They don't love you like I love you

Neglect. Unashamed, absolute neglect of this blog. Oh babes. 

I am but one exam away from complete liberty and the rest of my little life.  Perhaps then, after a couple of months of hibernation under piles of paper, forests' worth of notes and mind maps further to extreme social exclusion I will regain some of what I lost. Namely some serious colour to my ghost like skin tone and some smiley happy people. The first ripples of happiness and freedom have already passed through Bristol students, with others scowling on in jealousy. Yes we know you couldn't be happier to be free of the shackles of education, but doesn't mean we necessarily want it blasted it in our faces...

Bitter. Me? Never.

Made some superb purchases of late. Whilst others got their kicks from slave labour in the library, burning energy in the gym or cleaning the house repeatedly, I find myself drawn to obscene amounts of online winning ( I WIN the items). Much to the dismay of my housemates who continually greet the postman with withering looks, as he hands over yet another clunky package of goods for a certain MJ. Favourite purchases ( to be papped and posted soon) a tropical playsuit, some suede caged heels and a glitter lipstick.

On to the last, and then onto many many more adventures overseas.

Norma Jean

Or Miss Monroe. Whatever you call the blonde bombshell would you recognise her with red locks?

From her beautifully sculpted eyebrows to the perfect red hue of her lipstick, Marilyn embodies all that is glamourous, feminine, beautiful from the 1950s.

I've been absent from blogosphere for sometime, bit of a meltdown, something I'm sure Norma Jean could relate to. Rather than hit the bottle, I hit the books. Memory theory, French crusades and a tongue in cheek view of the prude Englishman. A girl's day is never done.

What a babe.

Food for thought

Layering up for a winter by the sea

Plaited hair and plaited summer dress

Flowers and bicycles in Amsterdam, travelling in style.

Banging beards and mighty moustaches

I am a great fan of facial hair…on men. Be it a little rough stubble adorning a strong jaw line, a full-blown rusty beard or a handle bar moustache taking pride of place on a face.

 Facial hair + man = smiles all round

Long gone are the days when beards were equated with yetis, gorillas or even Tom Hanks in Castaway, today all forms or facial hair are heralded as being fashion forward. With men experimenting more and more with their styling and beauty regimes it comes as no surprise that focus has also been extended to the facial hair. How men manage to tame, trim and tousle bewilders me, but style them they do. You need only wander along any tube and on show is a plethora of facial hair types, my personal favourites are the Dali-esque moustache and some super chunky 90s rock sideburns. Both very different, but both emanating an originality that is just a step further than vintage shopping.

Cave men first sported the looks way back when cave woman could rival them in the facial hair category, today, thanks to the lovely lads of GQ, Vice and Dazed magazines facial hair for guys is once again ‘cool’.  It seems as though there is a style to suit every modern man, with the help of charity movements such as Movember and trendsetters of the world, other young men are taking more risks than ever with their facial hair. Thank-you Brad Pitt’s micro dreadlock beard, Jake Gyllenhaal’s rough bristles and Models 1’s white whiskered David Gant.

Some critique facial hair as it signals a certain kind of personality – unkempt, messy and chaotic, but isn’t it this wildness what attracts us to them? Is there not something very animalistic within all of us that longs for the graze of a beard against out soft cheeks?

Leotard

I have learnt that Scrabble + Milka chocolate + my housemates is not always a great combination. Please visualise us trying to create longer words than "dog" or "say". Dark times at Sunningdale. It seems as though extreme sugar intake makes it harder to concentrate, never is this more clear than when Filo inhales some Milka. Bye bye chocolate, and hello single child syndrome.  Crashing around the table, shaking up the Scrabble letters and generally making a lot of noise, Filo does it all. As a child Filo liked to perform for her parents' friends, much to the dismay of her mother. And so was penned the phrase "put on your leotard" to describe anyone who just loves to perform.

I love leotards,unitards, jumpsuits - you name the onesie and I'll wear it. So ideal for perfectly fitting outfits, I'm surprised it took so long for leotards to become a fashion staple again.

The tale of my red hair

Once upon a time there was a girl called Melanie. From the age of twelve Melbo knew deep down that she was destined for far more than just the mousy brown hair her parents had bestowed upon her. She decided to make a change.

I took a deep breath and reached for Ariel's luscious locks.

Here the adventures continue, follow my gingerlocks and I on a journey dotted by frocks, fabrics and fun.