Rewarding Coffee

I’m sitting in a Soho Starbucks, drinking a grande skinny latte and remembering the first coffee I actually enjoyed. I was 16 and in Romania, building a school for post-orphanage children and we had nothing. We ate stale bread and grapefruit and drank fizzy water (another taste I mastered on that trip) and black coffee with a LOT of sugar.

The likelihood is that I didn’t actually enjoy the coffee but its warmth and that sweetness of the sugar that took the edge off. Romania had some pretty miserable days when it rained and taking a coffee break was something we learned to love. It was comforting in a ‘we’re all in this together, let’s try to grow up’ way. It was also the only treat we had access to in the rural expanse of the village.

Needless to say, the caffeine was addictive and on returning to the UK, I drank more of it that ever. It was never very good though and as I gently adjusted to the comforts of home, I reverted back to tea. Now, I’ll never drink coffee at home but ALWAYS when I’m out. I think I still consider it a treat. Not that I drink it with sugar anymore or without milk but there’s something in its taste that reminds me of working hard for something important. It’s probably why I’m out of the house more and procrastinating less. And for that, it’ll receive my eternal thank-you.  

Defeated by the eBook

I’m beginning to think that the best way to get myself out there is self-publication. And with the ever-increasing news of independent bookshops going out of business and the fall of the printed novel being fuelled by the Internet and eBooks, it’s not a bad shout.

It’s a difficult one to submit to – writing for digital readers, rather than old school ones. That’s because I’ve never been a fan of the Kindle or cutting bookshelves out of the home. It worries me that our children will live in a white box and only interact through a remote control and the swipe of a finger.

That said, this New Year, whilst holidaying in Mozambique, I read so quickly that the Kindle of our new Marine friend seemed suddenly sensible. He got through five books, while I read two. He had more space in his suitcase while I weighed mine down with paper. Something I thought I’d never resent. In Afganistan, he told us, books are a rarity. Who’s going to want to lug them around when the Kindle can do that for you? They had enough to carry.

When I got home I looked at my beloved book collection and picked up the second in the Stieg Larsson trilogy. In rush hour, The Kindle got another point as I squashed myself onto the Central Line with a book that couldn’t get much bigger. I realised defeat.

Some people do like to read when they go to bed or in a comfy chair on a Sunday afternoon but I’m not really one of them. I read on the commute and a holiday just like most of the population and would probably do better to just buy a Kindle than keep filling my bookshelf. Whether I will or not is another matter but it’s suddenly becoming more apparent that the eBook is the future, either way. And if it’s going to be easier to get my work out there that way, then I guess that’s what I need to do. On my own. 

Out of Advertising

I think it’s fair to say that I’ve never been a fan of authority; the smugness of ‘the man’ as he tells you what you have to do, not to get fired/kicked out/arrested. And as I stepped out of full-time work in one of London's best advertising agencies, that feeling of freedom was surprisingly the last thing to hit. 

I did it because I wanted to work on my own stuff and was sick of the clients that battered your ideas down so far that they became unrecognisable and embarrassing to call your own. I did it because I worked out that maybe advertising was a load of bullshit that people did to make money instead of good work. I think the latter comment is actually unfair on some parts and that many agencies try to beat the client but time and time again, there are only a handful that succeed. It’s clear then where their loyalties lie. 

Raw creativity rarely gets seen and that’s why I felt it was time to follow my heart and turn my head to writing my own stuff. Two novels down the line and a film almost finished, the plan is to work as long and as hard as possible this summer to make just one of them a success. The dream was always to write and if I can do that on my own, writing what I want, for people that appreciate it, I'll never care about waking up. 

An Olympic Alternative?

OK, so it’s not often that we get to host the Olympics but is it really necessary to jump on every bandwagon it brings with it? Brands are doing it everywhere, from Weetabix changing their packaging to ‘Fuel Britannia’ and The National Lottery copying an age-old Hovis ad to the British flag popping up at every opportunity. There was even a TV spot last night that advertised the ‘Official Cereal Bar of the Olympics’.  What else will become ‘Official’? Toilet paper? Ironing Boards? High-Vis Jackets?

What might be more interesting is to watch is the backlash. I didn't win any tickets (although didn't apply for many) and although I’m interested to see what the games will bring in terms of culture and tourism, I live in East London and am slightly more concerned about how I’m going to get anywhere.

So who’s going to engage with us that way? 90% of the Londoners I’ve spoken to are hoping to escape the city for those two weeks, which must create a huge opportunity for the brands involved. Or should I say, those not involved? What if they gave us an alternative; a way to step back from the overly patriotic standard that’s been set since the Royal Wedding? An opportunity to take a breather from London life, that is persistent in its determination to ware out its dwellers. I, for one, would welcome it. 

Fashion for the field

As Mother Nature begins to tease us with a hint of sunshine poking through her perpetually lifeless trees, a tribe of seasonally affected festival followers have turned out their winter savings for the summer’s promise of life under canvas and musical venture.

But as recent years have shown, the festival season isn’t purely about the music or fresh air anymore. The accompanying fashion trends have taken hold of fields, parks and beaches around the world with an effortless nod to the Godmothers of easy-chic, Kate Moss and Sienna Miller.

It’s their attitude towards the trends that makes their style work so well – fashion almost becomes an afterthought to the practicalities that they first take into account. And summer 2010 is looking like another hot year for trends that are combined so gracefully with the awkward confinement of wellies and waterproofs.

‘Underwear as outerwear’ will continue encouraging trendsetters to flaunt a bit of skin, and with the delicate silks and sheer fabrics seen at Donna Karen and Michael Kors, dreams of the stifling heat needn’t be hampered with perspiration nightmares. Predictably following this trend, hemlines have crept higher than ever with the return of hot pants, boy shorts and looser fitting tap pants. While the same assortment of soft, feminine fabrics have crept into these styles, denim is still a viable option for those festivalites wanting a more practical garment.

In fact, denim will be back with full vigour this summer. Whether it’s ripped, patched or doubled up, there’s never been a better time to experiment with those 90s favourites that you never had the heart to throw away. After all, where would rock and roll be without the iconic trend that saw a whole generation pull on their Levis and let their hair down? This summer is harnessing that young, carefree attitude once again with the frivolous scatterings of faded patchwork. And the best bit is, the more home-made it looks, the better its style-credentials.

Three days without access to a shower or full-length mirror will play havoc with anyone’s ability to appear fresh and free-spirited. But this summer, hair accessories will be the perfect distraction from the unruly, unkempt tresses that will adorn campsites the world over. Exaggerated bows, bunny ears and feathers will be the only way to keep your hair looking neat this season, and – whilst dry shampoo will continue to provide a more ‘just-washed’ feeling – this year is all about the up-do. Aim for a quirky cross between vintage and ‘girl-next-door’, with attention grabbing proportions and a palette of sugar sweet shades.

Ultimately, however, festival fashion is what you make of it. It’s the perfect opportunity to step outside your comfort zone and experiment with styles you’d never look twice at on a day-to-day basis. This season there are trends that will make you giggle, shake your head and smile for all the right reasons, which – after all said and done – is the perfect accessory to any outfit.

Models on the border line

There were no words of rejection I hadn’t heard by the time I left the modeling industry. I was forever “two inches too small”, or “half an inch too wide”, which is why – as a plus-sized size ten – nothing ever added up. I’ve never fully understood the logic, as – while the hanger-like proportions of runway models are consistently scrutinized for their ‘unhealthy’ body image, and the boom of the plus-size industry is fuelling constant debate on the principles of fashion – the girls with the healthiest figures are being completely ignored.

Is ‘The Perfect Ten’ still something we strive for, or must we now go either way? I for one – who eats a balanced diet and exercises regularly – think that sacrificing my health for a quick buck is probably the reason I ended up behind the lens. But the industry is awash with girls that are, right now, weighing up the options between slimming down to compete with the super-waifs, or fattening up for a cereal campaign that only casts clinically overweight girls.

It’s hardly the image of perfection we’re led to believe. Part of me even wonders if this new fuss over the plus-size market is really just an extension of the way political correctness is heading. Are designers trying to prove a point by hiring bigger girls? Is it because they strongly oppose the size-zero? Or is it because the press will be living on their doorstep for the following few weeks if they do?

It baffles me that the initiative hasn’t yet been taken to launch an agency that specifically represents the girls from the in-between. It’s all well and good wanting to appeal to the masses by showing how clothes can look across the spectrum, but wouldn’t it make sense to find a happy medium? That way at least, people can strive for a healthy weight without conforming to the extremes that we’ve grown so used to.

Lara Stone is a prime example of how successfully this can be done. When she erupted onto the scene with her unique features and hint of curvature, industry professionals were bending over backwards to be at her side. Obviously, her looks are outstanding, and it’s not often that someone with such magnetism comes along, but is that because they’re not given the chance? The industry advises that measurements of 35-25-35 are the maximum that would be considered in fashion. Therefore Gwyneth Paltrow, Paris Hilton and Angelina Jolie would all be bypassed if they were unknowns, trying to launch a modeling career.

When it’s put like that, it’s difficult to imagine how designers can expect to find their muse. Isn’t that what they strive for in their models? Clearly there are plenty of beautiful girls out there that fit the ideal size requirements, but surely there are tricks being missed. There are probably hundreds of Angelina’s or Lara’s that aren’t being given a second look right now, purely because of their waist to hip ratio. And that’s the saddest thing. Despite all the hype about casting or not casting plus-size girls, they still fit into a category that has closed itself off. I’m just looking forward to the day that it will be OK again to wear a decent size ten.

The Rabbit in the Moon

“Just there. On its side. Almost upside down.” Chris spoke with playful irritation as I stared intently into the glowing mass. I couldn’t believe how redundant my eyes had been for almost 16 years as I squinted them tighter – rotating my head in adolescent frustration.

The stale air that hung outside the Centro de Placement felt hot against my hungry, sun-kissed skin, and the more I tried to see with his eyes, the more I felt them prying deeper into me. I dared not look.

I’d never seen the moon like that before. Never really studied it like I had the faces of my closest friends; the family that were slowly building around me. Instead it had always acted as a superfluous entity – the kind of accessory that you’d only ever notice when someone pointed it out.

And that’s exactly what Chris did. He showed me beauty in the things I’d forever taken for granted – the way that fields of sunflowers rose with the sun, following its steady journey before bowing west at twilight. His manner of explaining things, with such softly spoken prose, made my hopeless heart reach out to him in a way that I never imagined it could. And it hurt. Unbearably so.

Our nightly exchanges became a welcome release from the daily despondency of the orphanage. We’d watch carers unpack shoeboxes, only to share them out amongst themselves. We’d witness fully-grown men running naked across the courtyard when sunlight glittered through the trees. We’d mother the helpless babies of Ceausescu’s aftermath, when what we really needed was mothering, ourselves.

I grew used to it after a while – the melancholy lifestyle. Or maybe it was the contradiction I was offered after dark that became so familiar. Either way, Chris became a vital distraction – providing the guilty gratification that my reticent nature could never admit to.

Some nights, the bitter taste of vodka would burn at our throats. Its simple luxury was easier to come by than clean water itself, and the effects it offered were always eagerly welcomed. It lifted our spirits, and moved our thoughts back to where they should be – quietly reminding us of the fortunate hand we’d been dealt. Other evenings we’d watch thunderstorms in the distance, willing them to move closer, to dance underneath their powerful downpour. The night I remember the most, however, was when he showed me the rabbit in the moon.

“I see it.” The shrill excitement that ran through my undernourished body filled me with the most heartfelt of triumphs. I was so intent on pleasing him. As I turned my face to meet his, the glare from the dully-lit kitchen cast shadows over his gently ageing face, highlighting the fear in his eyes as he stared back at me with such shameful admiration. His thoughts were almost visible as my fickle frigidity teased him once again.

“I was beginning to think you were blind!” He broke the silence with the same lighthearted tone that I’d grown so fond of, before reaching for his glass. I looked away to light a cigarette; its soft, heady fumes calming the butterflies as I held my breath, feeling the smoke travel through each cavity in my body, before I slowly exhaled.

When I was 15, it never struck me that I was still young enough to enjoy the pleasures of youth. I acted up in conversation, and read tabloids to keep up with current affairs – all in the effort to present myself as a lady. Not a girl. It took three weeks – probably less – for Chris to show me that age wasn’t about numbers. Our souls were brought together in the most heartbreaking of circumstances, purely because of the relationship we’d previously held.

The awkward confinement he offered as my teacher disappeared every night we spent on that ramshackle terrace. Instead, he liberated my thoughts by encouraging them to wander in their own direction; helping me gain a new appreciation for the world around me. I quietly welcomed his principles on what actually mattered – and finally realised that life was more than what scientists and historians had to say. We were there for a reason, and while we didn’t know what that reason was, I found a lot of comfort in imagining.

It’s been eight years since that summer, and I’ll often forget the wounded smiles of the children in care. I’ll often forget the mural on the staircase – the one that turned the sky into land, and the land into sea. I’ll even forget Chris. But one thing that draws me back there – sometimes when I’m least expecting it – is when the sky lights up with each full moon, and the rabbit looks down in sweet reminiscence of the furtive secrets it held that summer.