One Pampered Pooch.

And I'm not talking about Baz. Although I could be talking about Ashwin with that amount of time he spends on grooming himself. But of course I am talking about my absolute fave, ultimate babe Bhatia, Chester. Often referred to as many or all of the following nicknames:

Chez
Chessykins
Chessywessy
Chessywessywessy (reserved only for Geeta)
Chestaaahhh (when we are being posh gits in the park, this nickname is now used with caution)

However you will most frequently you will hear: 'Chessy off' - the most overused phrase in the Bhatia household. Used at least 10 times a minute when encouraging our little chap to not eat the Aga, to not eat the rug, to not eat the wall, to not eat shoes, to not hump his bed, to not hump his teddy (disturbing to Annie, hilarious to Ashwin). A pattern quite quickly has formed - he likes to eat, a true indication that he is indeed a Bhatia.

There had been an ongoing discussion (which inevitably has lead to many arguments) as to which dog to we would eventually get as our family pet. When we were younger we lived in an idyllic little cottage, that was of course far too small for two normal sized children and one chubby child. But it was beautiful and I loved it (we wont go into the dramatics that occurred when I was forced to leave, but I shall just say that I left with all the doorknobs in my rucksack - because according to an 8 year old this is how to stop people coming into your house). Next door to us there were two dogs: one was called Mini and she was a snooty little Shitzu that would have nothing to do with the village riff raff and spent all her time with her little nose in the air. The other dog was called Chelsea and he was the complete opposite - a big friendly labrador that loved us way more than his owners...because we fed him more. Every morning I would put bird feed out for all my little bird friends (shockingly I did actually have real friends too) and Chelsea would bound along and eat it. I would put bread out in the morning and Chelsea would bound along and eat it; BBB would come back from a boozy session at the Squash Club vom in the garden... and Chelsea would bound along and eat it.

Ashwin was constantly confused as to whether Chelsea was a horse or a dog and spent many hours trying to climb on his back to get a ride around the garden.

I imagine if I had the same affliction there would be little left to Chelsea, this springs to mind.

And so as much as we loved chelsea we decided that if were to have a dog it wouldn't be a labrador, because they love food too much and people would definitely judge us if we were the fat family with the fat dog. So in a (not so) clever twist we went for a golden retriever instead of a labrador - just as greedy, just as big, just more hair. Good one. But he is so beautiful and cuddly and lovely that who cares that he tries to eat everything - I have had the same issues since birth and look how good I turned out. 

I used to really dislike those people on facebook and instagram that constantly uploaded pictures of their pets. Didn't they have better things to fill their IG with like food and Ryan Gosling memes and inspirational Beyonce quotes?! (Obviously I think my IG is exemplary). But the truth is I am now an IG pet wanker too, and I can't stop. If I'm not liking pictures of pugs in fancy dress, I'm deciding which of my thousands of photos of Chester to upload that I haven't already. Help needed. Oh, just incase you hadn't seen them slapped on all social media feeds - here's just a few of my favourite. 

                               

He is in equal measures cute as he is naughty. People have said that pets are meant to fit in around your family, not in this house. It is all about Chester. There is a rota as to who must wake up at 6am to let him out to pee, there is a constant fight as to who is Chester's favourite (which despite Annie's efforts isn't determined on who gives him the most amount of treats), there is a battle to get BBB and Ashwin to pick up his hideous poos and there is a constant struggle to try and save any flowers in the garden. Chester well and truly rules the roost. 

But I wouldn't have him any other way. For more updates on Chester please check Insta DAILY. 

Fatty BB xxx

V Day Victory.

You think with optimism thank god January is over. My bank balance has survived buying Annie's birthday present ; dry January is complete (not that I really gave it much effort after 4 days I decided I desperately needed a glass of wine Ab Fab style); March is on the horizon as February isn't a real month which means Spring is pretty much here, which inevitably means...SUMMER. Alas I constantly am ahead of the seasonal game and already planning my weeks spent in the Umbrian hills eating pasta, drinking wine, gazing at a number of oiled up, toned and tanned Paolos Luigis and Giorgios and this day dream blissfully continues until 13th February. 

Of course I have ignored all the build up to Valentine's Day - it has never held any significance in my spinster life and so I walk around with anti V-day blinkers on, laughing at the poor fools spending a ridiculous amount of money on half dead rose that will be half price tomorrow. Until I was all too aware that it was the day of shout about your love! My usual routine of scrolling insta whilst brushing my teeth was definitely a mistake. Flowers upon flowers, upon love messages, love notes - essentially any kind of declaration of love. I can't even pull off the 'I was sick in my mouth' scenario because I'm not 13 and I can't do that anymore, so I will tell the truth I was thoroughly depressed. I daren't even go on facebook - I think if I had I would have crawled back into bed, called any of the girls and demanded they tell me for the next 45 minutes that they loved me. 

Instead I made a plan with Juliet to get completely and utterly shit faced in the evening. Feeling giddy about my plan I decided I was going to face the day and nothing was going to bring me down...all that single ladies/ independent woman/ girlssss in the ciittaaayyyy / feminism shite. Sorry girls - I mean it with love. Made it to work without encountering any over the top PDA couples on the tube, things were looking up. Entered Vogue House and the reception was positively bursting with blooms. Eurgh. Today was going to be LONG. 

Lonely Hearts Club 

I should note V day was also day one of London Fashion Week, and since this is what I had been working towards for the past 3 weeks it was going to be a day of paper cuts from invitations, running around the cupboard (its a big cupboard) like a crazy mofo and praying that I hadn't completely fucked up all my tasks. I'll cut that bit short for you -there was only a couple of minor cock ups, that in the grand scheme of things were no biggies and actually pat on the back to Julia and I (mostly Julia - she is a complete and utter organisation whizz sponsored endlessly by Saint Laurent). 

Then. Something miraculously happened. I GOT FLOWERS! (I didn't get the heart balloons...they were just for added effect.) 

Serena, our beautiful fashion executive gave them to me - granted they were definitely sent in for her and not for me, but still I most certainly was not going to refuse them. And whilst everyone definitely had an awkies 'we feel so sorry her moment' when I quite brightly declared 'It will look like someone loves me!' I was over the bloody moon. So, with all the bitterness I felt towards public love declaration day...I had become one of the smug wankers - and I kind of loved it. And whilst I still have a huge amount of hatred for Valentine's day, today I was going to completely revel in it.

At least that was the idea whilst bouncing along to the tube station flowers in hand. Until I started to feel hideously awkward and uncomfortable with the amount of stares I got. I mean I normally get a few looks ( come on LOOK AT ME). But I often put that down to humming Beyoncé day in day out on a packed Victoria Line, or making awkward smiles at people on the tube because god forbid you should actually acknowledge another human being - but these stares seemed to be on another page. Another 5 minutes into the journey and I was started to see a theme with the looks I was getting and I could categorise them into the following: 

1. The Obsessive/Spoilt Girlfriend
They already had a gorgeous bunch of flowers but they look at your bunch and then look at theirs again and back at yours. The ones that were most definitely judging whose are better. (Mine were ha-ha-ha). 

2. The Cynical/Bitter Girl.
Me 8 hours previously. There were a few girls that looked me up and down and were thinking 'Christ if she can get flowers, why the hell haven't I got any?!' For that exact attitude...haters. 

3. The Complimentary Girl. 
'Lucky girl' comment, followed by an awkward smile/silence from me. Oh if only you knew the truth. 

4. That Guy.
'SHIT I ONLY GOT HER ONE BLOODY ROSE!'

Finally the journey was over and actually I was rather glad for it, and the Lonely Hearts Club party was about to begin. It couldn't have been a more cliched evening if we had tried. M & S ready meals, a bottle of wine each and '50 Greatest Love Songs' on tv. Pity party was well and truly in full swing. 10pm we decided enough was enough. We had 30 minutes to get even more boozed, put on lashing of mascara, pucker up and head out. A great plan until armed with journey juice on the tube we had no idea where we were going or in fact what we were doing. So we went with the worst possible option and headed to Fezz.

The rest of the night (thankfully) was a bit of a blur, except my favourite part of the night when Juliet attempted a slut drop....and just dropped to the floor and didn't get back up again. Don't worry Jules, this happens to me on a weekly basis and amidst the meat market that was Fezz it was better to hide on the floor. 

Alas V day is over, and frankly now I miss the attention on the tube - obvs because I am the ultimate attention seeker. Instead I am completely ignored (much to my dismay), along with every other person on the tube. It's strange really the lengths that we go to on public transport to be invisible: ​

• The minute you're on the platform, headphones in. (Attempting not to be that person whose music you can still hear despite the use of headphone and scowl at them for the rest of the journey)
• Metro/Evening Standard right in front of your face, even down the escalator. Nothing screams 'stay out of my space' more. However is it really necessary to read it whilst walking to the tube platform, this just causes injury - mostly to yourselves.
• If you are unoccupied by either of the above of course you do not make conversation with anyone around you, even to the guy who's face is literally inches from yours. No,no instead you stare at the ground/ tube map/ weird adverts on the tube / anything other than human interaction. 

And so I will continue my non existence around London until I have flowers or Ryan Reynolds to parade around. 

Fatty BB xxx

An Homage to Habib.

It has been done, Habib has gone. I thought I would jump up and down (granted I really can't jump that high) in elation that I was finally rid of the most hideous car ever to grace the Bhatia drive. But in fact I actually was rather sad and on second thought I might even miss the jazziest of Jazz's. Well not that much.

I remember the day (not with a huge amount of fondness) when I was first introduce to Habib. I was being a complete and utter brat...shock. Baz and Geeta had decided to go away the weekend I was due back in Leeds and I was outraged - who at the beginning of term can get all their stuff on a train?! Considering last weekend I had the same size suitcase for one night as Annie did for 2 weeks in Thailand it is safe to say I am not a light packer. So I was up in arms that they were disappearing and anxiety began to set in when I thought I might miss Fresher's Fruity. So this all came out over dinner that I was now rideless and potentially fruityless. Inexplicably (or perhaps quit explicably) cutlery started to be banged on the table, cupboards were also banged and I was muttering profanities about BBB under my breath. I know, I know total brat behaviour - at least I am not in denial about it.

So after a good twenty minutes of ranting and raving that no one loved me and no one cared (I seriously needed a slap), the door bell rang and Baz asked me to get it. Obviously continuing brat behaviour I made some kind of sarky princess noise and quite rudely just ignored his request. The door bell rang again...one raised eyebrow from Baz and I decided that perhaps I should answer the door. Two people were at the door (I should mention that a lot of people come to the house to see Baz on work related matters and we generally scream at the top of our lungs 'Daaaaddddd someone here to see you' and leave them to it.) So following the usual etiquette I did exactly the same thing, left the two completely bewildered people in the hallway and retreated to sulk in the lounge. After a couple of minutes I was beckoned into the kitchen; in full brat mode I shouted back 'NO.' I was called again and replied in the same appalling manner. (Yes, you should be loathing me by now.) This time BBB came and physically got me from the lounge - I knew I was in trouble. I sat at the table in a big humph, crossed my arms and did my best impression of a Geeta frown. Until the following words were uttered from Baz: 'Now...I bought you a car'.

A huge big, fat slice of humble pie straight to the face. I have never wanted the ground to swalloe me up more. Not even when a pigeon shat on me in the school car park. (Hold on it gets way way worse).

After sheepishly agreeing that I would like to see it, and not quite believing the way I had behaved considering Baz had at the point of sulk already bought me the car. Head down I went out to the drive and there stood an absolute beauty. A black Golf GTI with blacked out windows. I was jumping up and down (on the inside) with glee. The kind gentleman who I thought had bought me this fab new car handed me over the key, and before I gave myself the opportunity to actually look at the fob, I pointed and pressed in the direction of the Golf. Then a faint click was heard but not from the direction I was hoping. I heard fits of giggles and as I turned around I was faced with this.

Habib. 

And so my adventures with Habib began. Habib found his name thanks to his fondest fan James Richardson who as soon as he found out that I had a hideous Honda, googled Asian named beginning with 'h'. Evidently he didn't get very far down the list before he was satisfied with Habib.

Despite deliberately sabotaging Habib on a weekly basis, I became actually rather fond of the granny mobile. And so when some vile creature smashed off my wing mirror - my first thought (and my housemates too) was what kind of person would defile a car of the elderly. 

It may not be the prettiest of cars, but as Baz frequently reminded me it was the safest car on the road - do you think he was trying to tell me something? I'm a good driver, I promise. Once I excepted Habib was much like myself, not the coolest car on the road or the most attractive and slightly confused as to whether it was trying to be a Mercedes A-Class, we learnt to love each other. I even shared him with others. We raced around Leeds in the snow and laughed at the all micros that got stuck in Headingley whilst we glided through; we could fit a lot of people in on a hangover trip to The Oak; I could actually fit (nearly) all my stuff in it when travelling to and from Leeds and most importantly the boot was big enough to hide all the new things I had bought from Geeta. And it was GREAT for roadtrips.

 On one occasion we journeyed to the corner of Scotland, Isle of Mull to be precise for New Years and with the coldest winter ever and the most amount of snow and ice, I decided LET'S DRIVE! I can't say I loved driving in the pitch black with no lights in the snow and ice whilst everyone else slept - thank god I had Celine's greatest hits to get me through. Finally we got to Edinburgh and it was time to switch the reigns I was handing over Habib to Rupert whilst I enjoyed the perks of a roomy 5 door....

Ha. Not what you thought was it. 

And then poor Habib was tortured. Rupert invented a 'game' of sorts on our way to Mull. Where he would rapidly eat a bag of cheesy doritos, turn around with a creepy look on his face and before we could figure out what he was doing lock the windows and let out the most heinous fart. There was no escape from either the stench or Rupert's cackle that followed. 

And whilst I am very much enjoying spending the money Habib has made me on new Carvela boots and stupidly priced gin (actually I'm not enjoying that part all all); I kind of miss him. However I'm sure I will get over it as soon as Baz buys me an Audi. (That's a plea BBB...I'm over the tubes I need a car...the brat is back). So I bid him a fond farewell, I hope we buy any car sent you to a good old home (literally). 

Stay tuned, I'm running out of Habib money so until Vogue pay me this will be my entertainment, and maybe some less expensive gin. 

Fatty BB xxx

Catch 22.

I hated the book. What an awful read - the lead character Yosarian - absolute fruit loop... but I guess that was the point. In case you never had English A-Level literature thrust upon you here is the briefest and probably totally wrong (since I never actually read the whole book) synopsis:

There is a man named Yosarian Geller. He is fighting as a pilot in World War II. He wants to get out of the war. The only way to leave the war is to prove that you are insane. If you are indeed insane you don't know it and you carry on fighting in the war because...you're insane. If you are insane you cannot prove that you are insane as you do not believe in your insanity - thus believing you are in fact sane and remaining in the war because actually you are insane. And indeed if you are sane you cannot pretend to be insane as this is too rational for an insane person, and hence the flaw in your sane plan. Essentially either way you aren't leaving the war. And so Catch 22 is born.

I have probably told that in a really non-sensical way - google it. Joseph Heller doesn't really throw much light onto the situation, I vote old spark notes to help you out.

The main problem with the book was that the way it is written is so non-chronological and random that I would fall asleep trying to understand the ramble. So when it came to trying to read some of it the next day I would have no idea what I had read, go back and read it again, fall asleep through boredom and still be non the wiser. Catch22 was quite literally taking over my life.

And so I find myself in a Yosarian situation once more - a lot less serious though.

I applied for a position at Brides magazine as fashion assistant after my stint at Vogue and was so happy when I was called down for an interview, and then another with the editor-in-chief. Alas it was not meant to be and I lost out to someone who had more bridal fashion experience.

I couldn't be mad, it was totally fair. As far as bridal fashion goes in my world,  I know only one thing: I don't want Wang. I want an Elie Saab or Marchesa dress - how very Indian bride of me.

However there is this annoying catch 22 with the world of fashion, you can't get experience unless you have experience and so the circle completes itself. And I am the first to admit I lack experience...I didn't do a fashion related degree (from St Martins), I can't draw (unless it a flower - I am GREAT at those), I didn't do Art at GCSE, I didn't do textiles further than year 9 and Geeta stitched all my projects that year as I just kept getting my finger caught in the machine and covering my tapestry bag with red blotches. I am not stylish (despite sometimes thinking that I am) I do not look like Gisele, I don't have razor sharp cheek bones (in fact I'm not even sure I have cheek bones) I am not edgy nor am I pedgy...(posh edgy), I am not cool, I don't shop at Farmer's markets (we're getting off track).

Waaayyyy too edgy. 

BUT I know my Acne from A.PC. I can spot a Chloe Susanna boots a mile off, I could sketch look 1-8 of Balmain SS14 if that was a questions on Cranium, Alexander Wang doesn't look old enough to be driving let alone heading up his own brand and Balenciaga. Dolce and Gabbana NAILED their AW13 campaign (I'm trying to recreate the look, to very little success - Geeta asked me whether I was deliberately trying to look fat.)

YES Dolce. (As if I just wrote that)

I can tell you with 100% certainty that Karl Lagerfeld does not like fat people, I hope we don't cross paths any time soon that could be awkies, and that Marc Jacob has seriously got a lot better with time. 

Oooof 

And most of all I know that Valentino is a GOD. Is this enough? No way. But is this the start? I hope so. Is it so much to ask for a column in a magazine?! Caitlin Moran if you're out there - hear my plea. Think of all the politically correct boxes that could be ticked if you hired me. 

Indian - check. 

Overweight (but shifting pounds) - check.  

Doesn't wear socks with sandals - CHECK. 

And so the hunt continues.... 

Fatty BB xxx

Life Skills.

We always used to have these career days at school where you would brainstorm what skills you possessed and how these would determine what career you entered into. There would be a discussion with Madame Lott as to whether you had management skills, people skills; whether you were good with technology, good at memorising lots of facts and figures; good at maths, good at foreign languages and what careers you would be suited to you based on these apparent skills. My meetings were always rather brief. In my humble opinion aged 15 do you really have that many skills? And if you have acquired much more accomplished skills than myself, do you really know, at 15, what you want to do for the rest of your life? On reflection of my pathetic teenage self this is as skilled as it got:

- Cross the quad without dropping any of my books in the puddles, if I walked extra slow.

- Apply eyeliner faultlessly on a Friday afternoon, after spending all week with panda eyes.

- Miss my bus after games on a Tuesday afternoon because I couldn't get my tights on quick enough.

- Sing school hymns exceptionally well for an Indian.

- Spray my french homework in perfume so that I would continue to be one of Mr. Tomlin's 'fave girlies'.

- Recite Mean Girls from start to finish.

Was there more to life at 15? 

Oh and my personal favourite - I was so skilled I managed to get shat on by a really fat pigeon in the school car park one morning. It was so great that it was in my hair all down my school jumper and I was stood right next to the boy I really fancied whilst he hysterically laughed. Does life get any more skilled than that? 

I managed to tame the fro a litte for this picture. Life skill? Hell Yes. 

One year we took a career aptitude test, the whole year sat in the main hall pining their hopes and dreams and on essentially a reasoning test. I like everyone else was adamant the results were going to determine my entire future. Two weeks later everyone was eagerly awaiting their results to brag about how they were going to become a scientist or a lawyer or win a Nobel Peace Prize. So when I finally got my mitts on my results, I was rather disappointed with my predicted future. 

Careers based on results: 

1) Florist 

2) Hotel Manager 

3) Social Worker

Not exactly what I had expected. Was I to suddenly know my hydrangeas from my hyacinths?

Because 8 years later I still don't know the difference - I thought Hyacinth was a faux posh ageing lady who was adamant about keeping up appearances...apparently not. BBB was also less than impressed when he found out that 10 years of private school equated to arranging flowers.  

Hotel manager was a little more exciting. When I was little (well I've never really been 'little' perhaps younger is more apt) I always wanted my own chain of hotels. They were to be called 'The Five Oceans' (evidently an 8 year old's rip off of the Four Seasons) and there were going to be themed suits according to what ocean you were in. Hawaiian luaus in the Pacific Suites with floral walls and coconut water on tap. New York/London themed rooms in the Atlantic Suites with a Big Ben bed and Statue of Liberty bath robes. Obviously Indian rooms for the Indian Ocean Suites...with Indian things in there. Then my creativity went blank or I simply couldn't remember the other oceans. 

Think I could have been on to a winner. Maybe I should give Richard Branson a call see whether he would be interested in investing millions into an eight year old's dream.

As the end of 2013 draws to a close I decided to have a re think of my life skills. Upon reflection not much has changed. I'm still clumsy, I still can't apply eyeliner, it is however at this time of year that I continually sing carols exceptionally well - O Holy Night still belted out the best. Some say drowning cats, others say enthusiastic, I say... next Celine Dion? I suppose a skill I have acquired/ honed is the ability to write self deprecating matter on a fortnightly (when I'm good) basis. 

To my complete surprise the blog has done much better than I ever anticipated. Whilst initially my only consistent reader was Geeta (when I literally forced her to read it) I have now amassed over 90,000 views. When I delved a little deeper to see where these views had come from, to my amusement the post with the most amount of views was 'How to Lose Weight Fast' - clearly people really do google everything. 20,000 views and all they would have found out about losing weight fast is what happened to me when I got the flu. Lol. 

In the way of careers it has gone a little like this: 

Aged 5-16: Doctor. Then I realised I didn't understand any of A-Level chemistry. Rings and chains - what even is that.  

Aged 16 - 18: Classicist. I was going to discover something exciting or find gold and be rich. 

Aged 18- 21: Lawyer. As soon as I got to Uni I didn't want to be the next Mary Beard this was just my new unique way of becoming a lawyer, obvs - total sense. It was going to be great, I had it all planned - Classics was going to make me a more well rounded (no pun intended) lawyer. Life was going to be great. 

Aged 21-22: Career Unknown. Law school is horrendous, law is horrendous, I hate my statute book and I hate my case law book even more. Soz Baz I don't want part of the family business. 

Aged 22-23: Teacher. Seemed a logical route given the above...

PRESENT MODERN DAY NOW: Writer. 

Who would have guessed. Well, not to brag or anything but I did once win the Literature Cup at Stoneygate when I didn't even read the book. I think I would be quite happy to do this forever. Basically I want to be Caitlin Moran, have my own column, get paid to waffle on about mindless shit; but maybe a tad less feminist because I would still like to drool over Ryan Gosling without being chastised for showing a woman's weakness. 

Will this happen with my particular set of life skills? Who knows. I'll guess I'll just have to give it a whirl. 

Fatty BB xxx

The Night I Partied With Nicole.

Scherzy won't reply to my messages about grabbing a quick maccy's now though...awks.

There is a policy for this blog: Ask no questions, and I will tell no lies. (Publicly - if you ask me in private I will happily disclose my dirty little secrets).

So, I managed to wangle an invite for myself and Alex to attend the Sushi Samba One Year Anniversary Party (at is at this point we adopt our policy). Now I wasn't exactly invited by name but I had a hard copy of the invite and enough courage from Alex to attempt to blag it on the door. Believing I was Billie Big Balls I told them I was essentially a big deal, and quite shockingly they believed me... up to the 38th floor of the Heron Tower we flew.

We made it! 

We were greeted with free flowing Verve, a lot of beautiful looking people, even more edgy looking people and a chortling Nick Grimshaw entertaining his cronies. We obviously got as close as possible and pretended to join in on their Harry Styles related joke.

Our motto for the evening consisted quite simply of: BE COOL. BE COOL. BE COOL. (Not something that comes all too naturally). Whilst we only sampled one piece of sushi each (these cool kids act like they've never seen food before, I wasn't about to be the fat kid that deprived them), we certainly sampled our fair share of the champers. It was after we had guzzled a few pints of the Verve that a very awkward situation occurred.

Being Cool. 

Alex had left me (probably to stalk Grimmy under the guise of having a pee) and this woman kept looking at me and smiling - granted I had made an effort for the occasion but not one that really warranted strangers smiling at me. So I smiled back and did an awkward little wave, that appeared to summon her over - very cool. Before I knew it she had walked over to me and engaged in a conversation that went a little like this:

Smiling Lady: I love your coat!
Billie: Thank you - it's my favourite!
Smiling Lady: It's mine.
Billie: *feeling a little confused and wondering whether she was going to steal it from me*          Ummmm...no I don't think so - it's mine.
Smiling Lady: No, no, no. I'm Alice Temperley - I designed that coat.
Twatface: Ohhhhhh. It's my favourite. (well done, well incoherent just repeat what you previously said)
Alice Temperley: Well it looks great on you (bbrrrppppp) Have a good night!

I finally managed to pick my jaw up form the floor and shout behind her to have a good night too. Just call me a smooth operator.

THE COAT. 

A few more (clearly unnecessary) glasses of Verve meant two things:
1) We had made friends with the bar tender who constantly topped up our glasses before anyone else's.
2) We should have a dance since Neneh Cherry and Grimmy were playing and were supposed to be really into them...because the invitation told us to be.

A revelation: Apparently cool kids don't dance, they just shuffle along the dance floor shmoosing and air kissing - I think this was our give away that we weren't part of that crowd...

Smashing it.

All of a sudden Alex stops mind grind and turns to me and says to me 'Look who is directly behind you!" I turned around and BOOM there was... Scherzy in all her cat suit glory. 'Be cool' went straight out of the window and 'I lost my shit' tookover. She is without a doubt the most beautiful person I have ever seen (text me baaacccckkk Scherzy!) Alex played it cool and didn't whip out the phone, I on the other hand decided with only 4% batt (I know I was having palpitations too) I wasn't wasting my time with anymore sushi selfies I was getting Scherzy.

     

More dancing, more drinking and more laughing ensued and before I knew it, it was time for Cinderella to leave to ball. We arrived downstairs at the same time as Mark Francis who seemed to be shouting 'Where the fuck is my car?!'... to nobody. Giggling like school girls who had just crashed the party of the fit boy two years above we were greeted by a gaggle of paparazzi who were about to take our picture before they released...we weren't anyone worth writing a shit piece about in DM Online.

The night ended in Liverpool station scoffing fast food and getting a stitch from laughing after realising we were both smashed and had to be up for work in less than 6 hours - that part was not chic.

The next day at work I was suitably smug when I was telling everyone about my new BFF Nicole, until I was brought down a peg by picking up dry cleaning. Oh real world - I have not missed you.

London adventures continue...

Fatty BB xxx

Living The London Life.

The London Life - much like the American Dream, but less realistic. 

The Dream: 

Residence: A town house in Fulham (all four floors are mine)

Boyfriend:  The elusive 'grounded City boy'

Animals: A pug named Spenny 

Clothes: A complete Net-A-Porter wardrobe 

Hobbies: Freelacing as an Asian Caitlin Moran

Hang outs: Private Member's Clubs, Liberty's and the occasional nibble at Sushi Samba.

The Reality 

Residence: A blow up bed in Kate and Juliet's gorgeous flat. (The excitement when they have both been away and I was able to commandeer their beds)

Boyfriend: An unhealthy relationship with Itsu during the day and Pinot at night. 

Animals: Harbouring a hideous cold and the remnants of a blazing temperature. 

Clothes: At present a pair of Uggs with a hole in and a scruffy Wildfox sweatshirt - oozing sex appeal. 

Hobbies: Tube perving on the hot guys, making awkward conversations with people in lifts because I can't handle the silence. 

Hang Outs: Well, it's Saturday night I'm sat on the sofa surrounded by snotty tissues, Jonathan Ross and James Blake's Retrograde on repeat, writing this. 

Did someone say Bridget Jones? Because I would definitely respond. 

Two weeks of Vogue and this is the result. If there was ever a sign that I wasn't made for the working world this would appear to be it. However I should probably tell the truth. I have a bad habit of thinking I can do it all with absolutely no consequences, burning the candle and all that shit. In my head I can do the early mornings, look spritely on the tube, do a full's day work (in not the easiest of industries), go out for a few drinks afterwards, come back spend an hour faffing, wash my hair, dry my hair, spend 45 minutes deciding what to wear in the morning and then do this all again on 5 hours sleep. Easy. If Fat Boy Slim could make this into a song - we're onto a winner. 

Well the reality has begun to sink in and I don't really like it so I think I'm going to continue living idealistically and just put this down to tube germs, I do catch the District Line after all. Two weeks down. Two to go. It is going far, far too quickly, I don't like it. I don't want to come home. I am home. Sorry BBB, I know you're missing your pal. 

Vogue in a word is...ridiculous. 

Day One: I work up extra early to prep and I felt literally sick to my stomach. I tried on about 8 different outfits before settling with the initial one - isn't that always the case? What a lot of hanging up to do afterwards. In hindsight I was perhaps not wise with my choice. 

The 'I'm shitting it' smile. Classic. 

Obviously on the first day there is a lot of hand shaking and a leather skirt with sweaty palms sliding down it...not ideal. I can't say that the first day went so smoothly there were a few hiccoughs, but if I ever want a job in fashion I definitely can't disclose them. Let's just say it takes a REALLY long time to go through 600 fashion shows with 40-80 looks per show. 

Day One definitely set the pace for the rest of the week, the other interns and myself took to predicting what stress level we would reach each day. Most days we naively predicted a steady 6/10 and by 6pm we would be at a 12/10. 

The following example solidifies the notion that people in fashion are crazy and ridiculous. So at 3pm I get a call from a designer in Paris saying a dress we were shooting that day needed to be in New York tomorrow - realistic then. Having spoken to the mail room I was told we had missed the cut off point and the earliest it would be there was Monday. I realyed this to Paris and was told this was not an option, greeaattt. I begged and pleaded with Fedex and they agreed to come and pick up (don't get too excited this did not go smoothly). The came and they left...without the box. Apparently you need a document declaring what exactly the dress was made from, because customs is suspicious of polyester and nylon. So a bit more begging and pleading and Fedex agree to collect again (don't get too excited this doesn't go smoothly either). The Fedex tosser decides that I take too long in the lift down to reception and doesn't fancy waiting all of 35 seconds and leaves. Another hour of begging and pleading with Fedex and by the time its 7pm all hope is lost, it's not getting to New York until Monday. First tears are shed. So I emailed Paris in the morning and told them of my Fedex dramas and that the dress had now been collected but wouldn't be there until Monday. Instantly there was a reply saying this was not ok as there would be no one be at the address on Monday and it had to be redirected to Paris. WHY, GOD WHY?! Of course when I called Fedex to recall the package they have no reference of the tracking number and it appeared the package was lost. Excellent. (The package is now in Paris and the lady is happy so I shan't bore you with any more fashion crises.)

Optimistic start of the Day. Delirious post Fedex selfie after I wiped away my tears. 

When week one was finally over Kate and I got so pissed we barely made it through dinner (well Kate didn't she fell asleep). 

Half price Prosecco. #guilty

Week two holds MANY more treats and a lot less tears, I promise. 

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. Want to know what being a fashion intern is like...check this out. It's hysterical. 

http://fashioninternproblems.tumblr.com/