The Day After you Stole my Heart...

Everything I touched told me it would be better shared with you...


I can tell that it's getting wintry in Norwich. My hands are getting dry and chapped from being out in the cold. I have been sleeping next to a hot water bottle.
(Grace took this photo... Norwich by lamplight, winter here isn't bad.)




Me and my housemates went to a 'Communist' themed party a few weekends ago. We danced to the sounds of a Russian band and records from a bygone era. We dressed as Russians, the men at the party were looking particulary dashing in military atire. Through the wine-tinted glasses I began to understand the merits of Communism. Everyone was happy to drink a lot of vodka, wear fur, dance ridiculously to romantic songs and look irrationally hot. The atmosphere bloomed with moral, as everyone drank up and danced as if it were their last night. Afterall, who knows what another day in Communist Russia will bring.

When me and Grace stumbbled home we found this chap sleeping on the sofa....
Grace's brother, Alex, had come to Norwich especially for the occasion. He had returned home before us and was resting under a duvet next to the fire (aka: gas heater,) when we arrived back at 3.30am. Grace whipped up a rather delightful pasta dish in the kitchin whilst I fumbled about with spare duvets in the cupboard under the stairs in order to improve Alex's sleeping situation.... as he mumbled questions such as.. 'What, are you going to make me lie on the ironing board?'
We went to bed, full and slightly fearful that we had been born in the wrong time period and within the wrong political structure.

If I were a Guy.

A question raised by Grace has been stuck on my mind all day.
'If you were a guy, how would you dress.'

Well, Today, I would have worn a pair of skinny jeans tucked into motorcycle boots, with a plain T-shirt and plaid shirt over the top. Maybe a light jumper as well, a woolen scarf and if had been really cold a light denim or quilted jacket over the top.


As a general rule, Jeans would be long slung and skinny, a few slim pairs might sneak in to the wardrobe, and maybe one pair of quite baggy ones. There will be one pair of dark denim, one black, but the majority will be acid wash or very pale.


The bulk of my wardrobe would be made up of heavy knit jumpers and cardigans. Some vintage. Some new. They would be worn with one of the t-shirts from my vast collection, some would be new, some vintage, plain, printed, stripey. You name. I'd have it.


Shoes... high top trainers, converse, vans, motorcycle/ dr marten boots, periwinkles, lace up brogues. I tend to judge a guy on his shoes. Bad shoes is a deal breaker. No matter what. A man in good shoes will get you in trouble. Fact.

For formal occasions, things would be kept simple. I would take inspiration from 'The Beatles.'


My hair would be quite long. Always clean, wavy as is now and swishy, not particularly neat. I would have nice facial hair, which would be kept trim. I would always smell of clean laundry and soap. I would smoke roll-ups from time to time.



I like to think that I am quite a good authority on what guys should wear, given the amount of time I spend lurking in the menswear department at 'House of Fraser.' And, my personal belief that my taste in men is impeccable. 'Indie guys' rarely go too far wrong.


In Summary, an array of t-shirts. Heavy knits. Skinny Jeans. Good shoes.

Find of the Year.

After a lot of blog talk this afternoon with my housemates in this living room..
I have decided that I am going to post to this blog a lot more often. 



So, last week I took a trip back to family home in Luton. It was nice to go back to a warm house and have my parents cook for me and ride in nice cars, among with all the other pleasantries associated with the return home. The downside of the whole visit was me getting a cold.

Either way, no matter what the night did for my swine-cold, it doesn't matter. Because, thanks to the carelessness of a group of drug dealing pals, I picked up a real life £50 note.
The pals danced happily with their wads of fifties, when one escaped to land, almost like a delicate swan.. (albeit, one whose feathers were tarnished with the seedy grime and grit of the coke dealers pockets) onto the sticky floor of 'the Edge.' I swiftly handed the note over to Matt, who scurried away with it to check it's authenticity away from prying eyes.
[... I would like to mention...that the said note was lying on the floor looking incredibly lonely for a good 1minute and 5seconds before I summoned the courage to pick it up. I gave them a chance to reclaim it, and at this stage still suspected it to be a fake. I did not steal it...]

The night progressed with a joyous memento when Matt returned to rejoice in the news that the note was real. We celebrated with a dance to 'Read My Mind' and made our way to the chip shop, to change and split our findings. I was overcome with guilt when the 'happy pals' stopped to speak to me and Jade as we waited for the chaps outside the chip shop. They complimented our outfits and, my personal favourite pal, said that he liked my scarf and wanted to buy it off me. I was tempted to name a high price, knowing he may as well have had a gold brick tucked inside his coat pocket. Alas, I said it wasn't for sale, and they left. Earlier that night the same 'pal' had told me he liked my hair, and I returned the compliment. It was long with a fringe. He looked like a cross between a stoner from the 1970s and Hugh Fernly Whittingstall, it was cool. He had nice pointy shoes as well, not your stereotypical drug dealer. In hindsight, he and his pals, may have just preferred to deal with all their financial endeavours in cash. Instead of plastic debit cards, they choose to carry their 'current accounts' with them at all times. Their savings, tucked neatly into an old shoe box safely at home in the bottom of their wardrobes. Oh hell...maybe keeping it was a bad idea..


With that, and my cold.. I suppose that my karma is balanced again.