KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

Hyacinth Bucket

Last week Material Whirl let herself down.

I got a teeny bit stressed and acted like a proper nana. As is not uncommon with periods of minor stress, it was not caused by one monumental issue but rather some small uneventful things that coalesced into a big squeezy stress ball. No real drama, just the usual. Busy work/home life, juggling deadlines, too much activity wedged uncomfortably into inadequate time slots - you know the drill. Plus, I bashed my shin, REALLY HARD on a protruding Under Bed Drawer that caused a great ugly citrine bruise. This forced me to wear trousers all week while London sweltered in 20 degree heat and women flashed their lovely bare pins without abandon.

In summary, I had the proper hump about nothing.

Walking home one evening after work and dashing to the tube to get to something or other I had, ahem, an embarrassing altercation with a group of young lads about some minor anti-social behaviour. I say embarrassing as I'm a 34-year old adult and they were possibly under 16 and may just have experienced a voice break. Cross language was exchanged. Some swear words banded about. Them: What the **** are you looking at? (Rude) Me: Where are your parents?! (Rubbish). It got silly so I had the good sense to assess the situation and walk away. The cause of this commotion was absolutely a big load of nothing and I won't bore you with the detail. The key point is no crime was being committed, there was nothing personally directed towards me. Stress had totally got the better of me.

I arrived home and over a big mug of strong tea I reflected on my behaviour those past few weeks - turning my nose up at this, tutting at that, peeking out of my blinds at the faintest whiff of noise and noticing every silly incident that, quite frankly, was nothing to do with me. This wasn't true to form; something wasn't quite right. The old me had been unexpectedly replaced with a hybrid of Hyacinth Bucket and Irene Ruddock from Alan Bennett's Talking Heads - in other words a meddling busy body, albeit a misunderstood one, with an opinion on how things should be. For those who are familiar with this outstanding monologue, it doesn't end well for poor Irene and if I carried on like this, I'm sure it wouldn't end well for me either.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGCg3ARv14U]

Channelling Patricia Routledge is not entirely a bad thing; after all Mrs Bucket gives good floral dress, very Erdem Pre-Fall and S/S 2013. But acting like an interfering old bag? Not cool. So, this week I have vowed to get off my high horse and de-Hyacinth. I will turn a sunglasses-covered eye to any perceived antisocial behaviour and bloody well mind my own business. I will try to revert back to seeing the good in everyone like I used to. I will smile, be patient, say thank you with sincerity even if it is not reciprocated. Heck, I'll even hug a hoodie, 1996-style. I am not the polite-police, I cannot change the world and it is time I remembered that not everyone is horrible or guilty of a terrible social ill. Besides, there are far more important things to worry about.

So, you'll be pleased to know that Hyacinth has gone and the chilled, slightly more understanding me is back.

The florals are staying though. They look great in a matching top-and-shorts-combo.

Zara Flower Print Shorts and Top - http://bit.ly/11Z1Tdv

TOGETHER

Chanel+ring+set+via+zsazsa

On Tuesday 28 May 2013 two of my closest friends got married.

They kindly asked me to write a reading for their ceremony which I had the nervous honour of reading to them and the assembled guests on the day.

They have given their permission for me to share it on my blog.

I hope you like it.

TOGETHER

When boy meets girl and an unremarkable day suddenly becomes extraordinary   When friendship becomes something more and that something more becomes emphatic love You realise it was there all along, it was meant to be The spark becomes brighter and you want to spend every available moment Together   Surrounded by your closest friends and enveloped in their company You gravitate only towards one other, held by an irresistible pull Her laugh is the only sound you hear amplified above the noise The room may be full but it is just the two of you alone Together   During heady June days of rock and roll love Laughing in the warm sienna sunlight and surrendering to the electric night When the guitar plays its final chord and the crowds begin to fade You are there, kissing under the violet starry sky Together   As time passes and different interests may keep you apart You realise that every step you take is only for the other Like actors in your own production, you play a supporting part to the other's lead role One writes the words, the other composes the music and you create a beautiful masterpiece Together   Over time your feelings intensify, they are insurmountable You say to each other you have my heart, but deep down you know they always had it, right from the start You make plans for the future, to say I do and a beautiful spring wedding is ready to bloom From this moment on you are ready to commit to your life Together   There is at times a magic in true love You lay bare all of your hopes, dreams and fears in the light and the dark You will always laugh, sometimes you may cry But you never have to be lonely, never afraid   Together   With the love that you share and the closeness that protects you both You can take on the world, you are invincible Discover the unknown, carve out your new favourite place Experience more firsts and jump; you've got someone to catch you. The possibilities ahead are endless simply because you can do them Together

So now your special day is here, you are about to begin a road trip full of new adventures Creating memories from real things that will last forever There are no endings, just exciting beginnings Stepping into the days ahead, it is time to find out where the story goes next Together

 

Pre-Holiday Rules

Norman Parkinson - Travel

This bank holiday just passed, Material Whirl jetted off on a fantastic hen weekend to sunny, sunny Spain with a group of six lovely hens.

I had planned to have my size-appropriate suitcase packed in advance and to rest well in the days leading up to the hen to counterbalance the indubitable sleep deprivation ahead. I envisioned a relaxed me wafting effortlessly into Gatwick's North Terminal poised and calm - the embodiment of airport-chic.

HA HA HA. I was the last in the group to arrive; running wildly from the airport terminal shuttle, apologising and slightly clammy and feeling unprepared. A schoolgirl error had been made; I had failed to apply the rather substantial experience gained from many years of holidaying.

I had forgotten my very own Pre-Holiday Rules.

PRE-HOLIDAY RULES

Without fail, I will always...

  • End up packing the night before and until at least 1.30 am wailing 'I AM JUST SO TIRED, I CANNOT DO THIS' while hand washing three bikinis, meticulously selecting matching accessories for every single item of clothing and making mental lists out loud, such as 'morning top, top for the pool, top for post-beach cocktails, pre-dinner drinks top, emergency top' etc rather than actually filling my suitcase. All this while my long-suffering and very dear husband looks on despairingly. Or lies on the cool floor, hoping sleep will come soon.
  • Add Holiday by Madonna to my iPod track list (sometimes going berserk and adding the You Can Dance Extended Remix) and listen to this en route to the airport or at 6.30 am at home, still packing, and delirious through lack of sleep (see above point).
  • Spend a fortune on toiletries prior to the holiday, enough to warrant a possible remortgage of our house, most of which goes towards poxy rip-off miniatures. This also includes the purchase of a complete range of new sun care products in SPF50 - Moisturising Sun Protection with Insect Repellent (in both spray and lotion formats), High Protection Face Moisturiser, Sun Care Balm for Lips, Sun Care Spray for Hair, Moisturising After Sun, Hydrating Tan Optimiser - before finding a replica set on the bottom shelf of the bathroom cabinet the night before. All of this despite the fact I have not had a tan since 1984.
  • Purchase at least six vest tops with a stylish 'capsule wardrobe' in mind, even though only questionable colour choices remain as part of a 2-4-1 offer (hello, turdy brown and pallid lilac) and subsequently finding the 'Vest Top Drawer' the night before departure. All of this despite the fact I will bring them all home unworn and put them straight back in the drawer ready to forget next year.
  • Run out of room in my suitcase leaving me with no choice but to take unwanted overspill in my hand luggage. I would love to be one of those women who sail through departures with a minimally packed Michael Kors Tote and their passport always conveniently ready to display. I am not. I am the girl with a beach towel stuffed into an already full Oasis holdall, blocking access to essential travel documents, that requires re- packing every time I need to get my sodding purse out.
  • Pack enough cosmetics to make up not only my fellow holidaymakers but the entire outward bound flight, forcing the airport security staff to enquire, quite reasonably, if I am a makeup artist by trade. This includes superfluous bronzed-shimmer products and shouty new summer collections such as the must-try eyeshadow in Daisy Yellow or flattering eye pencil in Plum (it's not) even though I will wear my 'work makeup' for the duration of the holiday.
  • Obsessively check for my passport and tickets at least nine times en route to the airport, convinced I have neither or have scooped up my expired passport instead, where the photo of me resembles a pale '90s Goth who has listened to far too much teenage-angst rock music.
  • Seriously consider purchasing a new padlock at the airport, even though there are at least seven of the little buggers hidden somewhere in the house, possibly in the abyss that is the spare drawer. Or the Vest Top drawer.
  • Solemnly promise to myself that drinking before or on the aeroplane is unnecessary and, if the truth be told, uncouth. Cave in after the slightest hint of turbulence (take off) and down a complimentary Vodka and Diet Coke or three. Thus ending up absolutely legless and revealing to Billy and Francis from Jersey my entire life story, deepest secrets and recently developed fear of flying, sobbing into my beverage while they smile politely or pretend to be asleep.

Note to self for next trip: Never forget the holiday rules.

Ever.

Coachella Dreaming

Coachella-2013-Tickets-Lineup-Layaway-Camping

Oh, Coachella, you tease.

How you tempt me from the bright screen of my iPad and from the sun-filtered travel page of this weeks' Stylist magazine (via Anita Bhagwandas' envy-inducing review). It is spring here in the UK, but us poor British lambs could be mistaken for thinking that we are in the depths of sludgy winter. I am tired, still a bit chilly at night and desperate to wear coral tones, skirts without tights and Sophia Webster sandals. Instead, it's more M&S black opaques.

Mostly, I just want to be at Coachella - hedonistic and hot in the desert, drinking cocktails and California dreaming. Palm Springs' famous music and arts festival, less than a 2-hour drive from downtown LA, has fascinated me for some time now. Not just for its eminent line up and cool crowd packed with the who's who of the music and film world (oh, hi Beyoncé and Jay-Z) , but because as Anita rightly points out it is where fashion trends are born and where I always look for inspiration in advance of my own UK summer festival schedule.

This year's line up is dominated by the Brits - Alt-J, Blur, The Stone Roses, Biffy Clyro (who Material Whirl recently saw live in London and would like to see again) and Ben Howard to name but a few. Add a huge dollop of warm sunshine, fruity drinks, Coachella Safari Tents (exclusive fully furnished Shakir style tents with aircon, access to restrooms and showers and breakfast/late night snacks to name a few benefits) and I imagine it to be the chicest, dreamiest, trendiest festival I've never been to.

lineup-poster.originalI am very excited to see what trends the festival will set this year -  here's my favourite classic Coachella looks to date, with Solange being a definite favourite.

In a moment of giddiness after being spurted up from the Victoria Line this morning, I announced on Facebook that I really, really want to go to Coachella if anyone wants to take me and thanked my friends in advance. No one has responded to date.

I'm still up for it.

http://www.coachella.com/

DSC06176

2012 in a Material Whirl

As 2012 draws to a close and 2013 waits excitedly in the shadows, it's a good time to reflect.

Material Whirl was viewed about 1,800 times in 2012 - amazing! The very clever people at WordPress have put together a smashing report of what's been happening in the world of Material Whirl.

Click here to see the complete report.

Thank you to everyone that supported me in 2012. I look forward to seeing you in 2013.

Wishing you all a very happy and prosperous New Year.

x

Rejection and a (near) brush with fame

Rejection - it is an appalling word isn't it. Defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as the dismissing or refusal of a proposal, idea, the proposal / idea being dismissed and refused in this sad case is me.

In my search to find a suitable new role I have sent off countless applications, networked tirelessly and Tweeted, Linked In'd and Facebooked ferociously. For my efforts, I have been rewarded with unanswered calls, broken promises, and worse still, the dreaded rejection email which can feel like a perfectly timed blow to the stomach rather than simply an addition to your inbox.

It is par for the course in our current economic climate and I am certain I am not alone, but sometimes even with the strongest will, rejection can leave you languishing in self-pity, moping around eating peanut butter out of the jar and resisting the urge to go back to bed with a back catalogue of Stylist magazine. It can also render you unable to cope with day-to-day situations that usually you would find hilarious.

Weird mug shot

Whilst standing at Liverpool Street station last week waiting to meet friends, I was approached by a man with a clipboard and a camera - I was alone and an easy target. I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously, assuming he was part of a flash mob or wanted to sell me a smart phone. 'Hello' he said in a smooth-as-silk voice. 'Have you heard of Dove?'

'Yes, thank you' I said dismissively as he handed me a white leaflet adorned with the familiar columbidae logo. 'We are casting non-models for our new skin care advertising campaign. Would you be interested?’ he said. I could have sworn he placed a heavy emphasis on the 'non-models' part of that sentence as I darted my eyes about looking for a hidden camera. 'Dove uses real women NOT MODELS in their campaigns' he said, stressing once again the non-model point. 'They also pay well'.

I am not ashamed to say that my ears pricked up at this point; after all I was unemployed and in search of any form of legal income to settle a rather large debt accumulated on the South Island of New Zealand a few months before. Rejection was hanging over my head like a black cloud so acting on impulse, I agreed. I try to live by the mantra that life throws all kinds of things at you and you had to try your hardest to catch.

Without delay, the man positioned his camera and took my photograph in one of London's busiest stations, a two-part portrait with a front-view (yuck) and side-view (double yuck), while I held a clipboard with my personal details scrawled across in it bold black marker pen. Effectively taking part in my own bizarre mug shot, with a nervous smile frozen across my face, people stared. I did not blame them.

On my way home that evening, and in a wine-induced haze, I reflected on my experience and wondered if maybe I had been a little aloof. The next day I contacted the casting agent who understood my trepidation and suggested that I emailed her some more photos, which I did. I waited patiently and genuinely did not expect to hear back from Dove anytime soon – things like this do not happen to me, especially with this mug (and that mug shot no doubt) and a lack of the necessary self-confidence that the campaign embodies. Yet, late one evening that week I had a text from an unknown number that read Sorry for the delay Nicola, it's a YES! I'll be in touch to confirm.

For the first time in weeks, I felt an enormous surge of energy. OK, so it is not an everyday occurrence to be cast in an advert for a popular skin care range and the thought of it actually made me shaky with fear (what did it involve exactly, would I have to be naked?!). However, it was an interesting opportunity, a paid one at that, and after weeks of rejection, a well-needed boost. I waited until the next day and with newfound courage, responded to the text saying it was great news and I looked forward to hearing more. I informed my husband excitedly, I rang my Mum who noted I sounded brighter for the first time in weeks, and even allowed myself a fleeting moment to dream about how I would spend some of my non-model earnings.

Reality bites

Leaving my iPhone unattended to grab a drink, I returned to a missed call and a voicemail. How prompt, I thought chirpily as I listened to the message. Hi Nicola, it's Shernhall Methodist Church. Just to confirm you're all booked in for the car-boot sale on Saturday morning. See you then.

Erm, not quite the message I was expecting. I came straight back to earth with a bump. It seemed my high street modelling career was over before it had even begun. Much to my chagrin it was not a casting confirmation for one of the world's biggest brands after all, but a courtesy call from Ken from our local church confirming the trestle table I had requested for the weekend's forthcoming car boot.

It was back to the drudgery of job applications and selling unwanted household items at an ungodly hour on a Sunday. My pride was wounded but I had no choice but to see the funny side – what else could I do? It was that or head weeping to the peanut butter jar. I am yet to hear from Dove, so not only have I been rejected for roles relating to my professional career, I have also been rejected as a non-model-model.

Reject the rejection

It is difficult to pick yourself up again after yet another brush-off but if anyone out there is also feeling the pain of rejection, please try to remember that it is temporary and it will pass. Rejection can happen to the best of them. When Arianna Huffington, founder of the Huffington Post, was in her twenties and trying to find a publisher for her second book she was rejected - twenty-five times. She is now president and editor-in-chief of the Huffington Post Media Group and author of no less than eleven books amongst other things. She said in a recent interview '...don't be afraid of failure... Nobody who's succeeded has not failed along the way' and I’m feeling inspired by her words of wisdom.

So with that in mind, I will carry on. Tomorrow, I'll wedge in another job application in my lunch break. I'll go for a coffee with a former colleague and I'll go All Out on LinkedIn.

Failing that, I've heard Go Compare is casting...

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important...everything

It is eight days since I returned to the UK from Australia/New Zealand and already I have failed miserably on two of my post-holiday resolutions:

1. Be on time.

2. Do not try to do everything in one day.

My husband and friends unanimously agree I'm shockingly and unfailingly late for pretty much everything. Alex says I run on NMT (Nicola-Mean-Time) a kind of inferior alternative to GMT if you like. Usually I'd contest such blatant character defamation, but to be honest I've lost count of the amount of times I've been late for him. The worst case was when he flew twenty-four hours around the world to see me in Australia and I turned up at Sydney airport a whopping forty-five minutes late. 'Where was my welcome?' he always reminds me with a sad and disbelieving expression on his face. Guilty as charged. My excuse, genuinely, was that I didn't have a clue what to wear. I'd been up for two panic-stricken hours trying on, whisking off, throwing in the corner, trying on, trying not to panic, panicking. Style-indecision, plus a taxi drive in rush hour traffic, equalled no open arms to greet the man of my dreams, and I've never forgiven myself.

Other instances have included keeping friends waiting outside tube stations, in busy restaurants and bars, even being late for my own birthday celebrations. One of my good friends once kept me holding on for forty-five minutes outside Covent Garden tube station where it is physically impossible to stand still without getting squished, handed an unwanted flyer or becoming an unsuspecting victim of somebody painted completely silver. She apologised but said this one instance had completely cancelled out the last six times I'd been late. She had a point.

Please don't think me flippant or nonchalant about my tardiness. I detest this terrible trait. There is, however, an explanation for my lateness -  trying to squeeze too much in. If I haven't wedged a million and three things into a single day, I'm not satisfied. If my to do list isn't bulging, something's up.

Nothing too ambitious mind, just the usual. This week, I had an afternoon appointment in town so I filled the morning with stuff. Put a quick load of washing on, browsed some job sites, pinged off some emails and drafted a blog that had been clattering around loudly in my head. A quick peek at the time and I concluded there was just enough time to do One. More. Thing.

However, this was NMT I was operating on, not real-time. Before I knew it, I was forty-five minutes behind schedule and hurrying around wildly - a blast in the shower, a bizarre head-upside-down blow dry, and a spoon of peanut butter out of the jar for lunch as I darted out the door.

It really is quite unnecessary to be so frantic - it makes for a stressful journey when you inwardly will the tube driver to bypass all stations and floor it to Victoria ignoring all other passengers and their selfish travel needs. That afternoon, I found myself running wildly for my train, wanting to smack slow people in the back of the head for making me late (yes, it is their fault) and sliding through the train doors just as they beeped shut behind me. I fell exhausted into a chair, perspiring and cursing myself for all the commotion.

It is not a good way to be. I blame technology which allows us to multitask and encourages us with our fancy gadgets to achieve miracles and rearrange our finances all before breakfast. Every time I'm rushing to make an appointment or panting in a heap on a just-caught train, I vow to change. I will make clear, achievable lists. I will not over-plan. I will keep to time. In fact I will leave fifteen minutes earlier than I actually need to - being, gasp, early. Ha ha, that will show them!

Argh... must go. I have still got washing to put out to dry, a job to apply for and exactly thirteen minutes to get my train.