Genuinely one of the loveliest things we have seen this year.
We can’t knit for toffee, but there’s a very high possibility that we might start covering everything we own in crochet.
Not going to lie to you. It might happen.

It looks spiky, but it’s not, because it’s like a leaf, see – it just looks jaggedy – but it’s probably really soft, because it’s expensive and quite pretty. And it’s called Eve, because she was the first woman and she lived in a garden (leaves! trees!) and she ate a bad apple. We get it. It won’t hurt you. It’s a shoe. Not a snake.

Wedges are for cool people.
Wedges with a bit of wedge missing are for cool people who know how to Mega Balance.

“Dennis you hot MOTHER!!
Put me on your face and WEAR ME!!!”

Dear God, If I can’t be Danish in my next life, please just make me rich enough that I don’t have to fly Ryan Air.

We’re swapping cigarettes and coffee for Vibskov and fisk.

If I can’t take a young Dane for a lover, I’ll take Celine for a mistress instead

No champagne button, no deal.

Press it.

You should probably know that we only wear jewellery that reflects our state of mind.

Today, for example, you should be wary of our unpredictable edges and extreme highs and lows.

Currently channeling Melanie Griffith by day and Jennifer Beals by night.

Someone told us that genuine Pearly Kings and Queens get free pie and mash for life. We think this is a cultural stereotype. They clearly prefer ice cream.

Never underestimate us.

Horrockses Fashions: Off the peg style in the ’40s and ’50s , is on at the Fashion and Textile Museum in London until October 2010.  While we’ll maintain that we’re more Joan than Betty, we’re not adverse to admiring a good circle skirt and all-over floral print. These are clothes to mix Martinis in.

The Alice Neel retrospective opened at the Whitechapel Gallery in London today. If you don’t know her work, read her story - it involves multiple penises and the Communist Party.

Wedge Slags Love

So we read The Alchemist (a bit) and had some issues with The Witch of Portobello (a lot), but when Mon Oncle is showing at the beautifully, crumbly, sun-damaged Cinema Rif  in Tangier, on the very day we roll up, parched and hungry – mere days after blogging about it – we think we believe in some kind of destiny…we’re not sure what kind…but still…

No Talitha Getty, no opium, no kaftans, no sex parties, and most certainly no Karl. But still the most beautiful fall in Marrakesh.

We were turned onto Jacques Tati’s film, Mon Oncle, for the first time today. We think we’ve finally found the house that fulfills all our modernist fantasies – if there’s anywhere you can eat lemon soup and wear white, it’s here.

And don’t even get us started on the woman in red.
Massive accessory envy.

We want to live like this.

MMM20

Monday: Lunch with Karl – I can’t finish all my lemon soup so we share, and talk about the best way to kill an Eskimo. I don’t need carbs when I’m with Karl.

Tuesday: Madame Bruni calls – always got trouble with the garçon that one. I tell her what I tell all my girls – get some Dior, write some folk songs and chill the eff out.

Wednesday:  I call in to Le Marais, and drink Remy Martin at La Perle and smoke at least neuf Gauloises before I realise I have to rush off for a fitting on Avenue Montaigne. Monsieur Galliano hates me to be late.

Thursday: Life is fabulous and exhausting today. I wear three new dresses and change my shoes twice. I smoke cigarettes on the terrace of the George V and drink aperitifs with Pierre and Jean-Luc. I dance at Le Baron, kiss pretty garçons and all before midnight. Jean-Luc wants to take me home…it’s so soon…and then I ask myself, what would Karl do in this situation?

Friday: Jean-Luc leaves before dawn and a day of pleasantness and relaxation ensues. I drink eau mineral and think only nice thoughts; Sonia Rykiel stripes, Le Tour Eiffel, new shoes and pain aux raisins. Later, I skip through the flea market at Vanves, cigarette in-hand, buying pretty embroideries and swathes of toile de jouy.

Saturday: I wake early and take petit dejeuner on the bank of the river – trois Gauloises, and a café noir. I wear a beret and a book and my black dress with the black bow and I channel Chanel.

Sunday:  A morning spent brushing the cat is a morning well spent. Afternoon tea is spent at Laduree where Karl and I eat only lilac food. Jean-Luc calls, twice, but I decline to answer. This girl is busy.

Jesus was too busy to see us, we watched men in speedos shop for groceries and we drank champagne at the copacabana palace. Then it was time to go home.

How to make the perfect Caipirinha

* 1 lime cut in quarters
* sugar to taste
* 6 tablespoons of Cachaca
* crushed ice
* ipanema beach

As birthday presents go, we’ll take an evening in with The Grinder any day. Anyone for a Dirty Martini?

due to relocation year 2 is all about the girl guide. more details soon.

love byov.

Just chillin with Fat Cheeks.

Fishing for our supper with the sun in our hair; talking to the horses with mud between our toes; sitting on the porch with a cat on our lap, and a cat at our feet, and a cat at the window; nursing a gin; winning at poker; dancing in wellys; painting our nails; carving our names; reading a book; baking a pie; sewing a quilt; passing the time. (byov disclaimer: this is not a poem, so don’t act like it is) www.vanishingcatskills.us

A bag for the return of the simple days; when all you need is a biro in your pocket, the sun on your back and a spring in your step. And £1,250 in the bank.

The Grace Jones diet:
*Red wine
*Sushi
*Oysters