ebay listing of the day: 33 rpm hat made of cat Tweet

Item specifics: Laura Ashley pink straw hat, used twice on holiday perfect for the summer
Condition: Used (An item that has been previously worn... Read more)
Handbag Size: Medium
Item Type: Ornament/ Figurine
Closure: Zip
Style: Straw Hat
Brand: Laura Ashley
Size: One Size
Genre: Pop & Beat (1960s)
Record Size: LP (12-Inch)
Animal Type: Cats
Speed: 33 RPM

mondays at the spa Tweet

It's been a few months of working from home on Monday so past the point I can call it in beta. Not sure if an alpha yet, you'll be the judge. When Chris first came up with the idea during our staycation over Christmas, I was very much against it—how would the world not fall apart without me? What was the point? What could I do so different than during at day in the office? Well, he pointed out, I expect sometimes I'll come back home late in the evening and you'd still be in your bathrobe.

Ah, the bathrobe! We bought it in Habitat quite a few years back, on account of me falling in love with it like most women would fall in love with a pair of shoes. It was steeper, commercially, than a perfectly cozy robe from say, M&S, and not particularly design or whatnot. Will you wear it forever and ever, asked Chris, worried for my budget. Until it falls apart, I answered. Then, on days now past, of getting up at 5am to work with a client back in Romania, that robe became my best friend in the cold London flat. And when I put it on after a bath, I wouldn't easily remove it. Much like a second skin, one that has more than paid off since, unlike pairs of shiny shoes from that era, now mostly defunct. The bathrobe was here to stay, several times mended, and a staple in conversations, too, it appears.

So, yes, he was right on one account: on a Monday when the world does seem to fall apart without me, he's prone to find me in that robe. The moment I wake up, I put it on with the comfort of knowing it doesn't have to come off within minutes, and run a bath. When things go well, I soon after get in said bath, with my laptop, and get on with stuff while I soak. The house is quiet, the cozy robe awaits my return patiently, and I can take my coffee and breakfast in the spa, as well; the rules are gentle on the workaholic. On not so predictable Mondays, the bath gets cold, the salts laid on its bottom lay untouched, and the foam and fragrant oils of faraway lands get flushed out when another bath is drawn, and another, and another. Until the last one gets canceled with exhaustion, late at night, when dinner beckons.

But when it all comes together, every now and then, the day turns out rainbows. After a long soak and scrub, the robe comes back in the picture as I wait for my manicurist and pedicurist to show up. They can be a bit fickle, what with checking Skype and email all the time and pausing to pick up this and that other than my nails. Other tiresome woman business best kept away from prying eyes also gets conducted, meals are had more or less on ideal time, endless perfect coffees made and drunk, and the sun often joins the party, like a silent nod to glorious grooming. When I finally discard the robe, and engross myself in the next pile of paperwork for hours on end, it's with the feeling of having lived the last hours in baby swan tummy feathers, and a sensation of lightness in the body clad in comfortable, oft cheeky garments that otherwise don't get to see light of day.

It is a rather good spa, this one, when I can make an appointment. Located in Central London but tucked away from the hustle and bustle, it boasts a large terrace, expert stuff, soothing concoctions and expert techniques. It is delicate and private, mindful and considerate, all open for my enjoyment alone. The best thing yet? There is a chef popping in at lunch time to create the zingiest salads and refreshments on cue. I would recommend you, yet we'd have to be really close friends; there are no vacancies for guests at this point, but hey, I know the owner. The space and silence alone are to kill for; because when you happen to live together and run a small business together at once, you're literally mouth to mouth come rain, come shine.

So that's what a good Monday holds in store these days, me-time galore with a twist of reflection and breathing calmly, where working late into the evening comes with ease, if not abandon, for knowing some basics had been properly covered already. It still feels like there could be much more to do elsewhere, but in regaining space and a will to pamper oneself, quite the affordable luxury. Sorry about this old picture, the photographer was rather relaxed.

the great british summer Tweet

It's 12 degrees and clad in 4 pieces of clothing, I'm rather frozen. If I didn't get a breeze of honeysuckle and jasmine every now and then, I would dispute the calendar month of June. I'm wearing summer trousers, an obvious mistake. I'm wearing two tops, and a velvet jacket fit for smoking, yet I can barely feel my fingers. To give you a measure of the ridiculous behaviour I entertain on a Sunday like this, until a few hours ago I was wearing a different pair of trousers, polka dot shorts. Under my other trousers! Because the wannabe British never loses hope of that lost ray of sunshine that might just briefly glance at their blue-veined thighs.



Then again, that vivacious rose above, my purple tiger, is living proof that Mother Nature is not as deterred as some of its (feeble) children by global warming. And it's certainly not wearing two pairs of trousers, or lingering under the covers at noon because the house is cold and the sun is hiding and just like a dark April day, what's there to do but read? No, she quite clearly is at work throughout the garden, which is really coming into its own this year, after all the sweat and strife of years past. So up I got, and aided by many hot coffees and the odd mulled cider (!), I dared the cold to enjoy it all, water the heck out of it, and herald the good news: the British summer has arrived! You might just have to don rose tinted glasses. Or green, for that matter.

poppy makes new friends Tweet

Poppy: Hi, Mr. American Man.
Mr. American Man, fiddling with the keys: ...
Poppy: Mr. Americaaan Maaan!
Mr. American Man, peering through Poppy's mom purple curtains: Oh, hello.
Poppy, whispering: What's up?
Mr. American Man: Sorry?
Poppy: What's up?!
Mr. American Man: Nothing much. And how are you?
Poppy, grinning: Very well. Thanks.

Poppy was quite excited with us when we moved here, to the point of shrieking upon seeing Chris's (now old) iPad and getting her mother to gift us a plant they had bought (which we kindly refused). But now we're old news and can exchange all the pleasantries through waving. Mr. American Man has a way to go.

good thing we're not polar bears... Tweet

...or there would really be too many of us around. A cute, if maybe photoshoped image on imgur brought about a wiki search late at night: surely polar bears cannot be so small at birth?



A boar (adult male) weighs around 350–700 kg, while a sow (adult female) is about half that size. [...] Between November and February, cubs are born blind, covered with a light down fur, and weighing less than 0.9 kg [...]. More

The average mass of an adult human is 54–64 kg for females and 76–83 kg for males. [...] In developed countries, infants are typically 3–4 kg in weight and 50–60 cm in height at birth. More

freaking out some timid kids Tweet

My step brother bought me Homework for Christmas when I was 12. I loved 'Around The World', but I think I played it all the way through just once initially—those aggressive, squealing synth bits in 'Rock 'n' Roll' and 'Rollin' and Scratchin'' scared the living bejesus out of me. There's something wild and evil in those tracks. It was only when Discovery came out that I revisited it, and properly exorcised my fears. Since then its never left my CD wallet, iPod or DJ box, and I hope that right now Homework's freaking out some timid kids who like 'Get Lucky'.

Jack Savidge of Friendly Fires for Dazed about Daft Punk

we're up all night to get lucky Tweet

It's the 1st of May and, in Romania, that is Labour Day. In other words, PARTY TIME! And while most people spend the national holiday over BBQs and beers, in their gardens and in public parks and in even more picturesque natural settings, the cool kids got to the seaside. Today is the unofficial start of the season. That means few venues would wake up from their six month sleep, as the tourists are rare, the breeze can be chilling, and the water—freezing. That also means, however, that the highway to the seaside would be mostly empty, and so would the beach, bar a few... bars that'd already put out cool loungers and get muddling their mojitos as they prepare their venue for a party in the evening and chilled music plays softly, wafting in the breeze.

That empty highway, that empty beach would be the perfect setting for blasting this tune in the loop, the volume just high enough that one gets intoxicated and transfixed. I honestly didn't think about any of that for years, but now the perfect tune is here, and London is sunny, and I found myself listening to it in the loop, and dancing in the office (which is, essentially, why the boss should be able to close a door and save the employees from the embarrassing scene). And then I looked at my shoes startled, because suddenly they seemed bulky and hot and incongruous and my body, making the moves, remembered a different time. A time of free toes in the bright sand, tanning anew.



I can't say I got awfully excited when word came out of the new Daft Punk album release at some strange local fair in Australia (I believe). Was only a tad curious whether I'd still find them interesting, relevant, to my liking... Whether they still had it. And then the first video of the single got leaked to YouTube, as things go, and I listened to it once, between things, and didn't think much more than, yeah, it's in the same vein, if with less tooth to it than before. Until this morning, when the planets conspired for a perfect setting, and I felt like waking up from a long winter sleep.

I'll carry on listening among meetings and calls and all that necessary evil of running one's own shop, but I'm not really here today. I'm in a car flying towards the sea, on an empty highway in Romania, surrounded by green fields covered in poppies. I've kicked off my sandals, put a foot up on the chair in the co-pilot seat, and lit a cigarette. The windows are open, the wind messes my hair, and the Daft Punks are loud. Soon we'll reach the empty beach, seat on fluffy sofas, and sip a cool drink as our skins unfurl under the sun and our ears get used to mixing up the waves with the soundtrack again. As the sun prepares to set in a few hours, refreshed and relaxed, I'll step up to the decks and get the party going with my new summer anthem. Free toes muddling the sand until the sunrise come.