand : Fussie Cat - Lemon @$7.00 per 10litres pack).
3. Clumps to be removed from the sand (otherwise she will play with the clumps).
4. Clean her feets & bottom with wet serviettes after using the litterbox.
5. Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner & Supper with dry food & water.
6. Dry Food (Science Diet or Eagle - Chicken Flavour) or whichever you can introduce.
7. Play with her after each meals as a reward.
8. After supper, clean her with your wet hands (with very little cat shampoo and anti-flea spray on your hands).
9. Feed her with milk in bottle max: 15ml at least once a day (Preferred Milk : Animalac Milk Powder)

Don'ts
1. Open windows and open doors that she will jump out as she's very nosy and curious.
2. Toilet bowls and plug holes to covered as she's very curious to jump in.

cue tumbling! may brand preference ang hitad. saan ka pa? pero siyempre feeling ko hindi na yan routine nung pusa kundi ng taong umampon sa kanya. 

at kung tumumbling ako sa listahan na yan, nag-nastia liukin floor routine ako sa listahan na sumunod.

I would like to know a little more about you as the caregiver to check if you're suitable to love & care for Charcoal. 1. Do you want the kitten for yourself or is it for a gift?
2. Do you have any experience with cat / kitten?
3. Are you above 21 year old? Are your working or studying?
5. Do you live with your parents, landlords or do you own or rent your apartment?
6. What's your working hours? Do you spend most of your time at home and how long?
7. How many adults & children live in your apartment?
8. Who will be responsible for the kitten & how long you or whoever will responsible will look after the kitten?
9. Do you have any pets now or in the past?
10. What are they and how long did you have your pets?
11. Will this kitten be an indoor or outdoor pet?
12. Do you plan on having the kitten de-clawed?
13. If you moved, what would you do with the kitten?
14. Does everybody in your family want an adopted cat / kitten?
15. Is anyone in your household allergic to cat / kitten?
16. Do you have carrier, harness & leash, enclosed yard, cat-proof fencing or enclosure?
17. Do you have the financial resources to pay for the kitten - food, litter, medical fees, incidentals & etc?
18. Do you plan to sponsor the kitten for vaccination (asap) & sterilization (6 month old) and regular vet checkups?
19. May I visit your home to see how and where the kitten would be living?
20. Will we or CWS members to visit the kitten / cat from time to time within reasonable limits to see if it is well-taken care of?

suddenly makes you wonder what the adoption process for children is like in the philippines and if it's even half this stringent. 

the next level

mejo nabuwisit ako sa simula, especially since hindi naman talaga kanila yung pusa. pero go lang, kasi ang cuuuuuuute cuuuuuuute cuuuuuuute niya talaga. so sumagot naman ako. and i realized marlon and i have lived with enough pets to open a small zoo. our combined pet history covers: one poodle, six spitzes, five german shepherds, one husky, ten mongrels, three rabbits, four hamsters, god knows how many fish, five turtles, four turkeys, four maya birds, a cage of parakeets, an indian cockatoo, a duck, a chicken, fourteen chicks and generations upon generations of rescued stray cats. 

so this super jologs version of the twelve days of christmas must have impressed charcoal's foster parent, because he replied quite speedily, revealing the next stage of the adoption process: a house inspection. sa tumbling na ginawa ko, i swear puwedeng-puwede na akong isali sa chinese olympic gymnastics team.

marlon and i hosted a lunch for his officemates today, so it was perfect timing -- the house was clean and we were in a rare social mood. at quarter to six (well over an hour after our agreed time of 4.30pm), davis and his wife jennifer brought over our little charcoal. at dahil mukhang pumasa naman kami sa mag-asawang umampon sa kanya, naging "our" little charcoal talaga siya in less than one hour.

in fairness hindi naman sila super lukaret, which i kind of expected after reading their lists. na-attach lang talaga sa pusa, at super concerned. they gave us a "starter kit" of packed kitty litter, food, toys and even lent us their cat carrier with the cutest DIY hammock inside. they even offered to accompany us on the kitty's visits to the vet. which was nice but a bit strange because i think if marlon and i can relocate, establish careers abroad, furnish our own place and manage our household siguro naman kaya naming magdala ng pusa sa vet diba? 

ewan. inisip ko na lang na super attached sila. after all, they did rescue the poor kitty at 5 weeks old from the middle of a major intersection... after its sibling had been splattered all over the street. they loved her and took care of her until she got over her skittishness and trauma. so i figured a little weirdness is justified. kahit pinapirma pa kami ng adoption contract. sige na.

kitten, thy name is rogue

as our new kitty quickly staked out its favorite spot under our two low, circular coffee tables, marlon and i lay on the living room floor thinking of a new name -- charcoal wasn't quite doing it for us. we went through a couple of names -- ash (after aishwarya rai, since the kitty was all eyes), pepper, even the completely silly beyonce, bulbol and kili-kili. then i saw the spine of one of the magazines on our coffee table, and knew we had the perfect name: rogue.

and so the evening has been a quiet one at home, as we let rogue get used to her new digs and to having the two of us around. she's warmed up quicker than i thought -- we had a great time lying on our stomachs on the floor, stroking her back and her jaw as she purred like a motorboat gone mad. she even let marlon carry her into the TV room for a little bit of cuddly while he watched wrestling. now she's back under the coffee table -- kind of an odd spot for a cat, but hey, who are we to complain now that we have her?

later i decided to tack on blair to make a full name -- blair after blair waldorf, my favorite character on gossip girl (pretty, snooty, naughty) and after the blair witch project, because this kitty can look absolutely creepy when she stares out at you from under the shadows of the coffee table. 

so her full name is blair rogue paul-plazo (ang landi!), but mostly she's just rogue. and just perfect. :)

oh and please excuse the crappy photo -- i can't find my digicam cable and we just have our camera phones, and this kitty wriggles like crazy!

Fat or unfashionable?

Jess Cartner-Morley in the Guardian asks, I assume rhetorically of the new peg leg trousers:

In my ignorance, I initially dismissed the look as an unflattering trouser shape that would never catch on. The second time I saw it, I suspected it was a ruse to quieten the size-zero debate by making models look twice as broad as they are. But the third time I saw it, I had to accept it was a trend.

Ever since, I have been dreading the day I would have to write about peg-leg trousers. For photographic purposes I have wimped out of the cutting-edge version of the look, in which the trousers are the same shape but lopped off above the ankle, in favour of a more forgiving, ankle-length pair, but still. The brutal truth is that unless you are blessed with long legs and a tiny waist, they do you no favours. Yet the peg leg is indisputably the on-trend trouser shape of the season. So we are faced with a stark choice: to look fat or unfashionable?

Family drama

I have a piece in the Guardian today about how to make family films about the Nazi Death Camps. Or perhaps not.

This is a Hollywood version of the Holocaust, and The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas is literally a Disneyfication (you wonder whether The Gas Chamber ride is being installed outside Paris). When you make films about the Final Solution for children there's not much you can say other than to introduce the historical events in a palatable way, and to make a general lesson about being nice to other people. When The Diary of Anne Frank was adapted for the stage in the 1950s, it was with the intention of suppressing the specifically Jewish element of the story to make it "universal".

Harry Peers Through The Looking Glass

There has been something of a debate recently on these pages about unwearable designs and the fashion writers role in promoting them.

The problem , it seems to me, lies with the fashion pundits
or style arbiters and what they say about these clothes, rather than with the designers.
It’s not only ok for the designers to produce clothes that are impractical and perhaps even unwearable: we want them to. We want to have glimpses of a fantastic world where fabulous people wear fabulous creations. It plays to our innate child like sense of wonder. We like to imaginatively believe that there is a wonder land somewhere out there . And, just as we did as children, we get to this land by reading about it , and, very importantly, by looking at pictures. The higher reaches of fashion and style have become , for many, the enchanted land that is populated by princesses , and princes, where real life is suspended and all sorts of things may , or may not , happen, just by dreaming of them. For many, of course, the door to this land can be found in the metaphorical wardrobe.

Most of us would maintain that we left fairy tales behind us years ago. We’re wrong . The fables that nurture us have just taken on a different guise. Hollywood once understood better the adult appetite for enchantment. Fred and Ginger didn’t just live in a world where people danced at the drop of a top hat. They lived in a world where people wore immaculate clothes, in houses with drawing rooms as big as a hangar, and rooms furnished in sleek cream leather. It may have been monochrome , but we were transported to a world of otherwise unimagined glamour.
Hollywood doesn’t seem to deliver this anymore ( perhaps it is Bollywood that has taken up the fabulist role)

So what are we left with? Fashion and style. And celebrity and gossip. And these volumes of fairy tales are published monthly, or weekly, and the newsstands are like carnival kiosks forever hawking new instalments.

Of course, some readers have a more refined taste . But for many a quick cheap fix will often do. I am referring to the acres of photographs devoted to second rate celebrities, and the spreads of the tacky lifestyles and bad taste mansions inhabited by the rich and famous. These celebrities don’t really pass muster as the princesses and prince charmings that we are looking for.
But in the more rarified reaches of fantasy inhabited by the likes of Vogue we do see a fabulous world. And it’s been designed by Prada or Galliano. And it’s been art-directed. And beautifully lit. And dramatically photographed. And populated by exotic and beautiful creatures. And they are wearing fabulous clothes. That we have never seen before. Or imagined.

That’s when the fashion writers step in and ruin it all. There is no point in telling people that this is what they must buy and wear. That’s actually got nothing to do with it. It should be about feeding the imagination , not laying down rules.

Not all fables appeal to all people. My advice is simply to devour and cherish the fables that you like. And ignore the commentator.

Occasionally the real world has palpitations when it seems that someone has managed to inhabit both the real and the fabulous world. Step forward Ms Paltrow, recently to be seen in just about every newspaper in the UK. The allure of Gwynneth in the highest of heels is surely because she plays to a sense of this fabulousness. She doesn’t need to run for a bus. Heavens, she doesn’t actually need to walk if she doesn’t want to. She has untold riches. Almost like living in a movie . And this is her way of communicating it. And we lap it up.

Bye bye posh girls

The media has been rife with rumours that ITV are going to cancel Trinny and Susannah's contract. Now it so happens that I go to the same hairdresser as these two goddesses, and that hairdresser also does the make-overs for the show, when they actually still did makeovers.

A long time ago, these two posh birds used to tell badly-dressed women the truth about how they look. It wasn't nice, it wasn't kind but they did manage to shoehorn them out of their beige sacks. And in my view, it was the conjunction of fast fashion and T&S which really jacked up British style in the past few years.

Now we have this guy Gok Wan, who gets a fat woman to look at an ID parade of other fat women and force them to say that they look fabulous naked. Often I'm sitting there thinking, no, you don't look fabulous. Cover yourselves up! (This is equally a criticism of myself.)

Where it went wrong for T&S was when they turned themselves into agony aunts, to 'refresh the formula', delving into people's personal lives. For godsake, it's just the frocks we're interested in.

The point of What Not To Wear was contained in its title. It told you how to dress for your figure, age, colouring. It's not rocket science yet many of us still aren't very good at it. The pleasure for me was watching someone look and the mirror and realise that, whoa, I've got a waist. Their choices might have been eccentric at times, they were obsessed with bosoms, but they were like two bracing St Trinian's prefects. They took you for a walk on the wild side. I loved them.

Sir Salman and me

There's a Q&A interview with me on the Man Booker website (and the other longlisted authors, too)

Democratic National Convention: Reprise

And here's a lesson on how to beat the credit crunch (is that really the National Rifle Association backing the New Deal?)

Taka nga muna...

it's for events like 100 katao, 100 taka that i wish i were back home. after reading about it on carlos celdran's blog, i went to the website of manlilikha, the organization that's putting this exhibit together, to learn more.

100 katao, 100 taka brings together 100 people (mostly artists, but some writers, politicians, designers and random others as well) who have each painted a taka, or papier-mache figure made by folk craftsmen from paete, laguna. i actually checked out each and every one of the 100 takas (yes, i have nothing to do this week) and was blown away by quite a number of them.


some of my favorites, from left to right: (top row) juan sajid imao, kusina salud (two figures, a woman and a horse), josie sison, arturo sanchez; (bottom row) eugene jarque, ferdz valencia, tado jimenez and karen flores.

then i found out you can bid for them when the exhibit is over! dang, i really wish i was home. thanks to marlon's promotion, we have a bit of leeway for luho this month, and a bit of art would be just perfect. what particularly draws me to the taka project is its filipino and folk art character. and i loved seeing all the hundred different directions a simple papier-mache figure can go.

i actually emailed manlilikha to see how i can participate in the bidding from way over here, although i am rather dubious about getting an actual response from an "info@..." email address. fingers crossed for this month's art fix, and for this year's addition to my wee but growing art collection!

Trousers: The Truth

The Telegraph has gone through all the trouser trends and tells you which ones to wear for your height/shape.

You can read this in full, if you like, but what you are about to find out is: There are no trousers that suit pear shaped women of average height.

"Cropped trousers only suit those with long legs,"

"Wide-legged trousers are ideal for tall women,"

"High-waisted trousers are wonderful on tall or petite women with hourglass figures," says Pinnot, "but they should be avoided by pear shapes as they accentuate the hips and the waist."

"Skinny jeans look fantastic on petites," says Pinnot. "But curvy women should steer clear, because skinnies accentuate curves."

"Peg legs are an interesting, edgy cut," says Pinnot. "They flatter taller women, and drown small frames."

What we're left with is the boot cut:
"Boot cuts suit women of all shapes," says Pinnot. "They flatter the leg and bottom and create subtle curves." (Because pear shaped women need more curves?)

My problem with bootcut jeans is that if they fit on the waist they're tight on the thighs and I cannot stand the sausage thigh, I like trousers to skim, that is right, skim over the thighs. But then they're too big on the waist.

I am 5' 5". I have one pair of trousers, they are wide legs and they skim over the thighs. If only we could lower the hem of the dresses to below the knee I could stop worrying and forget about trousers altogether.

In which Margaret Atwood and I speak of many things

In all the various excitements, I neglected to mention that I had dinner with Margaret Atwood and her husband (and several 19-year-olds) on Saturday night. Despite the noise in the restaurant we managed to talk at some length about Margaret Laurence, Janet Frame, and even for a minute or two about the importance of clothes.

Cashmeres died so I might live

Lagerfeld: I am not an intellectual

He glides in looking relaxed, wearing a black suit jacket by Tom Ford, black jeans by Christian Dior, a 4in-high Edwardian collar, and fingerless biker gloves adorned with rings. He offers a gloved hand and a well-practised apology, and takes a seat at a large wooden table in a room attached to the main studio, surrounded by sleek filing cabinets, yet more books and stacks of hip fashion and design magazines.

“I’m mad for books,” he says, sitting motionless behind his black Dior shades. “It is a disease I won’t recover from. They are the tragedy of my life. I want to learn about everything. I want to know everything, but I’m not an intellectual, and I don’t like their company. I’m the most superficial man on Earth.”

Lagerfeld relishes such contradictory language – or should I say, he relishes talking rubbish, probably because it makes understanding him more difficult and shields his private life. “There are many Karls,” says the publicist Caroline Lebar, who has known him for 22 years. “He is like – how do you say in English – the animal that changes its skin?” A snake? “No, a snake changes only once in life.” A chameleon? “Oui, oui. Karl is like a chameleon. Always changing.”

. . .

Discussion about “the hidden depths”, as he calls them, should be avoided. “The quest to find yourself is an overrated thing concerning not very interesting people very often. Psychoanalysis – I don’t want to hear about it. Before Freud, people weren’t tortured by these things that have undermined the territory of perception. You have to live with your shortcomings.”

I’m just trying to get behind the many faces of Karl, I suggest. He laughs.

“This reminds me of when Annie Leibovitz photographed me for Vanity Fair. I didn’t know her very well then, and she said, ‘I have to spend three days with you to see what’s behind.’ And I said, ‘Annie, you’re wasting your time. Look at what you see.’ ” He casts his hand theatrically over his face. “There is nothing else.” Why do you want to be known as superficial? “I like that image. I don’t want to look like an old teacher.

from the Times

Baby come home

Today, I am going to pick up this.

When I have brought it home, I will show it to you

I speak!

The excellent on-line magazine Nextbook has quite a long audio interview with me on the subject of The Clothes On Their Backs

I am now firmly of the opinion that you get a far better deal and better service from The Book Depository, which offers free shipping worldwide Though charging in £s, they have several fulfilment centres in the US

A well-judged column

So rare that finds a really, really good writer about menswear. Harry has disappeared to his country retreat, so I am offering the position of locum menswear writer to Hardeep Singh Kohli. I wonder what he does with the rest of his time?

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a well-made cotton drill sweat top as much as the next slightly overweight, amply-arsed man, but there is a time and a place for such frivolity. Perhaps I belong to another era - maybe the 1950s - but I do yearn for all men to enjoy the suit again, feel pride in their smartness and become elevated by elegance. It's time to promote the peacock and I am happy to be at the vanguard of the strutting. I have plenty of denim and trackwear but I'd rather been seen in a beautifully tailored, plum-coloured three-piece suit, a multi-stripe double-cuff shirt and an appropriately complementary tie. Upon my oversized, calloused feet I would have tasselled Bally loafers. I have even invested in half a dozen pouchettes and a handful of cravats, either or both of which I intend to coordinate with my turban. I will be embracing dandyism in every way possible.

Second place in the Karachi Bonniest Baby Contest

Last week I commended to your attention the weepingly funny account of author Imran Ahmad's trip to the Edinburgh International Book festival where he met Gordon Brown, while dressed in shorts.

Yesterday afternoon, in the the authors' yurt in Edinburgh, a pleasant man in a linen suit came over to introduce himself to me. This was Imran Ahmad in person. He had been deluged with visits to his blog from The Thoughtful Dresser, more he said, than from all the other sites put together.

He pressed into my hand a signed copy of his book Unimagined: A Muslim Boy Meets the West, which I read on the plane coming home. Later he would persuade Salman Rushdie to take a signed copy off his hands. And has the photographic evidence to prove it.

I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this book, particularly his account of how he was robbed of the title of Karachi's Bonniest Baby by political corruption and nepotism. Here he is, pictured on the cover, in the contest.

Look, just go and buy it. It's the story of a Pakistani Muslim Adrian Mole. What's not to like? Eh?

UPDATE

Imran has updated his account of Edinburgh:

On Sunday morning, a quiet chap wandered into the Writers’ Yurt. I could see that he had no Festival ID and obviously wasn’t supposed to be in here – maybe another wannabe writer?

The Festival staff were all very busy, so gallantly I stepped in to deal with this situation, with my characteristic sensitivity and tact.

I shared with him some advice on writing and getting published; I gave him a signed copy of my book (so that he would gain an appreciation of the standard of writing which has to be attained in order to get published); I let him have his photo taken with me; and then I gently nudged him out of the Writers’ Yurt.

Although I am a successful internationally-published writer, I’m always ready to help aspiring writers on their long journey to some form of publication.

PLEASE NOTE: The Writers’ Yurt is strictly for invited writers, authorised Festival staff and nominated guests only (all to be wearing Festival IDs, unlike this gentleman).

Here's another bit:

I returned to the Festival on the weekend of 23-24 August, taking a train up to Edinburgh on Friday night.



At Kings Cross, there was a huge crowd waiting to board the train, but I was quite relaxed. This being the last train to Edinburgh on the Friday evening before a holiday weekend, I wouldn’t even contemplate this journey without a reserved seat in First Class.



The crowd surged forward as soon as the platform number was revealed, and I still got caught up in the herd mentality – even though I knew I had a comfortable seat waiting for me. I boarded the train and began to arrange my stuff around my seat (suitcase in the luggage rack, jacket on the overhead shelf, food bag at my feet, book on the table etc).



A man in the next carriage was yelling into his mobile phone. An attractive woman seated at the next table smiled at me, as we both realised we could hear a phone conversation taking place so far away.



“… THERE ISN’T A SINGLE UNRESERVED SEAT! …”



He was moving towards me …



“… THIS IS A COMPLETE TYPICAL F--- ING FIASCO! …”



He came into my carriage … He was a thin man, with very short, dark hair and wearing jeans and a t-shirt …



“… MY TICKET? IT’S A STANDARD SAVER RETURN …”



He sat down in the reserved seat opposite me (although a Standard Saver Return would not entitle him to a seat in First Class).



“… WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO F---- ING DO? …”



An elegant Japanese couple stood hesitantly alongside me, conferring together and looking back and forth between their tickets and the seats opposite me.



“May I see?” I asked them, and examined their seat reservations. “Will,” I said to the man on the phone, “these visitors to our country are waiting to take their seats.”



Studiously not acknowledging that he had heard me, Will Self moved off down the carriage, back in the direction he had come from – still yelling into his phone.



Later during the journey, I was unable to overcome my curiosity. I made the hazardous journey into Standard Class and down the length of the train, to find out what had happened. The aisles and connecting areas were strewn with people on the floor: reading, talking, sleeping and (in some cases) drinking far too much.



Eventually, I found him. He had a seat and was furiously scribbling notes and using a purple highlighter in a copy of Richard Dawkins’ ‘The God Delusion’.

A curmudgeon writes

Norm goes shopping:

I will leave aside the fact that my body is always overcome by a draining fatigue the instant I arrive in this environment - a physiological phenomenon I have never been able to comprehend. And I will leave aside the puzzle that, on entering a large department store, the intending purchaser never arrives at the part of the store he (for he it is in this case) needs or wants; there are always floors to negotiate, by lift, stair or escalator, and then vast spaces to cross, as if shopping doubled as a training ground for long hiking expeditions. And I leave aside, too, that the air in such places is like a condensed falsehood all of itself. These obstacles and inconveniences I now know, in the light of much experience, I must expect.

The grown-up moment

Everything I read tells me that clothes are about to undertake a dramatic change: hemlines two inches below the knee, jackets that cover the bum, feminine blouses instead of clingy tops. Long sleeves. Alexandra Shulman told me a few months ago that in fashion, you just have to wait it out. If nothing suits you, don't rage against fashion, just wait. Your turn will come.

Here's Sarah Mower in the Telegraph:

The season we're contemplating looks like a veritable field day for those of us who don't regard "classic" as a synonym for boring; who like to change our appearances in small yet wickedly effective increments; and who enjoy nothing more than focusing on sharp, economical purchases while ignoring all nonsense trends strewn in our paths.

This, in other words, is the season that will sort the women from the girls.

It's a pity that it's taken such a terrible dive in the economy to lasso most designers back from their stampede into frivolity and force them to produce more useful, serious content. But having to imagine what would appeal this season while we were back in the first twinges of the sub-prime crisis has done them the power of good.

So what we're seeing on the rails now is measured, grown-up, curvaceous, functionally considered design - with the odd invigorating flash of something different. Which is what proves a designer's worth in the first place, I'd say.

Winding up for the pitch

tomorrow morning will mark yet another first in my life as lilian and james have decided to bring me to a big client pitch. it's a pitch for not one, but two channel launches, the culmination of a currr-azy week where i crafted two pitches simultaneously. 

i should probably be nervous, but i'm ecstatic -- because i know they wouldn't bring me along without a good reason!

i'll have more to say about it soon because i should be getting ready for bed, but all i can say for the moment is: i've picked out a great outfit that hides my bilbil and involves a vintage dior handbag. what more could a girl need to kick some serious ass?

The necklace returns, it says

one of mine

For years on end you wander around oblivious to the fact that you are completely out of fashion. I have always been big on necklaces. They cast light up onto the face. They draw attention away from the hips. I have lots But apparently I was hopelessly out of date. I know this because they have just come back into fashion:

The neck was last a focal point during the mid-Eighties, when girls in pearls reigned and costume jewellery mostly comprised naff, paste baubles. The good news about the necklace's reincarnation is that there are plenty of avenues to be explored. After something bold, chunky and with a reassuringly noisy clunk? Well look to Lanvin, or at least Lanvin-inspired jewellery. At Balenciaga, gutsy, Dynasty-style, bling chokers replaced bags as what fashion folk like to call the “must-have accessory”, while at Givenchy, girls were laden down in threads of gold and silver chains.

Whatever you choose, the advantages of this trend are tenfold. With all this activity going on around your neck, no one is going to be checking out the ply-content of your cashmere poloneck, thereby obviating the need to fork out on lots of expensive clothes. And don't underestimate its power to utterly transform an outfit. Averyl Oates, the buying director of Harvey Nichols, points out that an oversize necklace is the best way of lifting all that black and the gothic mood that is prevalent this season.

If you are looking to buy something special, a great neck-piece makes a good investment, something that can be pulled out of the wardrobe year after year. Another point to consider is that costume jewellery is so well made and designed these days that it's often hard to tell the difference between something that came from Topshop and the designer, upwards-of-£600 variety.

Of course it would come back in style just as I start to experience crepiness.

New Bed

So... since before we were married, Adam has talked about building a bed for us out of antique doors. I was all game for it (way cheaper than buying one) so we bought two doors from Scipio (where else?) last year and stripped the paint off right away. Well, those doors sat in his mom's garage for A YEAR but we finally decided to make it cheap and paint it instead of getting expensive wood for it. So it's finally done! The bed we've been talking about forever! I'll put up some pics as soon as I can, but Adam is doing our side tables and I'm making our quilt and pillows, so I might wait til it's all done. It's so huge, it barely fits in our tiny room :) Big, just like us!

Let them eat Boden

Americans have Obama, we have these two

I have a piece in the Guardian today about Rachel Johnson's slimmish paperback, Shire Hell. New readers start here.

Rachel Johnson is a Yummy Mummy, sex columnist on Easy Living magazine and sister of the more famous Boris- blond, tousle-haired mayor of London since he defeated newt-loving Red Ken Livingstone in May.

Rachel lives in Notting Hill along with her neighbours Elle McPherson, Richard Curtis and Esther Freud etc, about which she wrote a novel, Notting Hell, satirising life amongst the gadzillionares.

Now she has written another, about Dorset, where she has a country place, and if you want to know who are our coming political masters when Old Etonian David Cameron finally ejects Gordon Brown from No 10, this is the place to start.

The intersection of the worlds of Notting Hill and the countryside are brilliantly illustrated by an incident that took place at last year's gala dinner hosted by Alexandra Shulman, editor of Vogue, to launch the Golden Age of Couture show at the V&A. On being introduced to Kate Moss, Cameron commiserated with her for the summer flooding that had washed out her Cotswold village, which is in his constituency, and spoke knowledgeably of when the local pub might reopen. Impressed, Moss asked for his phone number. Returning to his table, Cameron proudly announced that he was expecting a call from Moss; unfortunately it was because she thought he was a plumber.

Sometimes, like Molly Bloom, you have to say yes yes yes!

Sometimes the heart must rule the head. Sometimes you see the item of clothing you have been looking for your whole life, and when you put it on the friend you are with says, Yes! YES! (having previously made a face at everything else you tried on)

And you go home and make the necessary financial arrangements.

It's currently being altered.

It's a coat. It's from here

Lia takes a first step

Yesterday, my friend R. and Top Baby Lia (now aged two) met for lunch and then worked our way down Bond Street where R. bought a a dress in the Vivienne Westwood sale. In Nicole Farhi, while R. and I were trying things on, Lia found a pair of high heeled shoes, put them on and proceeded to walk confidently across the floor of the shop to the amazement of the staff and customers.

Without being told, Lia had understand that to walk in Difficult Shoes takes application and practise. It seems a shame that Louboutin does nothing for her age range.

Boy-watching at Beijing

marlon and i spent most of our weekend taking care of the ironing in front of the tv, which was tuned into the beijing olympics. it's the first time i've ever really sat down to watch an olympics and it just blows my mind!

i found myself shrieking out loud when romania's poor marian dragulescu landed flat on his ass at the very end of his floor routine, and again when he went completely ker-SPLAT on his face on his second vault... after an almost-perfect, gold medal shoo-in first vault. my heart broke for him... and i'm not even really into gymnastics! i mean, we almost expect to be awash in glorious olympic moments that bring us to our knees in awe, but i didn't know olympians could fuck up so badly either! either way, it's great tv!

one more reason to shriek: spain's bad boy hottie gervasio deferr (okay ang bantot ng pangalan), who won a silver for his floor routine.


shet sana ako na lang yung medal.

All is explained

Why does fashion regularly produce hideous fashions, when we were getting along so nicely with the trend for dresses and opaques?

You see, these sorts of people [fashion snobs] like to look different from the masses. Nothing wrong with that. Problems arise, though, from the fact that the masses often have quite sensible taste (with the exception of Ugg boots, but let's not talk about such distressing things on a Monday morning. Gladiator sandals are bad enough). Anyway, fashion snobs then have to find something that the masses don't like and don't wear - often, though, for a reason. Hence the sudden popularity of ridiculously high-waisted jeans over hipster versions among the Dazed & Confused types, and ditto for gladiator sandals over less Greco-Roman ones.

Throwing foetuses down the catwalk

There's a very interesting piece about a scout for a model agency, who twice a week goes and hangs around Top Shop looking for new girls to take on.

'There was a girl called Emily Smith who I saw when she was 11. I kept in touch with her mum for three years. Eventually we took her on. We have five girls at the moment who are about 13 or 14 and we have to get child performance licences, doctor's certificates, permission from the council, permission from their school. It's proper.'

The interesting thing to me, is how young the girls are to whom she gives her card. Why do models have to be in their very early teens? Their job is to model clothes, what does age have to do with it? Sorry to come the feminist harpie but could this obsession with pubescent girls have anything to do with infantilising women? Compare and contrast with Agyness Deyn, who is a geriatric 25 and only discovered when she was well past 20. Interesting face, loads of self-confidence, actual personality.

Literary fabulousness

I am doing a gig at the Edinburgh Book Festival next weekend (with Rose Tremain - too late, it's sold out!) and having dinner with Margaret Atwood on Saturday night, apparently.

This account by a writer attending the festival is the most amusing summing up I have ever read of the sheer glamour and pace of the literary life and the social whirl we all move in, hanging out with Mart and Phil and Salman and even Gordon. This is why Madonna and Sarah Ferguson started writing books, you know.

US stores that do not ship internationally

A useful guide here

Who ships to Canada (and other countries where indicated)
American Eagle- Ships to Canada, but not other destinations
eBay- Make sure to check where the seller ships BEFORE bidding
NeimanMarcus.com- must call 1-888-888-4757
Bloomingdales.com- must call 001-1-513-573-8170 for international shipping
Bluefly.com- Bluefly ships to the following countries: Australia, Brazil, Canada, Hong Kong, Japan, Mexico, New Zealand, Puerto Rico, and Switzerland. (other countries via Access-USA)
YOOX.COM- ships pretty much to every country in the world
Beauty.com and drugstore.com (via AccessUSA)
Bare Necessities- Ships to Canada.
figleaves.com- (via i’s UK site)
Torrid.com- Ships to most international destinations
LaneBryant.com- Ships to Canada Only. Must have a Canadian Billing and Shipping Address.
J Crew to Canada and Japan only

Who doesn’t ship to Canada
Gap.com
OldNavy.com
BananaRepublic.com
Nordstrom.com
SaksFifthAvenue
Bebe.com
SmartBargains.com
Spiegel.com
Newport-news.com
Zappos.com
Target.com
Macys.com

You might think what with the credit crunch they'd be begging for our funny foreign money, but no.

The thick/thin of calf are booted

I have these in purple suede from two years ago

Some of us are doomed from birth with chunky calves and there is nothing you can do about it. Indeed, sweating on the treadmill will only bulk those muscles up. So for decades knee length boots were only shangrila to me. There were other women whose knee-length boots flapped around their skinny calves but you couldn't expect me to feel sorry for them. At least they had boots.

And then there was Duo which has their Autumn range just in. You pick the boots you like, take a tape measure round your calf, measure at the widest point, fill in your shoe size, and there you are - matchstick calves or calves like milk bottles, they can fit you.

It's mail order unless you live in Bath or Manchester, where they have a shop, or go to one of their fitting rooms, where they have the full range. They measure you, you try them on, pay and they arrive a couple of days later in the post. Yes, they do ship internationally. I am embarrassed to say how many pairs I have, just let's concede that I've been buying a pair or two a year since I first stumbled across them.

Are they as stylish as boots by Marc Jacobs? No, but I can't have boots by Marc Jacobs.* Every year I manage to find something. There are fifty-eight styles this year.

* A saleswoman at Russell and Bromley told me that fifty per cent of the customers who came in looking for boots, could not find anything wide enough to buy.

NOTE for any of you who are thinking of ordering, I have always found Duo to be a really reputable firm with first class customer service. On one occasion, when I rang them with a problem with Royal Mail who had lost the package, they passed me on to the owner of the company who dealt with chasing it up personally. The sole (ouch) problem I have encountered is that on one occasion I found the shoe fitting of the boots too narrow and they had to be returned. My chief complaint is that I think their styles are always a season or two behind, but if the main lines won't make boots that fit, there's no other option.

In the mood for...

i thought of making a mood board to show what my morning at work (and a little bit of last night) has been like.


now that's what i call a mood board.

working on this new project has reminded me of a lot of things, and i'm glad the references are coming to me so naturally, for something i didn't think i would take to so well.

some of the things i'm drawing upon: morning classes back in college spent doodling eyes in notebooks with justine. the word malikmata -- i'm so frustrated that i can't find an adequate english translation. manila urban legends and my ghost stories, particularly one involving a keyhole that never fails to elicit the shivers from anyone i tell it to.

what are you in the mood for today?

Fun without needles

(Thank you greying pixie)

Some cruel types might observe that the women demonstrating the techniques has a) had botox and b) has either a bad case of rosacea or a heavy hand with the blusher brush

Banana Republic: The Jackson Fit

Well, ladies. This afternoon I went to the UK (and Europe's) only Banana Republic where they now have the entire Autumn range in. Before me, black trousers as far as the eye can see so I begin to go from rack to rack searching for the Jackson and I do not find them. Eventually, I ask a sales assistant, who marches purposefully to the rack I have just come from, swings round a ticket, and says, 'Oh!'

I traipse along behind her as she goes through all the racks I've been through and cannot find any Jacksons.

She goes off into the office, and when she returns she tells me that every single Jackson in every style, and every size has sold out, 'because they have turned out to be more popular than we expected.' The stock, she says, was ordered a year ago, nine months before the London store opened its doors and that the company had 'misread the market.'

There are more Jacksons coming in on Saturday and all I can say is, get in line.

The man behind Zara

Further to yesterday's post about Zara, there's another piece on its reclusive founder, Amancio Ortega Gaona. It's worth reading it all. Zara spends almost nothing on advertising, which itself keeps costs down. There is no 'face of'' Zara. As I said yesterday, I think its design is amazing, but the quality control is dire:

The 72-year-old son of a railway worker is now, according to Forbes, the seventh richest man in the world. He is astonishingly reclusive - only one known photo of him is in existence. He is thought to be deeply involved in all areas of the business, including design, but little is certain. Zara was one of the first to bulk-buy Chinese fabrics at a time when rivals dismissed them as of low quality. Zara legend has it that Ortega himself felt the cloth and made the decision, but as he has never given an interview we can't be sure.

He opened his first store in Galicia in 1975 and expanded slowly across Spain. In 1984, he met computer whizz Jose Castellano, who developed a production and distribution system that allowed clothing to go from drawing board to shop floor in as little as 10 days. Zara recruited a team of young designers - 200 at the last count - who created clothes inspired by the catwalk as well as adding their own ideas.

"So-called 'fast fashion' is now common in the high street," says Maureen Hinton, lead retail analyst at Verdict Research. "But before Zara arrived in the UK in 1999, all retailers offered three or four seasons. Zara introduces new stock every week, which caught our stores on the hop.""Zara has absolute control of the design, manufacturing and distribution process," explains Robert Clark, senior analyst at Retail Knowledge Bank. "Fifty per cent of its product is made in Spain, 26 per cent in the rest of Europe, and 24 per cent elsewhere. With others, 50 per cent or more is made in Asia. Fast-fashion items, roughly half its sales, are made in company-owned factories in Galicia. It's the basic T-shirt staples that are outsourced."

Although Zara owns its factories in order to speed up the process, this has also allowed it to dodge many of the sweatshop accusations that hound the likes of Primark - although in June it closed a textile supplier's factory in Dhaka over poor conditions, insisting that the factory introduce unions if it wanted to remain a Zara supplier.

Zara has overtaken Gap

In sales, that is, not style, which happened light years ago. But I have stopped buying Zara, however affectionately I remember its badly made dresses:

Unlike Gap, there isn't a definitive Zara look - it is so dedicated to following the twists and turns of fashion that its very lack of definition is key to its philosophy. It is as hard to pin down and as fast-moving as mercury. But it does do directional, it does great winter coats, (one of my most memorable buys was a bright yellow swing coat which reminded me of Courrèges in the Sixties) smart trenches and brilliant tuxedo evening trouser suits. It is capricious and fun. I don't always find something there, but I wouldn't dream of going more than a fortnight without a visit.

While Zara innovated, Gap never responded imaginatively to the arrival of the internet and its instant catwalk reports, or to the globalisation of production and demand. (Meanwhile, Zara was zipping from "inspiration" on a catwalk in Milan to a Zara production line in Spain and back to a store on the King's Road.) Or to the fact that we have all started dressing up more; we are all ladies who lunch now and, if necessary, invent events where we can dress up - just like Sex and the City - indeed the queues to get in to that movie were red-carpet gangs of girls wearing you-know-what.

Woman goes mad with needles

From the Times. Is there a woman over forty who has not played around in her mind with the idea of a little injection here, a teeny bit of filler there? Twice I have made appointments and cancelled them. This woman went ahead

Things only got weirder after we moved on from playing with needles in NY, to LA, where we flirted with knives and lasers. I was on the rollercoaster, it was a thrilling ride and, my, there was a hell of a lot more of it to go before I was going to get off.

It was pathetic how quickly I went from someone determined to embrace ageing with some grace, to someone who was willing to let a fairly inexperienced doctor remove some fat from my backside, take it to a lab, separate out the stem cells and then inject it back into my ageing, sunken cheeks, up through the inside of my mouth, while also, seeing as he is up there and has got me under a general anaesthetic, getting the knife out and “redraping” the sagging skin under my eyes like a pair of old curtains.

The fat transfer didn't happen. A chance phone call at the last minute, telling me that nobody should work on me following the Sculptra injections, made me call off the procedure that could have left me looking ridiculous. Looking like a freak, I always thought, would keep me away from cosmetic enhancement, but in America, you meet countless women who look weird, yet think they look great. I reckon it's easy to join them. Perhaps I already have.

When you monkey about with what nature intended, things do go wrong. The Restylane in my top lip has slipped - there's a funny lump that shouldn't be there. Since the Fraxel laser therapy on my eyes (performed in LA by Dr Persky), the aforementioned tuna tatare has faded and, certainly, my eyes look less baggy, but, still, seven weeks on, they are a weird brown colour. My forehead is glassy and does not move. A glassy brow is not considered good Botox, but I now like this egg-like badge of self-inflicted paralysis. I may go back for more.

People have commented, constantly, on how well I look, and it started the moment I walked out of Brandt's office, when the sound man told me: “You're a real Manhattan girl now. You look awesome.” Even Anna Davies, the serious, Oxbridge-educated, bluestocking director, liked my lips. My best mate, P, who I had thought would be mildly disgusted, said: “You look great. I haven't seen you like this since the mid-1990s.”

Once you are inside, it's hard to get out. At a certain point, the Botox won't be effective enough, and it will be time for an eye-lift, a neck-lift, a face-lift and so on. If you want to be dramatic about it, you could say that injectables are the weed to surgery's heroin. More pragmatically, if you're going to play the self-improvement game, you had better accept you're in it for life. Boob jobs last only 10 years; eye jobs require volumising materials to be injected regularly into the under-eye area to stop you looking hollow.