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.

It's the small things

I do not get the opportunity to devour the weekend papers these days, usually still rifling through them on the subsequent Wednesday but this past Saturday, I did.

I read the The Times Magazine from cover to cover and finished my tea and toast with Robert Crampton's Beta Male column. It was a brilliant, witty and unpretentious piece on the simple things in life that he takes great pleasure from. My interpretation of the feature was that as you get older, it is the little things that really matter and ultimately make you happy.

Inspired by Robert here is my list, in no apparent order. By no means exhaustive, it is a good start.

Claiming a seat on the tube on a journey that lasts longer than five minutes and getting lost in the pages of a really great book. Drinking deep, dark rum in an old atmospheric pub. Pouring all the words that swarm around in my head into a blog post and having at least one other person liking aside from my dedicated Mum. Laughing with friends so hard that you get a pain in your stomach and you say through tears 'stop, please, no more' even though you do not really want to stop, ever.

Finding an Evening Standard distributor on a Friday night with an supplementary ES Magazine and reading it all the way home or, even better, on Saturday morning in bed. Running outside with the wind in my face, music in my ears and feeling as free as a bird (and flipping the bird at men who think it is hilarious to honk their horns at women exercising). Pretty much anything by Jack Johnson, despite people saying his music is blithe but dull, especially the line in Flake that says I know she loves the sunrise. No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes which reminds me of endless journeys across New Zealand and listening to Jack while cramming pages of travel diaries with adventures. Big glossy, hot-off-the-press fashion magazines with style and substance that take hours to pour over.

Goats cheese, preferably warm and assembled with roasted root vegetables, although a smattering of beetroot is also a winner. Face painting at festivals. The smell of paint and just-lit matches. Random conversations with strangers on the tube that make you think that maybe it is because you are a Londoner that you love London Town, like the one I had with a lady on the Victoria Line last weekend after we both witnessed a grown man openly picking his nose and examining his findings. 'I see men do it all the time, the worst are the wipers' she said with eyes rolled to heaven as we chatted all the way up the escalators and out the station and said goodbye and I got a really nice warm feeling inside and wondered, why can’t we all just get along?

Being by the British seaside. The first and last page of a new book and that incredible, evocative scent. People watching around Redchurch Street, London E2 - shorts, a My Little Pony jumper, brogues and a bow tie? Why ever not. Singing loudly, with Mariah Carey patented hand gestures despite not possessing a decent singing voice to accompany them. Being with my nephew Freddie, especially when he looks at me pensively with those big blue eyes, holds my hand, and laughs when I sing I Wanna be Like You from The Jungle Book for the thirteenth time.

Football on a Monday, Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday; on the TV, coming out of the radio and in my newspaper. Football chants such as 'is there a fire drill, is there a fire drill...' directed at opposing fans who sneak out early when they find themselves a few goals down. Rhubarb and Custard, in real life and boiled sweet form.

Staring at Van Gogh’s The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum and getting lost in the starry background and dreaming of drinking red wine in Arles. Getting uninterrupted sleep and exclaiming 'over eight hours sleep...yes!' in an I'm-really-approaching-my-mid-30s manner. Gravelly, hearty London accents. Walking for hours. The coast and the countryside. Friday post-work drinks - alcohol before 6.00 pm, an amalgamation of departments and when 'I'm just having one' turns into eight. Saturday morning, Saturday lunchtime, Saturday night.

The Specsavers advert when the couple mistakes a nice comfy bench for a roller coaster, due to insufficient eyewear. Silly, but their faces when the photo is taken gets me every time. Choreographed dance routines in music videos - dramatic hand and head movements, fancy footwork and generally showing off alongside a pulsating beat. Going out for dinner - either posh restaurant or the Turkish Okabasi on Bethnal Green Road whose name I will not reveal so you won't take my table.

Receiving handwritten letters, cards, and invitations through the post which you can keep in a big trunk of stuff rather than forward, reply or delete. Getting all dressed up. Tea brewed in a tea pot, drank from a proper big mug. Being cocooned safely in my parent's house and being constantly fed and watered (wined). The cab drivers from Central Cabs in Walthamstow who always wait until you are safely inside and Mick the controller at base who reminds me of my beloved Granddad. Making a list just to take pleasure from crossing things off it. Comedy tube drivers that announce the stations in a song-song way, or wish you a really, really good day and deserve a medal for services to disgruntled commuters who have lost the will to continue onto Finsbury Park. Saying thank you, and getting a heartfelt 'you're welcome' back.

Teenagers giving up their seats for older people. 2-4-1 face wipes and £5 off Boots No 7 vouchers, providing an opportunity to buy superfluous mascara which creates Extreme Length and Extravagant Lashes. Coconut, vanilla and cocoa butter scented body lotion. Essentially smelling like a cake, but a happy cake.

An open weekend with no plans. Poached runny eggs and avocado with crystals of rock salt all heaped onto a hunk of crusty warm granary bread. Watching the last two Sex and the City episodes, An American Girl in Paris (partes un et deux) with that beautiful dusty grey Versace Couture dress, the I am someone who is looking for love. Real Love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live without-each-other love' line and the Carrie/Big trip in the hotel corridor.

Lunchtime drinking. Green and yellow fields flashing past from a train window. Holidays and weekends away, particularly Day Two when you are finally detached from your iPhone, Pad and Pod, London is detoxed from your system and time has no concept. Art postcards. Free entry at Museums. Too many rings worn on your fingers at the same time. Swearing. Cider, just one pint for me please oh go on then, two but that is it. Reading on the sofa, wrapped up in a warm blanket. Silence. Very loud music (especially when it is your own and you have chosen it).

A clean-pyjamas-clean-sheet combo on a Sunday night. A big, enveloping hug that lasts for ages especially if the person is someone you love and smells really nice. Being with a bunch of friends and looking around thinking, bloody hell these people are amazing.

My husband, always.

A dolphin encounter of the calamitous kind

Last week I sustained a mild but unfortunate injury after a freak accident involving a Lonely Planet New Zealand guide.

As I flopped into bed and pulled the duvet cover over my tired body, I failed to realise that the hefty book was laying on top of the covers and inadvertently managed to flip it up into my face, where its hard spine met my right eye with a thump.

Fortunately, I have never been punched in the face before but I imagine the feeling is similar to the sensation I felt that very minute. I cried a bit, applied a cold compress and then woke up the next morning with a lump that has now been cleverly camouflaged with makeup.

Another bizarre injury to add to the list.

You see, travel and calamity always seem to go hand in hand with me, as a flick through one of my travel diaries in 2006 reminded me…

Monday 23 October 2006

Riverview Lodge, Christchurch, New Zealand

8am

What an awesome start to the day! Slept well here in the Riverview Lodge as the bed is soft and comfy with a gorgeous verdant throw and huge fluffy pillows. The owner Ernst (great name) had prepared a breakfast of fruit salad and homemade granola and said I was Queen Nicola. Hmm, should I be worried, is that weird? Anyway, I can see the sleepy River Avon out of the view from my window and I have grown quite attached to Christchurch with its old-English feel.

I’m now on my way to Kaikoura for whale watching and the booked-in-advance Kaikoura Swim with Dolphins, something I have always wanted to do since I was a child. It’s just me and two very pretty Japanese girls so far. Due to a mild fear of being in the water, I am feeling a little nervous but very excited. I’m sure everything will be absolutely fine.

11pm

Oh God, how is it humanly possible to still feel nauseated. I now remember exactly why I am not, and never will be, a water baby.

Travel to the town of Kaikoura was fantastic. It was snug and warm on the coach as we travelled along the coastal route and I caught sight of its incredible vista – the captivating mountain range provided some dramatic scenery and the peninsula that jutted out towards the Pacific Ocean was majestic. It created an incredible back drop to our view of the humpback whales lifting out of the water and crashing back down again with a graceful thud.

We had an hour to look around the small settlement of Kaikoura, the base for our dolphin swimming, so I made use of some perusing time on the Esplanade, and bought some very nice Roxy jeans. I have absolutely no idea where I’ll wear them in good old Blighty in fear of looking like an extra from Home and Away, but while in Australasia, do as the Australasian’s do. I met a very nice American couple, Sharon and Dean, who I sat next to during the pre-swim educational video. I paid attention to every single word of that video, wanting not only to know everything I could about these amazing marine mammals in their natural habitat but also to be fully prepared for a full-blown aquatic disaster.

When we were told that we needed to be ‘confident in the open ocean' and 'it is an advantage to have had previous snorkeling experience’ I nodded along confidently with everyone else, not wanting to share my fears with Sharon that I still hadn’t quite got over a traumatic experience in the Lazy River at The Water Palace, Croydon, in 1991 and if the truth be told I didn’t really like to get my hair wet.

We took a small bus to our boat, Delphinidae, a charming white and blue vessel. The sight of it bobbing up and down on the water prompted my stomach to do a small but noticeable flip, but I overlooked the flip and boarded the boat ready for my adventure.

Safety checks complete, wet suits zipped up tightly and snorkeling equipment distributed, we set off on our open ocean experience, across the choppy Pacific. Our instructor – British, very tall, with floppy Hugh Grant-esque hair and bags of enthusiasm - loved the sea, unlike me. 'Jeez it’s a bit rough today!' he said enthusiastically with a mildly irritating inflection suggesting he'd been out of the UK for a while. ‘You’re not kidding, Hugh’ I thought as the waves crashed against the boat and sprayed the back of my head with sea-foam. He repeated the very important instructions we'd heard in the video that I tried desperately to listen to as the bumpy ocean threw me from side to side, up and down off my seat and nearly over the edge. 'When you hear the siren that's your cue to go in the water slowly. Don't get too close to the dolphins, and if you need assistance just put your hand in the air and I'll come help you, no drama. Enjoy!’ shouted Hugh. Loudly.

Was it me or were the waves getting larger and more powerful? The open ocean experience was making me feel a little unnerved. That jutting peninsula was nowhere in sight and all I could see was miles and miles of ocean. A quick peek around at my fellow wetsuits revealed no other panicked faces so I tried to push to the back of my mind that I was feeling a bit crook. The Swedish girls looked tanned and blond, the epitome of ocean chic. The Aussies looked completely relaxed in their wetsuits, as if they were wearing a second skin.

I was so pale I was translucent, but at least I could be used as a makeshift buoy in case anyone needed something to hang onto in the water to attract attention. The wailing shriek of siren was our cue that Flipper and friends were here to play, so I flipped on over in my flippers and pulled the slightly too-tight mask over my head, creating a very interesting bouffant.

We headed excitedly to the edge of the boat and I prepared to lower myself down the boat's ladder into the water. All was going well until a wave of nausea rose up inside me, without warning. I desperately clambered back up the ladder and past the others as quickly as is humanly possible in big, wide fins where I proceeded to throw up in the nearest bucket. Four times. Yep, four.

It is quite possible that I have never been so ill, or so embarrassed in my life, as my fellow crew members splashed gaily around in the sea with the acrobatic dusky dolphins and I retched in a bucket as the boat bobbed up and down relentlessly and Hugh patted me on the back.

I like dolphins. I don’t eat tuna, but if I did, you can bet your life it would be dolphin-friendly. When I was a child I adopted a dolphin, Sundance, for Christmas (for life of course, not just for Christmas. Well until I was at least nine). Being a slightly less naive and far more cynical adult, I now realise of course that me and five hundred other kids had the same certificate, but in my eyes my £2 per month gave me sole ownership of Sundance. I have always dreamed of swimming with dolphins, so why oh why did my sea legs decide to wobble on this day?

The vomiting eventually ceased and I stood up slowly on teetering legs, looking out to the ocean. I talked to myself inwardly, a little motivational talk if you like. Nicola, your trip to NZ is going to be over soon, this may be your last chance to do this. Hold your head high, put a mask on it and shove that snorkel in your mouth. Get in that water!'. So I staggered determinedly to the sea, reassuring a concerned Hugh that I was indeed OK.

I lowered myself in and tried to put the sickness episode behind me. The ocean was cold and tasted salty in my parched mouth and I was finding it hard to kick my weak legs to stay afloat. Then it happened. A dolphin swam towards me and momentarily stopped; its sleek body just about visible under the wavy water. It looked at me, I looked at it and then it leaped above the water and started to swim away so I followed, remembering not to get too close. I swam alongside it, just for a couple of minutes but it was a perfect moment of solitude. I couldn't hear anything around me and I felt very at peace, like time had literally stopped. I was the dreamy nine-year old girl again, swimming alongside what may just have been my beloved adoptee. Then it was gone.

In its place my nausea returned to taunt me. I quickly realised I was far, far out to sea and I couldn't touch the bottom. The cold water shocked my body back to the present and I could feel the sickness rising up again to make yet another appearance. Hugh’s words echoed in my head 'put your hand in the air and I'll come help you, no drama'. So I waved my hand in the air frantically as I swam to the boats edge. Realising there was in fact a drama, I was ungracefully pulled onto the boat by one of the other instructors like a slippery, wet fish head first. I lifted my face, distorted by the huge snorkel mask, and whispered 'please can I have the bucket' before flopping back down again in defeat.

For the next five minutes, Hugh had the unfortunate task of emptying the bucket ready for the next onslaught, whilst simultaneously making small talk and congratulating me on my short but successful swim. He gently suggested I remove my wetsuit, as we both knew I was done for the day and we had at least another hour to go before being back on land. I was so ashamed, surely it couldn't get any worse than this.

So I attempted to get undressed as the boat continued to sway and I gulped down deep breaths of oxygen to overcome what was surely the undefeated world record for seasickness. I tried to get my fins off, but one big flipper refused to pop off my foot despite me ungracefully bending over and pulling on the bugger for dear life. I gave up and started instead to pull down the zip on the top half of my wet suit, when I heaved once more and signalled frantically for the bucket. As I threw up, I noticed that my bikini top had unhelpfully slipped off to one side, exposing my naked chest to Hugh, the crew and the poor dolphins. Hugh held my hair back while I freed myself not only of my breakfast but any last remnants of dignity that I may have one had. Where were my girlfriends when I needed them?

Boob flashing aside, and in an attempt to see the positive, the trip back to land was great. I was wrapped in a fleecy blanket and given some sweet tea and chocolate as I watched the land finally coming to view in the distance. I lived my dolphin encounter vicariously through my group and listened to their excited chatter as I got waited on hand and flipper and had some photos taken for me. I really did feel like Queen Nicola - Ernst would have been proud of me, although maybe not so much the exposure part.

Back safely on land, I slept on the coach home and made it back to Christchurch early evening. I checked my emails, replied to Lauren who I met in Peru and the girls back home who hopefully will see the funny side of today's goings on. I'm now in my room, with my backpack stuffed with clothes, and I'm shattered and trying to forget that I still feel like I'm on a boat. Bleurgh. I am meeting Ernst at 6.50 am for another royal breakfast and then have a taxi booked to take me to Columbo Street to meet my fellow travellers for our trip to the majestic Mount Cook. Excited, and relieved that I'll be trekking around a mountain and not swimming with a mammal.

Goodnight xx

So, it was a day to remember but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons. In May this year I am travelling to New Zealand for five weeks with Alex. Any encounters with dolphins, unless accidental, are not part of our itinerary.

Nor is wearing a wet suit.

L-U-V Madonna? I think you should

L-U-V Madonna Y-O-U You Wanna.

Yep, I bet it is in your head too.

After that half-time Superbowl performance, Madonna is the name on everyone's lips, the force dominating the twittersphere and Give Me All Your Luvin' is the song that you just cannot stop singing no matter how hard you try.

With the announcement of her forthcoming MDNA World Tour last week, once again Madonna has her sights set on world domination.

She courts controversy and is the undefeated queen of reinvention, but whatever your opinion of Madonna, here are a few reasons why to me she remains the most important and iconic person in music today.

Music, makes the people, come together

Sadly, the music often gets overlooked but Madonna's impressive back catalogue has provided a soundtrack to our own lives, loves and losses ever since she made her first UK appearance in 1984 (at Manchester's Hacienda Club where she danced and mimed to Burning Up and Holiday). She has sold more than 300 million records worldwide and is recognised as the world's top-selling female rock artist of the 20th century. Her album covers are iconic works of art, telling a story of an era gone by, and showcase trends that get up again over and over.

So take a seat, sit back and relax and let us go on a visual adventure of some of the Material Girl's studio, soundtrack and compilation albums.

Peak UK Chart position: 6

Song you probably like very much:

Lucky Star

Heard this?

Physical Attraction

Who took the photo?

Gary Heery and George Holy

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Like a Virgin

Heard this?

Angel

Who took the photo?

Stephen Meisel

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Open your Heart

Heard this?

White Heat

Who took the photo?

Herb Ritts

Peak UK Chart position: 4

Song you probably like very much:

Who's That Girl

Heard this?

Causing a Commotion

Peak UK Chart position: 5

Song you probably like very much:

Get into the Groove

Heard this?

Where's the Party

Who took the photo?

Herb Ritts

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Like a Prayer

Heard this?

Keep it Together

Who took the photo?

Herb Ritts

Peak UK Chart position:  2

Song you probably like very much:

Vogue

Heard this?

Sooner or Later

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Express Yourself

Heard this?

Rescue Me

Who took the photos?

Herb Ritts

Peak UK Chart position: 2

Song you probably like very much:

Rain

Heard this?

Bye Bye Baby

Who took the photo?

Stephen Meisel

Peak UK Chart position: 2

Song you probably like very much:

Secret

Heard this?

Forbidden Love

Who took the photo?

Patrick Demarchelier

Peak UK Chart position:  3

Song you probably like very much:

Crazy For You

Heard this?

One More Chance

Who took the photo?

Mario Testino

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Don't Cry for Me Argentina

Heard this?

You Must Love Me

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Ray of Light

Heard this?

Drowned World/Substitute for Love

Who took the photo?

Mario Testino 

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Don't Tell Me

Heard this?

What It Feels Like For a Girl

Who took the photo?

Jean-Baptiste Mondino

Peak UK Chart position: 2

Song you probably like very much:

Frozen

Heard this?

The Power of Goodbye

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

American Life

Heard this?

Nothing Fails

Who took the photo?

Craig McDean

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

Hung Up

Heard this?

Get Together

Who took the photo?

Steven Klein

Peak UK Chart position: 1

Song you probably like very much:

4 Minutes

Heard this?

Beat Goes On

Who took the photo?

Steven Klein

Peak UK Chart position: 1 Song you probably like very much:

Vogue

Heard this?

Revolver

Who created the cover?

Mr Brainwash

Peak UK Chart position: ?

Song you probably like very much:

Give Me All Your Luvin'

Who took the photo?

Mert and Marcus

She gives good face

Madonna is a creative force to be reckoned with in her own right, but add some very famous friends to the energetic mix and you have an explosive collaboration. She has worked with some of the most prolific fashion photographers in the business to produce album covers, accompanying artwork, music videos and fashion campaigns, creating a visual treasure trove of images.

Take Patrick Demarchelier for example, the acclaimed French photographer who worked with Madonna on the artwork for her 1994 album Bedtime Stories and the cover art for the Justify My Love single. In 1989 he gave us a rare glimpse into Madonna's world by photographing her in her LA home for US Vogue.

She has worked with the legendary fashion photographer Herb Ritts on a number of occasions. From the iconic True Blue album cover, the instantly recognisable cover for the single Dear Jessie in 1987 (with the infamous Minnie Mouse ears) and the beautifully aquatic music video for Cherish. Not to mention those classic monochrome shots that showcased the music on the Immaculate Collection album in 1990, arguably Madonna's most successful year.

She teamed up with her good friends Dolce & Gabbana for their Autumn/Winter 2010 campaign, reportedly inspired by Italian Neorealism cinema. Shot by renowned US photographer Steven Klein in New York City, Madonna features in stunning black and white shots posing alongside an Italian family and even showing her domestic side. Fashion meets Italian-American legend.

On the cover of a magazine - Madonna always shines. She has featured on a multitude of covers from 1984 on the cover of i-D magazine, her first UK Vogue cover in 1989 and her shots with Helmut Newton for Vanity Fair in 1990, all telling the artistic story of a living legend.

She possesses the ingenuity of knowing when, where and how and the result is always iconic - a collector's item image right there on screen.

Beauty's where you find it.

Dress you Up

Admittedly, she may not win style plaudits, but Madonna is a game changer and her metamorphic style has empowered and inspired women through the decades. She has always set a trend and created enough looks to cram a stylist's lookbook and saturate a digital moodboard.

When she burst onto the scene back in the mid 1980s, she represented youth and strength as shown here on the The Virgin Tour in 1985. All of a sudden, it was perfectly acceptable to wear blue tights, lashings of romantic lace, religious adornments and strong makeup, all in one go. It was fun, it was accessible and it was totally unobjectionable to celebrate your sexuality.

Then in 1986 a different Madonna emerged; a complete image makeover. She gave us the gamine look with jeans and a tough-girl leather jacket, alternated with a toned and muscular Madonna with platinum blond hair and 1960s capri pants with bustier. Almost two competing sides of Madonna. We fell for them both. Italians really did do it better.

In 1990, we saw the tough, strong and fierce Madonna showing her Blond Ambition to the world in Jean Paul Gaultier. Then at the 63rd Academy Awards in 1991 we were presented with her homage to the great Marilyn Monroe. She displayed a softer, more curvy side in platinum blond curls as she purred her way through the award-winning and exquisite Sooner or Later.

Madonna is the ultimate style chameleon and remains fresh, fearless and daring when she dresses up, even to this day.

You can dance for inspiration

Madonna knows how to put on a show. Her music is powerful and remains a timeless listen but if you add slick choreography and striking visual art, the result is meteoric.

In 1990 she embarked on the Blond Ambition World Tour in North America, Europe and Asia and changed the world of tour concerts forever. Unfortunately it will always be associated with controversy and hair extensions, but the world was treated to what Rolling Stone magazine called 'the greatest concert of the 1990s'. Cleverly choreographed by Vincent Paterson, Madonna's performance was energetic and empowering. It was brilliantly theatrical and was both inspiring and inspired.

The costumes achieved cult status thanks to the cone brassiere and high blonde ponytail, a creation of the genius minds of Jean Paul Gaultier and Marlene Stewart. It combined fashion, art, theatre and music and influenced the world over.

The opening of the tour began with a segment named Metropolis, inspired by Fritz Lang's silent film. My favourite song was Express Yourself - an incredible way to start a concert. Inspired by the music video of the same name and set in a large industrial machine room with shirtless male dancers, when Madonna pops out of the stage resplendent in black suit, monocle and asking if we believe in love, it's impossible not to. The dance routine is amazing.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9goAWJ6L00]

Madonna ends the show with Keep it Together - inspired by the work of Bob Fosse and A Clockwork Orange. With bowler hats, ingenious dancing and chair juggling, not to mention an introduction of Sly and the Family Stone's Family Affair it enthralled me.  The song, and the concert, ends with Madonna throwing her bowler hat in the spotlight, and it gives me goose bumps every single time.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9x0M3mK-TO4]

During the performance of Keep it Together, Madonna tells the audience to 'never doubt yourself'. When I'm unsure, having a wobble, unconvinced of how to handle a situation or what might be ahead, I think of those words and what Madonna stands for.  As my good friend Gin said to me, 'even at a young age, I just found her very inspiring, very brave and very courageous and it was these qualities that made me want to independent and want to lose the fear of what others may think and have the confidence to be just me'.

Last week I bought my ticket to see Madonna in July and I am just as excited as that seven-year-old girl whose first glimpse of Madonna was on Top of the Pops back in 1984, singing and dancing to Holiday.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMkwWamTRD8]

I last saw Madonna in 1993 at Wembley Stadium and it blew me away. Me and my close friend Louisa waited all day to get as near to the stage as we could, only to realise as we were firmly wedged between fellow fanatics that we desperately needed a wee. However, excruciating pressure on my bladder was not going to ruin the moment for me and she did not disappoint. It was an incredible show.

Take a Bow

So, I present my case to you. The haters will always hate, the disparagers will always disparage, no matter what she does. Her gender will automatically mean people judge her on her age (post-Superbowl critique featured tweets such as I'm sixty and I know it) and appearance (incessant scrutiny and speculation about possible surgical enhancements), but not many quinquagenarians can do what she does and in my eyes she is, and will always be, an inspiration.

Madonna is the original superstar, a creative phenomenon, and I for one cannot wait to see what she has next in store for us.

So dust off your old records and forget about the bad times.

It's time to celebrate.

Fashion through a Legendary Lens

Sometimes it is possible to stumble across an image that you simply cannot look away from. The vibrant colours, the beauty of the subject, the setting and the overall composition - these elements can lock your gaze until you realise many minutes have passed since you first looked at it. You completely forget where you are.

This is how I remember feeling when I first saw this photograph, taken by Norman Parkinson for the cover of Vogue in 1957.  It still has that effect on me now.

Norman Parkinson was a preeminent British photographer who went on to create a dazzling portfolio of the most elegant and creative images the fashion world has ever seen. Born in 1913 in London, he was apprenticed to a portrait photographers, Speaight and Sons Ltd., and then by the age of twenty-one had opened his own studio with Norman Kibblewhite.

Shortly after, he worked for the British edition of Harper's Bazaar from 1935 to 1940, and then served as a reconnaissance photographer for the Royal Air France over France during the Second World War.

He went on to contribute to many established publications throughout his successful and illustrious career, including Queen magazine, where he was contributing editor for four years. From 1945 to 1960, and in perhaps the most recognised and successful strand of his career, he was employed by Vogue as a portrait and fashion photographer. It was a perfectly compatible relationship and one that spawned so many iconic images.

In 1963, Parkinson moved to Tobago although he made frequent returns to his native London, and worked as a freelance photographer until his sad and premature death in 1990. He was known as a charming, funny and very clever man. He never took a photograph without wearing his lucky Kashmiri wedding hat and often appeared in his own photos.

Grace Coddington, Creative Director of American Vogue, described Parkinson as her mentor after first meeting him on a Vogue shoot in 1971 in The Seychelles. She stayed friends with him until his death in 1990 and said that 'Parks was the father anyone would want to have.'

Parkinson also took his subjects out of the confines of his studio and into the real, and very beautiful outside world. Arguably, some of his most recognisable work comes from his photo shoot for Vogue in 1956, when the magazine opened up India for its readers nearly a decade after its independence and displayed the unimaginable beauty of this exotic location. He photographed models Anne Gunning and Barbara Mullen and produced sumptuous compositions with dazzling reds, pink and magentas that dazzled.

The beautiful images even had an impression on Diana Vreeland, Editor in Chief of US Vogue who commented 'How clever of you, Mr Parkinson, also to know that pink is the navy blue of India'.

An exhibition of Parkinson's work in the form of original vintage prints is now being held at M Shed gallery in Bristol until 15 April 2012, appropriately entitled An Eye for Fashion, 1954 - 1964. This will be the first time some of the images have been displayed in public.

Angela Williams, who worked as his assistant in the early 1960s and a successful photographer in her own right, has carefully catalogued and researched the archive to preserve his great legacy.

Norman Parkinson revolutionised the world of British photography and the wit, warmth and elegance of his work still lives on today. He had an unwavering appetite for fashion and location photography and the also legendary Irving Penn considered his photographs as 'remarkable stills'.

I still get lost in these remarkable stills. I hope you will too.

Where Eagles fly

This evening Crystal Palace FC played against Cardiff City FC in the second leg of the semi-final of the Carling Cup. The match featured an own goal, a sending off, gasp-inducing misses from Cardiff, some categorically shocking decisions from the referee and a final place cruelly snatched away by penalties. I am glad it is all over, but I had been waiting with anticipation for this game since Palace’s heady victory in the first leg at Selhurst Park a couple of weeks ago, and former slaying of the mighty Manchester United at Old Trafford back in November 2011. Sadly, we are not on our way to Wembley and my knees are all-a-trembly for all the wrong reasons. It hurts a lot.

You see, CPFC will always hold a very special place in my heart for a number of reasons. You can move the girl to the East End but the Holmesdale End will never be forgotten; a bus, a train and the Victoria Line may physically separate us but metaphorically, we are kind of attached.

I wish I could remember the first time my Dad took me to Selhurst Park as a little girl to watch a game but unfortunately it is lost in a blue and red haze. I think I must have been around eight years old, maybe nine, and I knew right away it was the start of a beautiful relationship.

Going to a home game was, and always will be despite our league position or the final score, a treat. A swift cuppa (thanks Mum) at the Greenbrook house in Upper Norwood always started proceedings before a short drive to Grangewood Park and a saunter to the ground beside other expectant fans. Sometimes you could hear the chant of the stadium crowd in the distance as we ambled down Ladbrook Road and if it was an evening game, from the hill you could see the bright glare of the floodlights illuminating the sky. I always liked it when the weather was cold and brisk as there was something very comforting about being wrapped up warm in hats, gloves and a vibrant red and blue scarf. I never felt the coldness bite as I enveloped my hand tightly into my Dad’s.

A quick detour over the petrol garage courtyard on Whitehorse Road for an essential match programme and some sugary sweets, we would hurry past the ubiquitous orange Sainsbury's sign and the heaving Club Shop bursting with memorabilia. A final squish through the click, click, clicking of turnstiles and suddenly I would be spurted into the ground - a sea of red and blue encircling the verdant pitch.

Even now, there is such charged energy within that red and blue community. Every time I go there, I am convinced I see the same programme sellers from years gone by. Ever present is Pete the Eagle (and his girlfriend in mascot-land, Alice), whose importance even merits a Twitter following: @PeteEagle_CPFC

Pre-match events in recent times also involve a real Eagle taking flight around the pitch before kick-off and, rather unfortunately, the Crystals, Palace’s own ‘cheerleading squad’ who were brought in to inspire the players and even made the Metro in March 2011 when accused of affecting the team’s form.

Attendance has arguably decreased somewhat over the years, but that has not quietened the thunderous roar of the crowd, extinguished the life out of the Holmesdale Fanatics or the habitual playing of '25 Miles' by The Three Amigos when Palace score. Even the most prudent of fans forget themselves when the announcer leads the crowd into repeating the scorer's name loudly - Darrrrreeeen AMBROSE! etc.

It is never an easy ninety minutes. It can be exhilarating. Surprising. Full of ups and downs. Gut wrenching, agonisingly painful. But it is always special.

This little team from South London has a fascinating history. Crystal Palace Football Club was formed in 1905 by the builders of The Crystal Palace and originally played its home games at the cup final ground at The Crystal Palace. They moved to the purpose-built Stadium Selhurst Park in 1924, where the team have also shared the ground with Wimbledon FC and Charlton Athletic FC.

Dougie Freedman, a former player, is now providing paternal leadership to both Palace's young starlets fresh out of the Academy and the experienced older players. We once walked in a Freedman Wonderland but we're now watching him lead our red and blue army hopefully to some form of success. Eighteen months ago we were on the brink of administration, players were playing for free and fans had no idea what the outcome would be. Now Saint Dougie nearly led the team to Wembley. An amazing feat.

Going to Selhurst Park for me is akin to discovering a huge book of memories, blowing off the dust and getting lost in the nostalgia.

Sometimes when I glance over at the Holmesdale End, I imagine that is 1988 again. I can see a little version of myself and my sister Michelle at the front of the terraces with the other children, excited about the arrival of the players coming out of the tunnel and waving back at our Dad. I am expectantly waiting for David 'Kid' Jensen to come out at half time for some pitch-based competitions.

The pages turn to the 1990/91 season where Palace have finished an astonishing third in what was then the First Division. The squad was is full of a host of greats including Nigel Martyn, Richard Shaw, Gareth Southgate, Alan Pardew, Simon Rodger, John Salako, Geoff Thomas, Mark Bright, Stan Collymore, and Ian Wright, most of whom have gone on to find fame in bigger clubs, in management or as a pundit on Sky Sports (*play extravagant fireworks noise here*).

Then, it is the 1992/1993 season and my fourteenth birthday is announced on the scoreboard in an opening game six-goal thriller against Blackburn Rovers. I am a little embarrassed (I am fourteen after all) but very proud.

Sadly, Palace often were defeated, and as a passionate and rather emotional young fan I would regularly cry with disappointment. I could barely stay in my seat when an opposing player took a shot at goal, but on making another great save, my Dad would utter those reassuring words, ‘don’t worry Nic, Nige had it covered’ and all was good again in the world. In around 1995, while a student, I worked in the now defunct Club Shop on George Street in Croydon which was to be the best job ever. First team players regularly popping in, a great bunch of work colleagues, free kit each season and an endless flow of boys coming in throughout the day. What was there not to like for a sixteen-year-old girl? Thankfully I declined the offer to feature in the Club Shop catalogue, foreseeing the endless teasing I would get from my husband if that ever came out from the depths of the Greenbrook attic.

Nige of course was the great Nigel Martyn, Palace's star goalkeeper who broke our hearts when he left for Leeds in 1996. Nigel once inadvertently gave me a cauliflower ear during his pre-match warm up. He miskicked the ball causing it to swerve backwards, knock my drink out of my hand and simultaneously take out me and my best friend Danuta - smack in the mouth. 'Sorry girls', said Nige. 'Ow', said Nicola, with possible concussion and temporary loss of hearing in one ear.

So you see, it is not just a game of football, it is part of me, deep-rooted. It is about where I spent some of my childhood, the special memories it created. It is about being with loved ones and friends who know exactly what it feels like. It is taking pride in a perfectly nice area that gets a lot of criticism for no apparent reason other than sheer snobbery. It is about being loyal to your local team through both the good and bad times (take note London Mancs) and spending the weekend looking irrationally and erratically at the Sky Sports Football Score Centre app and hoping that Jeff Stelling will tell you that Palace have won.

Yes, we moan and whine and vow half-heartedly never ever to go again/to rip up our season ticket/to support a half decent team. I repeatedly deride bloody Palace for being bloody useless and even if we were 5-0 up with five minutes until the end, I would still be nervous; there is no denying it. We don't have the money or the stature of a club like Manchester City. We get ridiculed, taunted as being boring 'Nigels' and we certainly don't always have a lot of luck.

Yet even though my old scarf may be tattered, the corners of the 'Holmesdale - Last Stand' poster that is proudly displayed in the Greenbrook ‘Playroom’ (refurbished, sadly, to become an outdoor storage space) may be peeling and the face paints are fading, they will always be Super Palace from Sel-hurst and will hold a special place in my heart.

As the Holmesdale Fantatics would encourage me to say, I am Palace till I die.

We may have lost tonight and our hearts broken once more, but I'll always be feeling Glad all Over watching this very special team.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VomkssQel8g]

The inimitable David Lynch and a little town called Twin Peaks

There is something about piercingly cold winter and the deep, inky darkness that brings out the macabre in me. Bewitched by the lasting, mysterious nights my thoughts easily turn to the supernatural, the sinister and the slightly surreal and who better than the inimitable David Lynch to set these atmospheric tones.

I was, and remain to this decade, a fervent Twin Peaks fan. From the moment Laura Palmer’s naked corpse was discovered wrapped in plastic on the bank of a river and FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper arrived in the sleepy town to investigate, I was completely hooked.

What begins as a murder mystery turns into a complex unravelling of lives as Laura’s death sets off a remarkable chain of events and the quiet sleepy town falls apart at the seams.

Lynch’s work in my opinion was a TV revolution. It was complex and elliptical and interlaced with many elements of genius that I found absolutely enchanting. I became completely obsessed. There are far too many strands to note in this blog post; there were thirty episodes after all and I want you to watch the series from start to finish and become entranced yourself.

The owls are not what they seem

Essentially, I loved the consummate surrealism. This was no ordinary murder mystery after all; there were eerie visions and evil spirits, a One-Armed Man named Mike, The Man from Another Place in a red business suit who spoke in reverse, The Giant who provides clues to the murderer in visions, and those dense, ominous woods that surrounded Twin Peaks and provided the setting for many of the otherworldly goings on.

Then there was the evil BOB who appeared in visions and absolutely terrified me then, and still does. Sometimes when I am alone in the house contentedly reading or watching TV, an image of that grey-haired man and that filthy denim jacket abruptly pops into my head and I have to put a few more lights on, turn the music up just a little bit louder. Call my Mum. That sort of thing.

http://youtu.be/HBNAwi5q_Y4

The late Frank Silva, who played BOB, actually became a key character in the series purely by chance. When production began on the pilot for Twin Peaks, the series creators Lynch and Mark Frost decided that Laura Palmer's dad would be the murderer. It was only during the filming of a scene in the pilot that took place in Laura's room that Silva, a set dresser, accidentally trapped himself in the room by moving a dresser in front of the door. Lynch, being Lynch, liked the idea of this and filmed him crouched at the foot of Laura's bed, looking through the bars of the footboard, as if he were 'trapped' behind them. In fact, he liked it so much he decided to make Silva part of the series.

Later that same day, a scene was being filmed in which Laura's mother experiences a terrifying vision although the script doesn't indicate what she sees. Lynch liked the scene, but was informed by a crew member that it would need to be re-shot as a mirror in the scene had inadvertently picked up someone's reflection. That person was Silva, there was no need to re-shoot, and the rest is history. It was crazy but it was David Lynch and therefore it all made perfect sense.

Falling into the music

There was the soundtrack, composed by the great Angelo Badalamenti (who recently wrote the screen play for Drive) and David Lynch in 1989. It was accomplished, being both eerie and enthralling at the same time and evoked the moods and emotions that played out so dramatically throughout the series. Apparently, in twenty minutes they produced the signature theme for the series and Lynch told Badalamenti 'you just wrote 75% of the score. It's the mood of the whole piece. It is Twin Peaks'. The music is characterised by haunting melodies, throbbing bass and jazz and light percussion. The theme song Falling still gives me goosebumps and has found its way onto my Spotify playlist along with the rest of the soundtrack.

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

Population 15,201

There was the enigmatic characters – seemingly ordinary people going about their own business but in truth complex individuals who were hiding secrets of their own. The esoteric Agent Dale Cooper who appeared in all of the episodes and the pilot was, in my opinion, the stand-out character with his unorthodox investigatory methods and his love of the rural town. Lynch casted several veteran actors who had found fame in the 1950s and 1960s in the series, including film stars such as Richard Beymer who played the wealthy business man Ben Horne and was well-known as playing Tony in West Side Story. Piper Laurie played the adulterous and scheming Catherine Martell who made her name in Hollywood playing alongside Ronald Regan, and British actor James Booth best known for Zulu and Coronation Street played Ernie Niles whose criminal past catches up with him in Season Two.

Most of the characters were hiding some kind of secret beneath their day-to-day personas, none more so than the troubled Laura Palmer, who we learn was leading a shocking double life - homecoming queen and loving daughter on the outside, cocaine addict, prostitute and manipulator in the secret life she led deep within those dark woods.

The Women of Twin Peaks

Mostly, I wanted to be in Twin Peaks. I wanted to live there, in that sleepy little Washington town and look like any one of those girls that made the show. I was particularly captivated by the glossiness of the female characters - the sultry, beautiful girls who looked like vintage movie stars, were often vulnerable but showed a tough exterior and completely bewitched all of the men that lived there.

Sheryl Lee played the infamous Laura Palmer so brilliantly, with satiny blonde hair, a perfect smile and such sad, haunting eyes that shielded so many terrible secrets.

Lara Flynn Boyle played Donna Hayward, the good-girl-turned-bad following the death of her best friend, with chestnut, tumbling curls, red lips and porcelain skin.

Audrey Horne personified the '50s glamour look that has had such a resurgence in recent times. With short black curls, dark red lips and striking eyes she mesmerised Agent Cooper with her Elizabeth Taylor looks and sultry movements.

Madchen Amick played Shelly Johnson, the long-suffering wife of violent Leo with flowing wavy hair, striking eyes and a captivating appeal.

Lana del Rey, eat your heart out.

Clever pieces of a complex puzzle

There were many elements to the Twin Peaks story that captivated the audience beyond the series itself. The film Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, can be viewed as both an epilogue and a prologue and provides us with an insight into the last seven days in the life of Laura Palmer. Agent Cooper's autobiography, presented as diary transcripts from his infamous tape recordings ends with the news of Laura Palmer's murder and Cooper 'Heading for a little town called Twin Peaks...'

The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer contains important clues to the identity of her killer and serves as prequel to the Twin Peaks story. In the book we discover how her inner demons drove her to use everyone around her - her best friend, her family and neighbours and mostly all those boys and men who fell under her spell. It was a fascinating glimpse into an innocent girl who became amoral and we find out exactly why she behaved the way she did. It is shocking, graphic and an absolute page turner.

Twin Peaks sadly ended with an unresolved cliff-hanger but the magic of a series that featured murder, incest and demonic possession lives on over twenty-five years later in my eyes. Its influence is present in TV and modern filmmaking, in fashion and beauty and David Lynch still continues to mystify and enthrall, recently putting his directing skills to good use in a campaign for Dom Pérignon.  There are blogs (my favourite is Welcome to Twin Peaks), fact-filled web pages, endless memorabilia and there is even a festival, Twin Peaks Fest, in August 2012 and held around North Bend, WA. Now that would be interesting.

I am signing off now. It is getting very dark outside and I can almost smell the ferns and hear the owls flapping (although they are not what they seem). I am going to pour myself a damn fine cup of coffee, turn out the lights and transport myself back to Twin Peaks, population 51,201. It may take me a while to get to sleep tonight and I am certainly not going anywhere near the sofa, but it was all absolutely worth it.

Fashionably padded elbows at the ready

Those in the know and anyone who generally reads a newspaper or periodically flicks through a fashion magazine will know that H&M’s most exciting and long-awaited alliance to date is about to drop.

Yes, Versace’s collaboration with H&M finally hits UK stores this Thursday, 17 November. Founded by Donatella Versace’s late brother Gianni in 1978, Versace is one of the biggest-selling designer labels with eighty-two boutiques worldwide. After saying no to H&M’s approach for a collection four years ago, Donatella finally agreed. Apparently, Lady Gaga herself was the inspiration for the collection after Gaga’s excited reaction to the Versace archive earlier this year made Donatella view the designs through fresh eyes. Lucky Gaga.

I will be at a wedding on Thursday so will not be there to witness the madness that awaits each of the H&M stores that will stock the treasures. No camping outside the store the night before for me, no need to hatch a cunning plan to ensure I am first in the queue. No other dare devil escapades to bag myself a piece of the action for when luxury high-fashion designer meets high street champion. So with no sharpening of elbows or dusting off the sleeping bag required I will just have to wait and see if there is any thing left among the remnants when the hungry shoppers have finally departed. Failing that I will scoot around on eBay.

Having seen the collection online a couple of weeks ago (which includes metallic, suede and fluorescent footwear, big and bold jewellery and even home accessories) and analysed it in more detail in all its splendour in today’s Grazia magazine I am totally in two minds.

Part of me absolutely adores it. The collection certainly has not been diluted for the high street and is unmistakingly Versace. It contains shouty studded leather, exuberant prints and bags adorned with chains and gold that to me conjures up images of the ebullient '90s. It slowly creeps up on you and shouts ‘FASHION!’ really loudly in your face which I love.

Anna Dello Russo has already worn the studded leather dress at Paris Fashion Week:

Nicky Minaj, always brilliantly bonkers, wore head to toe black floral at the launch party in NYC:

Yet, part of me is still indeterminate. The printed trousers undoubtedly will look fabulous in Milan but I would feel a complete twit in clashing exotic floral prints crammed on the Victoria line with someone's armpit in my face. The shift dress embellished with studs is one of my favourite pieces for sure, but it is currently seven degrees outside and the thought of flashing my legs in that makes me feel hypothermic and in need of a blanket.

Then again I have just reviewed my previous paragraph and I am ashamed to be so staid and boring. The collection is fun, totally fashion-fabulous and brightens up the dreary world outside. How could you not smile wearing a piece of history that both you and your wallet are thankful for?

Unfortunately, I will not be part of the galloping stampede, but if anyone plans to queue up or sleep over on Thursday, could you please pick me up the  Studded Silk Shift, Miami Print Skirt and Black Silk Dress?

Please? Cheers.

See the full collection here: