Twas the night before Christmas...

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

There's some hints and tips for you guys! But the final link is all I really want,

Merry Christmas Mainwarings xxx

Paving our way to a guilty existence

I, like many of my friends have been reminded throughout our lives just how lucky we (us ladies) are. Emily Pankhurst paved the way for our parents generation to begin to aspire to equality, and my generation are now even closer to achieving it.

My mother was given career options which consisted of teacher or nurse, my career options were endless, and still are – but trust me, it's terrifying. I would love to aspire to be a housewife and mother, don't get me wrong, I don't think it's easy, but we now have to aspire to be a great housewife and mother as well as have a successful career, great relationships and a degree in plate spinning.

I personally feel this heightened freedom and nigh on equality has created a generation of women riddled with guilt. Having been reminded how lucky I am my entire life, means that settling down, putting anything on the back burner or aspiring to a quiet life is just not an option – myself and many of my friends believe that success is at the end of the month in a hefty pay cheque, the money quilling the suffering of all the suffragettes before us, who couldn't vote, never mind work in the city. I wanted to be an online journalist, which I now am – but what now? Have I proved my point?

And for those of my friends who haven't quite got their dream job yet– I know they wont stop. Living in London, earning shit money or working for free, working stupidly long hours to try and prove that you too – like the other twenty interns - are really keen is the norm. The constant questions “am I actually a talented designer/musician/writer/PR girl?” “Will I ever get that job?” “will I ever get paid for it” and then... “what do I do now?” are just a standard monologue of the twenty something year old woman. Then it becomes, “when will I meet my husband?” “when will I get married?” “will I be too old to have children” it's a lifetime of questions which are rarely answered.

Whenever I just couldn't bare to do one more run to the dry cleaners to pick up my editors cleaning I would replay my mothers words in my head, and I would picture just how great this was, I was working for (as an unpaid postwoman basically) Elle magazine, surely that is great. Well the idea of it is, and the fact that I'm even in a position to be able to get out there and work in itself is too, but no, working for Elle magazine was a pile of shit. But what stopped me walking out of the door? My mothers words in my head and I can guarantee there are a lot of 'daughters of feminists' out there who have to listen to the same thing day in day out, you don't know how lucky you are.

So what can we do? Not a lot I'm afraid ladies, once you get your dream job and meet your dream man and have your 2.4 kids we then have to remind our daughters just how lucky they are, but they'll be faced with massive university fees and even more pressures to perform. Something tells me that cavewomen didn't have these issues, she probably wasn't worrying about juggling a work/life balance and being constantly reminded of her sagging features. Life was tough then, but a sabre tooth tiger on the prowl isn't much different from the 'sisters' out there trying to do one over on eachother.

As spiderman said, with great power comes great responsibility, well Spiderman, you haven't got a bloody clue...

I am the boomerang kid!

Having amicably broken up with my boyfriend of two and a half years, I found myself in a situation all too familiar with those in my generation. I'd priced myself out of the rental market in London and had no choice but to return home.

I am currently desk hopping in my Dad's office in Hexham, Northumberland, and occupying one of his bedrooms - where my worldly possessions are piled up in boxes between his and my brother's house. The fact is, that people of my age group can't afford to live alone, not in London anyway – and so we find ourselves cast out, back into the big wide world with nothing to show for the past two years of cohabitation than a hefty utilities bill and the prospect of a new life – somewhere else!

Luckily for me, my father and his soon to be wife (the wicked stepmother), have taken me in with open arms, stocked the fridge with diet coke and even put a television in my room - should I wish to watch TV in bed. Sue even asked me if I had any washing to do – MISTAKE! You're making this too easy for me.

Jokes aside, I've assured them that this won't be a permanent move. I'm sure they're very glad to hear it, but the reality is, I've become a boomerang kid just like many before me. The cost of living means that us twenty-somethings are still heavily reliant on our families. Thus, when relationships break down or living situations change, we have little choice but to return home with our tails between our legs, and off-load emotional baggage on those that brought us into the world and continue to catch us whenever we fall.

Unless you're earning a hefty salary, or being funded from afar by wealthy parents the combination of the cost of living and student debt means we're forever relying on our parents, and it's tough. My Dad left university with a £14 overdraft, I left with over £20,000 worth of debt and the next generation of students will be leaving with, well double that and add a bit. The twenty-somethings are, proverbially speaking, up the creek. At least I have a job, that's not the case for many who have just graduated. Who knows what the prospects will be for those forking out £9000 a year in fees for their chosen degree course.

I have to say that as I write this from my Dad's office, having walked to work this morning, I'm breathing a sigh of London relief. No busy tubes, my commute this morning was free, not £150 a month and I get to hang out with my Dad and teach him how to use twitter. I'm one of the lucky ones, but what does the future hold? For me, I'm optimistic there'll be a positive outcome, but for my generation as a whole and the one following, the future is bleak indeed.

A word from my sponsor: “My boomerang won't come back. Having said that she already has!” (I'm told this is a Rolf Harris song)

London NY Fashion Week S/S 2011

Here's my pick of the trends we'll be seeing coming through to the high street and beyond...

Pleating - whether it's in chiffon or silk, pleated skirts will be big, not the easiest to wear, but oh so chic. (as seen at Richard Nicoll)

Fringing - Twenty8Twelve went Pocahontas and Henry Holland went 70's glam, either way fringing is here to stay.

Studs - yep they're still around, and whilst Burberry's biker jackets and trousers were too die for, they seem a little passe. (but still so hot!)

Burberry

Neon + Pastels - in all the colours of the rainbow pastels are still big, but this season they'll get a smack in the face with neon and acid brights. (Christopher Kane)

Christopher Kane

Cut out and lace - Intricate laser cutting, crochet and lace will be the detailing of Spring

Draping - either trench shaped drapes from Alexander Wang (the king) or loose drapes from Ms Westwood, wearing it loose but structured is the way.

Alexander Wang

Length - it's either skyscraper short or scraping the floor. The micro mini or the maxi is the length for next summer. One for leg lovers and loathers alike!

70's - Oh how we love this one! Slim cut flares in denim, embroidered with stars at Henry Holland, neon bright miami prints, metallic hot pants, billowing jump suits, you name it, the 70's have got it and so will the high street next season. Let's start trawling the charity shops now for those vintage 70's pieces, you know what this means... platforms are safe!

House of Holland

Henry Holland - His collection will (as always) influence the high street the most. There'll be long slim flares embroidered in stars in H&M, maxi dresses in neon miami prints in primark and fringing fabulous everywhere inbetween.

Bring on the summer holidays, oh no wait a second they're over, we've got a whole year to wait.

So if I was going to make some pre-season purchases it would be have to be slim flares for smart and a killer jumpsuit for the Christmas party season. Lace up boots are still around, so invest in a good light coloured pair (pale suede would do both seasons) and they'll last another year!

Bring on Paris...

Sex and no City 2

There we were, me and Ping Pong, fresh from an exhilarating trip around the 99p shop in Enfield, (very Sex and the City) with our cup of pick and mix and a handful of cheap bleach on the old 329 to Enfield industrial estate.

Ok it wasn’t quite Sex and The City, but then neither was the film. I’ve been looking forward to this for months, actually probably a year, but I can’t even bring myself to slag it off!

So instead of slagging it off, here’s how I think Sex and The City 2 will affect 2011.

It’s the 3 T’s…

The tan: Carrie was tanned before she even hit Abu Dhabi and we’re not talking sun-kissed, more sun-shagged. It’s a glistening, deep down tan circa Rimmel instant sun 1998!

The tits: She’s had implants! I’ve always admired Carries rack but it’s always seemed unlikely on such a minute frame. There was no hiding the fact that someone’s been surgically enhanced here! But then it was in a film that freely admitted it was OTT and a reaction to the recession. Bring on the style icon of 2011 – Dolly Parton!

The turban: Hats, headgear, turbans, tiara’s you name it, if it goes on your head it’s going to be big and not just metaphorically. This trend is a godsend for those heading off to sunnier climbs and it’ll be seen in the next few months all over the festival scene. I think Cleopatra will become a big style influence.

So there it is, these coming months and on to next year will see the lavish and the larish hit the high street. Fabrics will move away from digital prints and become heavily embroidered, embellished and metallic in nature and a step away from the structure of the last few years. The jumpsuit is still king, the harem is reinvented and studding becomes either sleek (Miranda) or S&M(antha).

It wasn’t terrible it just wasn’t amazing and had pretty much reached a parody of its former self. The glitz and glamour was there but it seemed the only emotionality of the film was explored in about 15 minutes and therefore didn’t feel as heartwarming as it’s predecessor, which had me and the ladies weeping in the aisles.

Perhaps the blatant product placement and over the top wardrobes were too much, maybe the element of mutton dressed as lamb was just too prevalent. Maybe it was the constant reference to the plight of the Middle Eastern woman, or the single mother or god forbid the mother without a nanny that just didn’t work for me.

We all know SATC is about escapism, but perhaps the fact they escaped half way across the world was just too much – I think I wanted a little more New York and a little less New Boobs.

Why we love SJP

I’m not alone in worshipping the ground SJP walks on, or shall I say the ground Carrie totters about on in her Louboutins.

Yes, it is primarily because of her unbelievable wardrobe, one, which she was allowed to keep. Can you imagine spending a day in that walk in? Yes, it would be great on the surface until you go to try on the iconic tutu skirt and realize it has a waist on it the size of my fore-arm. Gutted.

So yes, we love her because Patricia Field has turned her into THE style icon of the 21^st century. We know it’s unrealistic that Carrie could afford her amazing apartment her hoard of designer clobber and her cocktail lifestyle, simply on the wage from her single weekly column, the woman doesn’t cook!

Sex and the City isn’t about reality, it’s not even close, but we can believe in the characters, why? Because none of them are supermodels.

Each one has a distinct flaw, and so while Carrie may be my favourite I don’t actually want to be her, why? Because there isn’t a single male on the planet who finds her attractive. We love her, because she isn’t that fit, yep, we’re shallow, she poses no threat.

We want to be her mate, we want to steal her clothes and we want to gossip endlessly about what each punctuation mark in every text means, but we don’t actually want to be, sorry look, like her.

Case in point: I can’t stand Cameron Diaz, the fact that every film she appears in she does a ‘comedy’ dance routine. She’s one of those girls at uni who would get into a water fight wearing a skin tight white T-shirt, then scream like a dick and never trot fast enough to get away from the boys. It’s just too obvious! Yes Cameron, you think you’re a clown, you’re one of the boys, you’re CRAZY, and I think you’re a penis. Why? Because you may be all those things, but when it comes down to it, you’re also incredibly beautiful, have a killer body and you seem relatively down to earth. Ah, I said it.

That’s why SJP is our superhero. She can make any item of clothing look amazing, she can fuck up with Aidan and we still love her, she can act a little annoying and boy mental, but then who can honestly say they don’t get a bit Carried away when romance is on the cards! But at the end of the day, she’d be our mate that none of our boyfriends would fancy.

So, bring on the 28^th May. Off to the cinema with my version of the Carrie foursome, there’ll be tears, laughter and most of all – clothes. Blissfully wrapped up in the reality that Samantha is getting on, Miranda is ginger, Charlotte has a massive ass and SJP is only a neigh away from hi ho silver.

Ugg boots and ballet pumps...

I can understand why people wear trainers, I don’t personally have any and I don’t like them, but they’re comfortable and if you’re not over-bothered about fashion or you’re a trainer type of guy then no worries, I have no problem with you! However…

If you’re the type of girl (or god forbid a guy) who’s rocking a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and your hair is tipped bouffantly over to one side, please remove those overpriced mounds of sheepskin from around your ankles. You’re walking like a gimp!

Now, that may be because you’re ‘just thrown own’ jeans are far too tight for you or because you’re walking on a 1inch, £200 lump of cardboard tattooed with the word Ugg on the heel. They’re called Ugg’s because they’re Uggly and why they were invented in Australia I’ll never know.

Luckily for the Australians us Brits are more than willing to buy overpriced, unwanted goods from afar and then ship them over hear so we can all drag our feet, trip over dust particles and look successfully nonchalant.

And on the opposite end of the footwear faux pas spectrum is the ballet pump. Another ‘wear with anything’, overpriced, overproduced pile of useless crap that is no more of a shoe than a piece of cardboard is.

If you want to spend £100 on a pair of ballet pumps, look like everyone else, be constantly cold and get knee and back problems from shuffling around in a pair of shoes with soles the width of silk then be my guest, but I wont be!

I love my gladiator sandals but I fear they may be next on the overproduced, overdone list L