Last Post

I've decided to stop blogging. My focus has shifted, well, away from myself I guess. It's time to write about other things.

Thank you for your dedicated reading and comments.

All the best,

Melissa

Everything is going to hell, let's make a frittata

Jewish Mother is full of wisdom, usually despite herself. The title of this post is one of her most recent pearls. Also she is responsible for the following anecdote.

Jewish Mother, Man of Leisure step dad and myself are all sitting in the movie theatre ready to watch 500 Days of Summer - a very boring film which I don't recommend. Suddenly Jewish Mother turns to me and says "If I get up to pee do you want anything to drink?" Not until she saw the look of horror on my face did she grasp the possibility of a double reading. I love Jewish Mother. She is a constant source of amusement. Yikes do we have some belly laughs together.

The frittata, by the way, was delicious. And things are not going to hell as much as they used to be. Things are getting better every day.

Pirating and Sadness, With Photos

I was offered a job as a carnival pirate, and I momentarily considered handing in my resignation at the bank in order to pursue this exciting new challenge. Not for the treasure me hearties, but for the yo ho ho and of course the rum and also the free funnel cake. Traditionally the role of pirate meant one had to go to sea, live by the pirate code, partake of salty wenches, suffer from scurvy and so on, however the Carnival Pirate is redefining what it means to be a swashbuckler in the 21st century. For example, today's liberated pirate could take his salty wenches to Strada for pizza or any number of non-seafood restaurants we have here on land. You see the pirate liberation movement is all about choice.

This post is only going to get more boring and domestic from here on out so be warned. I lure you in with fun fairs and pirates, and I leave you with tales of the graveyard spiral taking advantage of my sanity. Apologies for the old bait and switch.



I wish I could remember how I felt when I took these photos, because I believe I was feeling a lot better than I am now. I was off work on a Tuesday trying desperately hard to avoid a throat-tightening maelstrom of depression that's been a long time coming. So I walked to Chelsea from Clapham. I took photos of Chelsea Bridge and Battersea Power Station, which is now defunct and being used as a venue for movie openings and literary festivals. There is also a photo of Battersea Bridge. In it you can see the bridge is painted pretty pastel colors like a giant birthday cake.

I also thought it crucial to share this image of mature wisteria climbing the facade of a Chelsea home. Because I am that boring. I can highly recommend getting in touch with the elderly lifetime member of the National Trust that you may have within. You will no doubt be filled with joy at the sight of mature wisteria or possibly the results of vacuuming and hair brushing your sheepskin rug.







If vacuuming is not your thing, look new shoes! These are two-toned ballet flats by Bloch, and again not adequate substitute for good mental health.




New grown-up duvet cover! A small touch added to the master bedroom and yet I am not thrilled with my usual joy over domestic improvement.




Look at this teenage boy riding a tandem bicycle in Battersea Park. He had just had an unfortunate run in with a gate, which made him topple over and lose his riding buddy. You can't really tell from this photo, but the kid had great style and was wearing a 'Vote for Pedro' t-shirt and Keds. "Adorable!" I can recall taking pleasure in watching him.





But this was all before I returned to work and lost my bearings completely. For two days straight I could not help but cry constantly at my desk, unable to perform even the simplest task. I had absolutely no control over my emotions or how I was expressing them. The two day crying fit turned out not to be so good for my overall wellbeing. Crying in the office is a bit of a taboo and is pretty bloody awkward for everyone involved. So I have now officially removed myself from the office. I am going back to America tomorrow, so I can regroup and get some much needed professional help.

I will be gone for two weeks, leaving the Manatee to his own devices. I will miss him very much, but I acknowledge that I am now none of the things that he found appealing in me at the start of our relationship. Much incredulity surrounds how he has not yet given up on me. There is hope yet.

The Traffic Here Sucks

Notice how we're taking time to pose for a photograph while standing IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD, and only the dog seems at all concerned. I'd be more likely to be run over by a deer than a car. Welcome to the rural Pennsylvania of my childhood. For some reason growing up I always thought that I lived in the suburbs. I was obviously without a clue. Suburbs require sidewalks, and also a city to be on the outskirts of. Bedminster, PA has neither of these. Philadelphia is somewhere to the southeast, but is so far away as to be irrelevant.

The real question is, where did I get that Starbucks? Do I not appear to be in the middle of bumblefuck? I must have driven 20 minutes to the nearest Starbucks. In London I live less than 50 yards from not one, but two Starbucks AND two independently owned coffee shops. And I have harnessed the power of Nespresso in my very own home. But then in Bedminster you'd be hard pressed to find a stranger pissing on your front door.

I fell in love with urban sophistication from a young age. I'm alluding to the ubiquity of coffeehouses and not the public urination of course. Childhood conduit of on trend informations was always Vanity Fair. As long as I can remember my grandmother has had a subscription, and as a girl I used to devour the magazine every time I went to visit her. I salivated over Cartier, Yves Saint Laurent, Hermes and sprawling articles on A-list celebrities like Rock Hudson and George Clooney. Vanity Fair was a gossip publication I could feel good about reading because it contained the odd serious article on political figure X or major serious current event Y. I still read it when I'm feeling indulgent.

You'd think with all my years of exposure to VF I'd be a sartorial tour de force by now, and yet most days I spend no more than 4.2 minutes cultivating my "look" for the day. It's as if the "look" I've imagined in my head is enough for me in its ethereal state and to bring said "look" to fruition would set off a gypsy curse of some sort. So I wear the Thomas Pink wrap dress, again, because it is comfortable and looks okay with flat shoes.

In the last year I have vowed to wear more makeup, and to blow dry my hair in the morning. The blow drying is not going so well. Most days I leave the house with wet hair pulled back in hair clip and a religious-like belief it will look better by the time I get to the office. Ha! On the makeup front - yes I have bought more makeup this year, but does the makeup actually make it onto face in improving strokes and sweeps? No. Mascara and Benetint is all I'm asking of myself, application of which takes approximately 24 seconds, but I am still woefully uncommitted.