Sunday, 7 December 2008

Four weeks later

Ideas for things I could be Expert at by 2019. I intended to write a list but actually once you factor in that the genius would then be 36, you have to begin to rule things out. Like ballroom dancer. Anything involved with one's physical appearance perhaps. I got kind of obsessed with the 10,000 hours thing, feeling like I'd already failed. I don't fell like I've got any momentum right now, except maybe a growing language pool. I think perhaps 20s are a time for the physical body, then as you get older you have to ensure your mnd is being conditioned too. I don't know what I thought when she said 'you don't look 26'. I wondered whether she meant physically, literally, or spiritually. I didn't know. I've never felt 'old enough' to grow up till about now, when concurrently I also feel too old. I'm not in the (25 and under) bracket. I am forever to old to be a Shoreditch hottie, or friends with some teenage coolsters. I am too old to design a scene. Perhaps this should be comforting, as I never strived to be part of anything.

I had a good time last night and thought perhaps it would be worth staying at Monmouth till next christmas just to see all those candles again. They were just beautiful, I could live in a cave like that. And it made be feel like when I first started; all these people flock there to be part of the aesthetic, the money, the history, the friendliness, the beautiful people. We work there. We are part of it without having to pay. It is a strange thing. The boundary that you have to cross from customer, separated by your spending power, to employee, embodying all the greatness and imbued with warmth. Compare that to Coffee Union. Takeout pizza piss up in a 30quid dress. I would now rather live in an unlit cave.

The evening was too short. There were too many interesting people to possibly have time to chat to. I find I come alive when my brain is stimulated. My words roll out and I'm surprised by the speed and eloquence. I come to decide things out of my mouth rather than in my head. I surprise myself with my ability to like people. I really enjoyed my dress and am SO grateful that I had help to de-wine it. I was about to cry and I was saved, it was so warming. I super enjoyed wearing my outfit in an environment where it could cause conversation, reaction and recognition. There's no point in anything if you can't share it with people. No point in dressing well, reading well, seeing films, seeing sights. If it doesn't process through it's existence, the dress just sits in the John Lewis moth bag and in my head. Still non existent: non effective. Pointless. This was what was missing before. Everything was still, there were no people I connected with equally, to share views, plans and ideas.

I got grumpy again last night at my lack of photo-taking. Capturing images of things that I would like to look at again. A kind of documentary photography really, not like Facebook pictures. Good candles, good outfits, roasting chestnuts and stuff. It made me realise that I must be kind of wanting to make something more permanent? Like wearing these outfits is all good but they are transient and it's not like I can even see it! That thing that making art is just about making the things you see in your head in real life. I liked what she said about still calling yourself an artist even if you're not making anything. A doctor doesn't stop being a doctor. Except perhaps Harry Hill. I liked what it said in the Vogue interview about Shona Heath being an artist. I just thought if I'm getting upset and seeing beautiful things that wont be captured forever (for me, in my head), perhaps I do want to make permanent things, and that will make me feel good again. In a group though. Not solitary like an artist. Maybe my ideal of that is outdated. It is isn't it. Being am artist doesn't have to be a traditional solo pursuit. I used to enjoy it didn't I, now I like people too much and things don't make any sense until they are expressed and shared.

Sunday, 9 November 2008

Blogging in bed

I'm doing that thing when you can finally have what you've wanted all day, but keep putting it off still. "Isn't delayed gratification the definition of maturity?", points to any reader who can pinpoint and probably correct that quote. When you've been camping for 2 weeks and haven't had a shower apart from icey mountain water out of a plastic tube, then finally get to a hotel before the airport tomorrow, and maybe you'll just wait half an hour more, dirty, because you're just testing yourself about how much you need a shower, and it becomes a sort of game. I've been waiting to got to bed for about seven hours, now here I am, in bed, but not sleeping. I think maybe I've been tired but I've mostly wanted the time to myself, to claim myself back. I am in charge. I AM in charge.

It was the last day at Helfridges today, I decided I am not the person who says yes to that kind of work anymore, I just wont buy the incurring shoes instead. I will pass on the exchange of time+hell=money/(shoes+bedding) and just say no. I will not measure my success in the thread count of my awfully unethical cotton sheeting. How can I sleep on it now I've just thought about the poor Egyptian children. Oh my god. But I still bought them. Anyway, no, I won't say yes to things just because they are (nearly)£10/hour. I should stop being so material and needing rewards for giving my time away to something shit. A lot of people don't do this. They either aren't driven by commodities or they get a credit card. They keep their time for good things. I guess when I said yes I felt I needed to be punished or such like. 'If you won't do the course, then take THAT'.

Is it ok to feel quite jealous of their photographs? They look like so much fun, but I could never have carried on with that. I would much rather prefer to find my own way in. I wonder what I will say on the phone tomorrow. I wonder if it will be another one of those times where I build it up and set a date and the time comes and I have to go back down to 1 again. I need to relax and formulate a new plan. But I also need to focus on realities, not just future lists and ifs all the time. Little fake realities just set up for sadness. I'm doing it already. I'm a bit pissed off that article came out just last week. Bandwagon. And I though I was wile-y. I'll be fucking grumpy if that's a no too. No we won't let you come work here for free to see if you fancy it, you big faker, go the proper ways like everyone else you wile-y beast. Why am I making it harder, finding it hard to go by conventions? I guess I never fit into the conventions. The conventions never chose me, the ways are not my way. I'm looking forward to seeing my way. It seemed in sight about a month ago but recently things have slid. What did make me pleased was seeing a person from the past in my present yesterday, 'remember how SAD and DRESSED IN BLACK you used to be at Coffee Union?', 'I know, not now, look at my very COFFEE coordinated outfit, AND, I'm fucking HAPPY!' It was a great bit of pointless closure.

On a final note, a wave of sadness came over today. The premium roses stall in Selfridges, selling an alright-sized bunch for like £120, made me realise a wile doesn't always work. I made this snap decision- on seeing an assistant dead-heading a bunch, I knew what was next, and I for some reason, asked if they sell 'slightly dying' flowers. We had a bit of a communication issue, or maybe she couldn't just understand my insane request, and by that time the only-slightly dead-heads were upside down in the bin. From £8 a stem to bin, like that, just from a slightly curled petal. I wanted to snatch them out of the bin, 'I'm a contractor they say, don't I have SOME weight', and just have them. They were perfect 70s dusky magenta pink. They had no worth and the till was void and they were beautiful. Almost worth £8 a go but not really and I will never own one legitimately. But it shows you can't talk your way into everything. Or you could, buy you'd be on the edge of pleading insanity. But what would that matter on your last day in Helfridges for a week of amazing short-stemmed scented roses?

Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Is anyone reading the blog? And lost hats.

I just wondered who was looking at this, the profile views have gone up to to 37 and I know that's nothing but I'm sure it's not just me?

I was just thinking about all the hats I've ever lost. Sad times. I expect most were on trains. Remember that red beanie, it was amazing. Like £6.99 and amazing. That's what I want I think, a pull-on hat. Not 'is my hat fashion-tilted enough' or whatever but just pull it on, done, I'm wearing a hat. With this awful weather though it kind of put paid to any sort of fashion bent on bike, just keep dry eh. I didn't come off too bad, a wet crown and thighs which needed a waterproof circle skirt. I really enjoyed the concept sportswear, amazing, where is the Sartorialist when you need him. It was amazing. This Stella McCartney for Adidas pink marshmallow with a Shimano headband and chelsea boots. Toasty. An oldish woman who gets lattes for the price of americanos asked me where my blouse came from today, I felt shameful to say it was French Connection@TK Maxx. Postmodern.

I've not written for two weeks. I had a visitor, went home, had another visitor, and then began the 22 day work marathon. Day five and I'm surprisingly sane ish. Tried to decide on the way home whether 2 degrees sleet for 5 miles was worse than or equal to invigilating an exhibition where I get asked, "what is this, I'm looking for something to BUY". It was possibly the worst ride I have ever made. I was ready to slip off at any point. It would be good to stand on London Bridge in the snow. When it snows. Does minus one mean definite snow?

I should note that I was brave enough to speak up in French today (I am shit but want to get better and can), but not at the film last night. My question was completely valid if not a bit unformulated, why do these things always come post event, like the most amazing line in an argument when they've already shot you down. It was a celebrity feast though, and, oh I don't know I should've probably just asked, 'so I LOVED the hats, just tell me about the hats', and Robbie Coltrane would've said I didn't wear a hat and Rachel Weisz would've said 'but the cape!' and then we could've talked about capes. But I didn't ask my question so we'll never know. And some CINEMA FREAK instead asked Rian Johnson why he thanks Tom Cruise in the credits. I really should give my intelligence more credit sometimes.

It's fourth week at work, and I've started to fit in more. My coffee tasting skills are lacking, but how many of them can make quiche from absolute scratch. We each have our own skills and that is why some of us are world traveling coffee tasters and some of us, well, make pastry and burnt chocolate icing. I think a lot of people blag a lot of things in this world and that is OK. I can be who I want to be there, and if I choose to be sad like Coffee Union that'd be a stupid waste of everyone's time. So I'm going to pretend that I'm having an ok time and then it kind of is true. Customer based jobs are very hard work. Shouting at work is hard. Standing all day is hard. Not having another plan is double hard. Keep up spirits, even though the cold makes them heavy and stiff. Keep changing, and just get stronger, you can. Find beauty in people, they are uplifting, especially the like minded ones. I have to go to bed now before it gets too cold to sleep.

Wednesday, 15 October 2008

Celebrities at Work

I'm tired. I just wanted to think about celebrities. Henry Holland and Alexa Chung came into the shop today and it was weird. Who are they to rile me up? Everyone acts like the Queen is in, like 'do you KNOW who's over there', and you do a louder impression of yourself. You want them to notice you, and bestow you some luck and greatness - Bestow Miss Langdell By Way of Working Here I Announce You Duly Noticed And Important...

I didn't look at him until I saw them leave the shop arm in arm. Celebrity boys are kind of boring, they look normal. Celebrity girls are something to aspire to. They glow with the lightness of free Chanel and national aspiration. Henry looked crap, like a parody of himself, but isn't that just what they are, 'let's go to London and DO London', 'alright, but I might change my name, Laura is a bit SHIT', 'ok, and you know what, I bet you I'll bring tartan BACK, even Lauren Lavern will say so'.

It's easy to knock fun at things you don't know from a distance, out of paltry jealousy. When I was sounding off about Laura I-don't-know-the-difference-between-nails-and-screws Sillars, Angus asked me "you don't like her then?", and I answered 'I don't know her' with true sadness, really. Like look how bored I am, I'm making fun out of some perfectly fine Boring, and it just makes me look like an arsehole. Laziness. Easy to scold these celebrities out of jealousy. All we want is (whoever we choose) to throw their power over us and extend their shroud of brilliance and be transformed.

I just wondered whether the definition of celebrity is someone we know several things about over a certain period of time, and yet they don't even know our name. Our name is our existence. Hi I'm Ceri, yes I know. We all fucking know and you KNOW we know. And even when we're taking the piss out of your clothes, we kind of want a piece of you. Russell Brand said something good on the tv the other night in some interview, which was we can worship these 'idols' (celebrities or local heros), but we aren't really worth 2p until we pick out our insides and find out who we are. I'm doing that. So I wondered today about whether celebrities are really just ambitious people who lived the truths out. They happen. They are not scary, they are reminders that we should try harder to make success.

Thursday, 9 October 2008

Eating ginger nuts listening to Grasmere gingerbread article

I can't stop when I buy biscuits. I can't. I have the craving, and the mix of sugar and salt just bounce off each other, and once you put ginger in there, it can't stop. I'm kind of celebrating not growing a baby. I think most women spend a few weeks in the year thinking 'I hope I'm not growing a baby'. The ones that aren't on the pill anyway. I don't think men would know how heavy that thought is. There's no good reason why you would be growing a baby, but then, aren't they just miracles and don't miracles just happen sometimes. It'd be shit though wouldn't it. Anyway, so now I'm celebrating my empty cavern with ginger nuts. Great stuff.

I've not written for a while. I was busy in the real world, talking out loud rather than onto the keys. I thought today about making the blog art biased. Very trendy that'd be wouldn't it. But I couldn't do it posthumously, as that'd be like reviewing. So maybe I'll start now.

On the way to Matt's Gallery I went to the Paul & Joe sample sale, on the way to that I went to an exhibition at the Squid & Tabernacle in Spitalfields. I rode past and somehow clocked 'Amikan Toren' at speed and turned back, as he is one of my faves. He did this thing at Antony Reynolds (his gallery) where he got one of those old school chairs with the little side table, and piled up loads of the side tables on top of each other so the chair was almost toppling over and the 'table' nearly touched the ceiling. And also those cut out paintings, I think he was the first one to be that really. Anyway I didn't think much of the stuff today, found symbols on boxes, framed up. A few too many. There was a nice sculpture with a box and an umbrella and a pair of brogues sitting in some wood cut for them. It was kind of strangely put in the middle of the room like some sort of vehicle, so it looked like a plane. The umbrella on its side like a propeller. It was nice, but it didn't really fit with all the flat stuff. That being some black and white drawings, really heavy graphite, which looked like diagrams of agate. But they did that thing where you imagine yourself in it, in the situation with the work, as though you are its designer, and, oh no, you're a STUDENT. Eek. She'll prob do really well but I didn't think much of the drawings. They reminded me of Sam's paintings but in a 'I'd rather look at them' way.

That analogy is bizarre; I seem to get work more when I somehow imagine myself in it, it it's aura. Imagining I am it's creator, or it needs me, or a human. It has something to give to a human, or it suggests its creator, I don't know what I mean. Almost like anthropomorphising it, but as though it's a dog and it needs its man. There's some sense in this. I will have to think more about those Camilla Low sculptures. It was funny in French today, my 'artistes prefere' were Tim Walker and Camilla Low. Not really Dali are they, not really acceptable.

Anyway I'm past tired. And I don't feel at all guilty about the biscuits, they were lovely.

Friday, 26 September 2008

You can over think some things and you need to watch that.

Yes, I've found that a large proportion of today was spent just thinking like this:

The tutor is mean, my new friends are nice, I could could do the course and have fun and do my 'start again' that I was looking for, but there's starting again and trying to go back to some point in the past, what context do you want to start again in, I don't know, how am I supposed to know what I want, I want it fucking all, the journalism course is big and scary, but yes isn't that what you want, I don't know is it, well do you want to piss about with some fun girls for a year or get under your own skin, I don't know, why not, I don't know, stop saying that, I can't help it, to and fro and wishing if I could just think of everything on a level for just one moment then maybe things would unravel and reveal instead of always just being such polar opposites of painful decision.

One minute I want to make a choice, the next I want to float. I want to belong and be validated and point in one (or two) directions, ie imagine applying oneself to writing and getting somewhere with it? Imagine building on something I already do and making it into this reality, not just a blog but... That would feel good. But then, doubt sets in, and I start thinking 'but I'm not sure I want to BE a journalist'. And I know I don't have to be defined, but by taking on such a high level course I would be devoting myself to it and the idea of it. I just got kind of agitated thinking about doing an internship for a magazine, it's just not as portfolio is it, it's putting all energy into one thing.

Which is why I chose the course, it would be diverse snippets of information. Maybe I should just breeze (would that be viable now?) through 'contextual studies' and website building class, have fun, open up, be lite. No? THEN...oh but I don't want to make shitty pictures, have to write about an exhibition in no context at all, DRAW (bloody hell), stick things in a learning journal to prove I'm thinking or whatever. I could come off as an arsehole and piss myself off even more.

I don't even like fashion. I don't like Top Shop and Alexa Chung and expensive handbags. And in fact I don't like the majority of things. I don't like a lot more than I like. But when I like things it's serious. It's also fun.

Now. What do you want to do? How long will it take to work out, and how can you work through it sensibly, and interestingly, and make your way? The main thing is, sitting there internalising it all does nothing, apart from self-tap.


Enough of that, I'm sleeping in a sleeping bag tonight. On my bed. The moths are going through an eradication process, and seeing as three fell out of my spare bed sheet I didn't want to bother with it. It's going to be hot in there. I don't want this problem it is chronic and chronic is the WORST.

Event of the day, fish and chips at Wetherspoons on me sen (by my self) for £3.20. Astonishing value. Hammersmith is weird though. Always a warm feeling from Wether, it's like, wherever you are in the country, things are always just as shit. That £3.20 does fluctuate.

Tuesday, 23 September 2008

It's confusing but not at all depressing...

I feel like I have choices, like I've finally got SOMETHING at least to judge things off. I've only been on the course 2 days, only induction, but already in that short time it has brought some kind of clarification. What I don't want. I hope I can get onto this Pg Cert course, fashion & lifestyle journalism. If I could take that on whilst doing some styling/photo shoot work experience, I think that'd be ideal to be going on with. It would cover things I am confident in (writing) and also have no background in. I would hopefully meet people and industry through that course. If it's full should I sack this one off and wait till Feb? Or carry on with this? One thing though, I don't feel sad or stuck or regretful for being here. I am glad I have all these choices.

On a side note, even though I answered her pop questions today, I'm not as eloquent as I would like to be on things I do actually know. Like if someone says talk about Basquiat for 2 minutes, I really should be able to do that. And talk about Ang Lee's films.

Some gems from today:

"Japanese students- do you have Magnum ice creams there?" (on trying to explain Magnum photographers, why not just a magnum of champagne?)

"He's very important. Well, kind of important." (In answer to question 'does anyone know who Banksy is?')

"Can't remember whether he died from suicide or just o-d'ed" (on Basquiat)

"You know about Andy Warhol?"

Monday, 15 September 2008

If all the layers peeled away then you'd only be left with yourself

It's getting harder to calm down and think clearly and separate from all the wealth of opportunities. Instead of choosing from a reduced green mush at the bottom of a rusty couldren, I feel like I'm picking candy floss out of a big clear hot air balloon of a bag. In Liverpool I felt like I was scraping around this shitty pile, getting my nails dirty just looking for something, and in London, well it seems you just ring them, they answer, and you and your hair better be ready as they want to meet you this afternoon.

How are you supposed to know what you want? How am I supposed to DEAL with having a choice?? Not even A choice, but CHOICES. About 3 at the moment, and if I keep looking, more.

So I'm getting a bit upset with having a choice, which sounds ridiculous but is real and honest, and a completely viable way to feel. I think I just must calm down and be clear and honest with myself, and things do show themselves.

I was just looking on the LCF site about the different enrollment days. I saw that tailoring was tomorrow, and thought 'maybe I'll just roll up (again) and join that one instead'. The truth is probably whichever course I had chosen, I'd be slightly pining after the other in this interim period between new and old life.

On top of the confusion, I have the very grown up problem of a moth infestation. It should probably be expected with the fact that the clothes live in the airing cupboard, which is where the moths live. Kind of cute little smooth things, but 3 flying out when you open the door? I was a bit sad, but kind of pleased with myself, as moths are a sign of expensive clothes. They're not even that expensive, but there's no Top Shop in there, ad perhaps that should be alongside lavender, cloves, ceder and moth balls on the repellent list.

It's a grown up problem, but I shouldn't have to deal with it. Neither should I have o buy mousetraps. It was probably my own fault that I didn't think airing cupboard-moths. I wonder if insurance covers moth eaten clothes, that would be excellent.

I'm going to look at these jobs for a bit again. I just need to relax into the choice, feel grateful for having it, but don't cry about it. I know know to listen when something's not right.

Sunday, 14 September 2008

The Sartorialist might see you today. Look hot, look cool, but whatever you do, mean it.

It's funny how gaps have started to be bridged, barriers broken down. Geographically, and, I don't know, does the internet still count as geography? Is it space or time? Difficult one that. Just that by being on this blog hosting site can connect you to whoever and everyone. The S might read what I wrote. If you go into Dover St Market chances are you will SEE a celebrity. The barriers aren't actually geographical at all, they are layers, and layers of simulacra at that. I don't know enough about all that, but I'd like to know more. It really turns me on (in the head) and makes me think richly and like it matters.

I tried to get into the Peter Jensen show today. Tonight. What the fuck was I thinking?! I knew I wouldn't succeed, but I wanted the truth, I wanted the reality, I wanted the layers stripped away and simulacrum (if they are one) dissolved like rice paper on your tongue. Actuality. Proof. It made me smile and I felt like I complete twat. What does it mean about me that I can go out with bad (yellow and rooted and misshapen) hair and no make up, and crumpled clothes. Can that exist in the fashion world? What made me think I could just roll up as myself and get into a fashion show? Did I think I was surfing above the layers? Didn't everyone know it was Sunday and you're allowed to look a bit cas(ual)?

Just brushed my teeth, thinking WHY it should be exciting to work at the Rochelle School and see Giles Deacon. Why should that invoke excitement in any soul? Some strange success cadging activity. Treating celebrities and successful people as radiating deities of excellence, 'Can I have some please?'. If I've SEEN Shane Richie it must bring me some sort of mythical empowerment, no? It's bloody nuts. What it is though, is seeing real versions of projected greatness and success. It's seeing that these 'idols' are also somehow real like me, and it makes me feel like a small joke.

I don't know what I'm on about now, the lateness has just made me paranoid tired about seeing the/a mouse in my room again. I don't want it on my face in the night.

Thursday, 11 September 2008

I now have the internet, there's no excuse

I'm going to give it a go and see how it goes. I seem to have a lot of time on my hands already. It's crap having a job and crap not having one. Feeling a bit hermetically sealed. My spine feels like that too, must be the bed or the new life.

I used to write all the time. Then I ran out of things to say. Or I realised no-one was listening, so what was the point at all. Books and books of void thoughts, embarrassing and good for no-one.

I'm glad I started reading last week. Words churning is always a good thing, but strange when you find yourself writing a word you would never say, such as deduce or hermetically.

I thought I was dying today. Not in a 'I've not too much time to think' way, more like, 'why am I finding breathing a bit of a, chore?'. I've had a lot of tension in the solar plexus area which I kind of thought was a myth that actually didn't exist, but it's on Wikipedia and does exist and is something to do with all the muscles behind the stomach, in the spine etc. The diagram was too small. But it sounds like it can be to do with emotional stress, but also really symptomatic like feeling sick, having pressure in the chest etc. So basically a combination of the awful bed and the giant cookie and coffee I had around 2pm. I don't seem to process sugar too well these days, seems to make me feel sick or lightheaded.

So what would be the point in a blog? And is there any point if you don't tell anyone? At least with the handwriting there's some sort of brain-hand process going on and it looks like you're writing A Book. And people go 'ooh what are you writing', and you go 'nothing', and look really intelligent but rude but still intelligent, and the truth is you're actually writing NOTHING. Just like this.

When handwriting, scribble shows you took something back. You don't know that I just spelled something 'soemthing', then went back to change it. Or that I changed 'spelt' to 'spelled', as isn't spelt a grain?

So the diaries were different, in that I was documenting thoughts on art, my place, my ideas, bitching about annoying people and making anal lists. And then noticing myself writing about soemthing (I left that one in on purpose) and commenting on it. And thus showing my age, the time, and it all was rather embarrassing. But it was never premeditated. I just wrote stuff. Like this. It taps into somewhere in my head where I believe myself, and there is clarity. And sometimes it's nice to listen to that, and think, you're alright.

Can this writing exist without a purpose, topic, or destination? Will it evolve or will I ever even tell someone.

That will be enough for now.

Thursday, 24 April 2008

Oh My God, I have A Blog...

I think this means I've finally succumbed. Had a bit of a panic to notice there isn't a choice of Helvetica in the font box, after I've streamlined all my stationery into the knowing person's font. I decided that recently; I like things better if I know they're connected to something, if they have a background, a weight. The film, the fact that Greek coins say 'Helvetica' round their edge. It's a reason enough to choose something.

Finding it difficult to type as fast as I write, and this is leaving a small thinking gap between what I mean and what I say. Write. I've not written for ages, it just became too conscious really after the degree show. That part where I caught up with myself, I was reading recording diary entries I'd just written, too weird, writing your own script. 

I don't know if this will work. I don't know what it's for, who it's for. I suppose if it gets me thinking about words that's a good thing. I've been rejecting it for such a long time, the internet, but there was some sort of triumph in the last week of the journalism course. I just wrote a ten minute 'blog' and it felt like something that could be 'real', and could connect to something. The writing could be read. It wouldn't just sit on the bookshelf. I do keep meaning to type up those old diaries, and get them printed into some sort of silver edged bible-looking thing. Like a rich little word book of transcending knowledge - 'I doesn't matter who you are or what I'm on about, this shit is WISDOM!!!' or something. 

Anyway, while this needs a change of voice, it needs to carry the voice that was the best of all my other writing. A kind of subconscious muse who drops down these little gloopy drops of truth, which I then read back, or other people will now read, and go, oh I really should carry on, it all makes sense.

I think that's it for now. It feels weirdly official. Hand writing is definitely so important. I would like to note however that the reason for the blog happening in the end was not peer pressure nor a want of conformity, but inspiration from The Sartorialist.  It seems that now blogs are so commonplace there can actually be some wheat rising from the chaff. It's like it's gone from rare to common to boring, so it's almost a neutral state, and that's when the good stuff can shine.

Signing off...