Early Bird Catches The Worm..

...But the night owl writes blogs at 1am, and gets the last bit of brownie.

I have never been a morning person, there is absolutely no fight in me in the morning to get up and go, I just love sleep too much. Every night I calculate exactly how much sleep I am going to get,  anything less than 7 and I'm furious with the morning already. I am lucky that it takes me a matter of seconds to fall asleep, and that I have to ability to sleep anywhere (only topped by Kate who can even fall asleep at dinner).  Car, train, tube, the fashion cupboard, the stock shelves at my old job...it's a blessing and a curse.

Annie and I  used to have to catch the bus at 7:15am to get to school, because we conveniently went to a school 15 miles away.  Every morning Annie (the good child) would be downstairs, dressed, looking smart and polished at 6:50am. Breakfast, Hang Time and 10 minutes of pacing up and down the kitchen in a panic that I would make her miss the bus would ensue. I thought that was a complete waste of time so I would stumble down the stairs half dressed looking pretty bleary eyed desperately seeking my shoes I had so carlessly kicked off the night before. I would be greeted with a: 'For god's sake Billie we are going to miss the bus!' a pieces of toast thrust into my hand and pushed into the car. We would always make the bus (because Geeta was a bad ass) and I would wearily make my way to the back and fall straight back to sleep. 10 minutes before we arrived at school I would get a thump to the arm - signalling I needed to tame my fro before I was to be seen coming off the bus with my clearly WAY cooler sister. Come 4pm I was in my element, full of beans and bouncing but not a minute before.

Sometimes I envy those morning people. The ones taking fresh-faced selfies at the gym at 6am and instagramming pics of their poached eggs and avacado for breakfast whilst I struggle to get my legs to work at 9am.  Hitting them slightly manically as I walk up the hill to the tubepleading with the buggers to please wake up and work.  (It's really just a 200m very gentle incline but 'hill' sounded more effective).

How I feel about mornings...




Geeta - a morning person. Baz, Annie (post 16), Billie and Ashwin - night olws. I get super excited to go back to Leicester mainly I can wind Annie up all weekend by making Chester follow me around the house instead of her, and declaring that I am his favourite. But forget having a lie in.

8:30am you awakened by the sound of the dishwasher being (deliberately) unloaded extra loud, plates clattering across the kitchen and the cries of Chester sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for someone to come and play with him, because he really is the most spoilt animal in the world.

9:00am and it's the bellow of 'Annie, Billie, Ashwin....time to get up!' At which point Geeta is completely ignored. We all rollover (Baz included, he's the worst) and try to dismiss the cupboard banging coming from the kitchen.

9:30am and Geeta goes to the one thing guaranteed to stir some movement from us all 'BREEEAAAKKKKFFFAAASSSSTTTT!' Done, we're down. Essentially food...the only way to get the Bhatias into action.

To me morning people are the matcha tea drinking, organic-raw-vegan-superfood eating, do-trialathons-for-shits-and-gigs kind of people. I have basically just described half of the ELLE team. The people whose instagram is a beautifully curated page of vegetables and juices and pictures of their #SundayFunday 284739k run. I hugely admire and despise these people in equal measure.

The world has gone superfood mad and it's you early birds I blame for it all. What happened to just eating fruit? Why does it have to be pulverised to be good for you now? What if I want to drink water that is not at room temperature infused with cucumber and lemon? What if I just want ice cold water? Or what if I eat a salad that is not sprinkled in bee pollen? Or snack on a plain old carrot for Sainsbury's - not a £4 raw, organic, superfood, common cold curing Whole Foods carrot. A carrot is still a carrot you perky morning people. Now pass the hummus.

The kind of shiz morning people make time to do:




I am a night owl through and through. My hours of genius fall between 4pm - midnight. I am much more suited to a European lifestyle - someone tell BBB I need to be relocated to Lake Como asap. I bet they don't put fucking bee pollen on their pasta. Night owls are more fun than their early birdy counterparts: we can watch more Netflix episodes, stay awake late enough to warrant midnight snacks and are always ready for a night out. Plus who wants to catch a worm when they can have the last piece of brownie because everyone else is asleep?

So whilst all you morning pigeons have called it quits for the day, us owlies are doing this:



Realistically though this is what we are doing...



I thought living with early birds might help me in the transition to having more productive mornings, but not so surprisingly it hasn't. Kate and Juliet used to leave the house before I even woke up, and whilst I totally love belting out Whitney in the shower with no one to disturb me I wondered what life would be like as an early bird. So when Cat my new housemate and fellow ELLE cadet joined the Richmond Retreat I decided to give early birding a go. For 2 whole weeks we got into work an hour early, made lunches and had it not been fashion month there would have been more than a 1% chance of us leaving on time. I enjoyed it but the novelty of being the first in to pick my desk is wearing off. I pick sleep, late nights, and midnight writing snacks (I'm lying to you, I'm not writing I'm watching Netflix).

Either way I have decided I don't want the worm, I'm happy with the brownie or more likely in our house: mini cheddar.  The only person I will change my nighttime stripes for is Gosling and since he's lost my number. I will not be insta-bullied into a life of early bird organic raw veg, and when I live in Como with George you will all be wishing you were more owl.

Until then...another episode of House awaits.

Fatty BB xxx

The Glastonbury Guide

In case you missed it on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Air Mail...I went to Glastonbury AND survived. As like everything else in my life this post is late. I can't help it, no really I can't. I am late to everything. But now thanks to Glastonbury I have a valid reason for this - wait for it.

Lesson number one: Glastonbury is BIG

So when I told BBB I was going to Glasto he totally lolled in my face. More than lolled, he howled - a slap the table, eye watering kind of laugh. I will admit it, I am a 5* all-luxuries-included kind of gal, but when the going get's tough....pack enough Crème de la Mer miniatures and pretend you're at The Ritz right?

My first experience of camping came when I went on a road trip across America, and we decided that we would camp in Arizona. When conversation turned to 'just pitch up a tent on the side of the highway' I thought best to intervene and explain that if I was going to camp I had to be eased into the process - that meant running water and flushing toilets AT LEAST. Funnily enough half an hour later we stumbled upon a camp site with all of the above, plus electricity, a swimming pool, hot tub and a whole gang of winnebago families offering us bacon sandwiches. It was like I had planned it or something...

When we were discussing Glasto plans I immediately suggested Camp Kerla which was the Jo Malone of glamping but (devastatingly) weighing in it £10,000 for 5 days, the Hermes dream was still winning. Instead we went with Worthy View where your tent is already set up (which we aptly named 'Drunk In Love') and that was about all we knew about Worthy View. That was until I got an email a couple of weeks before the festival started that read a little like this...

Worthy View Campsite Location:

Worthy View Campsite is at the South of Glastonbury Festival site, situated above the Stone Circle Field. It is approx. 250m up the (steep) hill from Pennard Hill Gate and we recommend it is not suitable for wheelchairs or children’s pushchairs. Please come prepared for the fact the gradient of the foot path is STEEP.

Two mentions of the word 'steep' and one capitalised. Fucking capitalised. I feared that the Glasto climb was going to be way, way worse than Moraira Mountain. I envisaged riding on a sledge down to the Stone Circle and painfully crying with my ski poles as I navigated my way back up. I called Geeta and almost vommed at the thought. 

As the time came closer to Glasto I started to have a minor melt down: What to wear? What to pack? How to pack? How was I going to survive 5 days without a shower? Can I fit an airbed in the tent? Will I make it into Kanye's posse? How am I going to get up the mother fucking hill?! I dragged Geeta to the supermarket and bought all the necessities I could think of: 3 litres of vodka, 6 packets of baby wipes and really gave myself a pat on the back for remembering a torch.

The night before we kicked off to Glasto the packing commenced. Of course everyone else had done their packing miles in advance and I was the idiot trying to cram four pairs of wellies into my backpack at 2am. Despite googling packing hacks to ensure that I could squeeze in all 5 floral headbands without crushing them, I decided the only solution was to sack off one pair of wellies and substitute them for my Timberlands (to complete my gangster outfit in anticipation of Kanye). Finally after half an hour of agonising over which red lipstick to take I decided to get a fucking grip, tip them all into my bag and try and get some sleep.

5am came far too quickly and as predicted I was the last one to have my shit together and stumble into the car. 3 hours (napping) later we arrived at Worthy View. Not a single shred of traffic in sight - 1st Glasto win. Unloaded the car and and traipsed all of 5 minutes to our campsite  - 2nd Glasto win. There were even people equipped with wheelbarrows to help you carry your booze to your tent - 3rd Glasto win. And finally our 'Drunk In Love' (which was actually 'Drunken Love' aka the Slut Tent' looked like this...

Drunken Love. 

And so the adventure began. I managed it up and down the hill sans ski poles and with only one near tumble, a couple of close heart attacks, three strops and a few tears.  I wore almost all the wellies I had packed, I walked for actual miles - basically came back with legs like Gisele. I didn't get tangled in all my fringing, I made it through Kanye without being thrown to the floor, I nailed my 14 year old dance routine to Mary J Blige and I managed to stomach Malibu for breakfast every day.

Things to note for next year:

• Worthy view has actual proper portaloos - this is worth the climb every day.
• Worthy view has showers, again - I will gladly pound that mountain for a quick douche.
• 6 packs of wet wipes and 3 packs of make up wipes is excessive.
• Wear more colour. Black is good for hiding my dribbled rum and coke but doesn't quite have the festival fashion nod.
• Cheesy chips, as good as they might be, are a real hinderance when trying to dance like Beyoncé right after consuming. 
• Any kind of food is a legitimate breakfast food. 
• Don't be afraid of the mud, in fact jump in a puddle every now and then to really look like you have immersed yourself in the experience. 
• Do not wear flannel shirts in intense heat. 
• Similarly do not wear flannel shirt in intense rain with no coat - the wringing out process is laborious. 
• WATER. Drink water. Interspersed with Malibu, obvs.
• Do not do laughing yoga on a full bladder
• Do not get your palms read for fear they will tell you that your spirit animal is a tortoise and NOT an elephant as previously presumed for 25 years. Such palm-reader might also tell you you are slow at life, you are a chocoholic and that you are a keen gardener. There was no mention of Gosling, my prince charming and a happily ever after - he didn't get me at all. 

Laterz G-Bury. 

Glasto 2016, I'm ready for ya.

Fatty BB xxx

The Big Reveal...

...I'm moving to New York to live the Sex And The City Dream. Joke.

...I found Fitz from Scandal and it was mutual love at first Presidential sight. Joke. 

...I make dolllaaarrrr. Joke. 

...I'm totally into raw, vegan, Matcha tea kinda food now. Major joke. 

I'm stopping the fake reveal now because it's depressing me. The big reveal is that I have written a piece for July issue of ELLE. 

It doesn't sound so great now that I have thrown Fitz into the mix. It's also probably not a big reveal for many of you as I have hyperventilated this news to you over the phone and made you promise you will buy a copy. If only there was a self-promote emoji, me and Nick Grimshaw would own that. When this article writing information is entered into the grand scheme of world-defining-moments it is probably pretty insignificant. In fact as I was told last weekend my job is in fact completely obsolete. That boy was NOT allowed to share my tequila. He can go back to saving the world (he is a marine so I will give him that) and I can go back to making 'Romantic Gothic' themed mood boards, and trying to explain how much I want to be a Chloé girl this season and a Givenchy girl next season to Kate and Juliet. 

So it transpired that our Deputy Editor read my blog and thought I was pretty lols, so she asked me to write a piece for the magazine. Seeing as I can really only write about myself (because it's all about me, right?) that was the basis for the piece. 2000 words, a couple of edits, some VERY probing questions and a hideously awkward photo shoot later it is ready for the world to see. 

I had always dreamt of being published, but I also dreamt of being a professional squash player and that dream tanked. So I wasn't holding this one up on a pedestal. And when I mean I dreamt of being published, I mean I convinced Baz I was going to be the next J K Rowling. But when I realised all my ideas were essentially her ideas that dream tanked too. So when this opportunity came around I couldn't quite believe it. No, really I couldn't. I kept asking 'Are you sure?' 'Yeah but are you sure sure?' Clearly wanted to show off my eloquent grammar. 

As the news spread questions like 'Are you a writer?' were asked.  Cue pug face and totally mature response like: 'whhhaaattttt. I'm not even a grown up, don't ask such silly questions.' Just for visual reference... 

Bitch, please. 

I genuinely believed my writing career peaked in Year 8 when I won the Literature Award for the book I didn't even read. Smashed it. Who actually read those books about the girl that had a moth that followed her around and had NOTHING to do with Northern Lights? Or maybe my literary peak was my very first piece of published work, when I was 6 and I won a poetry competition (I didn't have many friends) for my poem entitled 'Conkers'. 

The literary career certainly took a nose dive in GCSEs when I was too busy trying out all of MAC's brightest eyeshadows to read Silas Marner. And even if I did make up for it in the final exam I was essentially doomed for any kind of Nobel Literary Prize when I was predicted a B for my A-Levels. If you have met Baz you know a B is as good as a F. In fact my English teacher had so much faith in my ability that when it came to A-Level results day and I told him that I had superseded his prediction and miraculously got full marks, he told me there must have been some mistake at the examining board. I checked, there wasn't. 

Having had my dream of studing English at University dashed thanks to that tarnished B prediction (and thinking Latin was a good backup plan) I took matters into my own hands. I would charge my housemates dinners in exchange for me proof reading/rewriting their essays. Waitrose dinners got extra attention and semi colons. I mean I also translated Latin into English and had to comment on texts that were in a dead language that no one speaks/understands/knows anything other than Caecilius est in horto, but that's as good as an English degree right? 

So here we are 58 blog posts and a 4 page spread later. I still don't think that makes me a writer. I think that makes me lucky...and hugely self indulgent. Either way the 6 year old 'Conkers' writer is ridiculoulsy excited and the B predictee is shitting it. 

So please all do me a favour: buy the July issue of ELLE (out Thursday), quickly whip over the page of my bulging thighs and (hopefully) enjoy. 

(Holding my breath until Thursday) Fatty BB xxx

#BeMoreRebel

I have become that person that has dedicated their life to a box set. I count down the hours at work not because I am bored or because I don't want to be there, but because it is eating in my time that could be spent watching Scandal: agonising over the aching love story between Olivia and Fitz, lusting over her array of Prada bags and most importantly taking note on how to become the next Directory of CIA, President's Chief of Staff or a crisis fixer. My lack of Green Card is the only hinderance I can think of for any of these positions.

I blame Annie for all the above. This is her revenge for Gossip Girl, I'm convinced...or I could be so sucked into Scandal I am now coming up with my own conspiracy theories. I have even started talking like Olivia, I command people to do things in a fast paced kind of way and then end it with either 'handle it' or 'it's handled'. And right this very minute I have just been added to this whatsapp group...(honestly this was not planned)

The Scandal struggle is real. 

But I have decided, having watched 2 season in under 2 weeks, I need to step away from Congress and the Constitution of the United States, maybe focus on a real life election or even better, make this Bank Holiday slightly productive by writing this.

Aside from the obvious addiction the reason I have not written in so long is that once again the fashion world has taken over my life. I'm sensing that this take over doesn't ever really end. It was Fashion week - which is actually 4 weeks, in 4 different cities. Each one needs organising and each one there is a different set of people that needs organising and because fashion is a cruel mistress they very kindly leave 12 hours in between each city.

I become a monster during this time. I wake up in cold sweats in the middle of the night thinking 'shit, shit shit did I organise that meeting? Did I book that car? Did I request that ticket?' I am that wanker on the tube in the morning that despite how full it is and that someone's nose might very well be  touching mine, I will still be talking on the phone. I walk into people down Carnnaby Street because I can't peel my eyes away from my emails. I live off Popcorn, Popchips and anything else pretending to be low carb but when you consume entire boxes, which I inevitably do, it just becomes mass carbs. There is no time to think about what to wear so every day is a funeral procession of all black (also good for hiding the stains of the porridge I have dribbled down myself when trying to eat my breakfast on the move).

But this time it wasn't only London Fashion Week that was on the brain, it was also the ELLE Style Awards. The closing party to London Fashion Week and also the night before half the team were due to fly to Milan for the next leg of shows. No pressure. The question on everyone's lips during fashion week wasn't 'What shows are you seeing?' 'Did you get a Burberry ticket?' 'Have you spotted Anna yet?' No. It was 'What are you wearing to the Style Awards?' As previously discussed when it comes to dressing for awards ceremonies I do not do well. I didn't have the head space to think about what I was wearing until the night before the party. So whilst everyone else had called in a killer dress, I was once again left with the dilemma of which ASOS dress has not seen the light of day in a while.

The day of the Style Awards came and it was a military operation of hair, make up, nails, outfit change for all of the team as we all had a job to do -  mine was chief instagrammer. So to my absolute delight I was to be positioned on the red carpet to snap the night away - the dream. What was even more dreamy was when I found out who was coming - Taylor Swift, Rebel Wilson, Jennifer Saunders, Sam Smith the list went on. So instead of focussing on shows my mind shifted to solving the more imminent problem of how was I going to make them all have selfies with me?

And Rebel was at the top of the list. Ever since Fat Amy burst onto my screen and Pitch Perfect and became a staple Friday night viewing I wanted to meet her. But if I ever did what would I say? What would I do? Play it cool and pretend like it wasn't a big deal? Or completely fan girl out -  hyperventilate and profess my undying love for mermaid dancing and horizontal running.

My moment came. I could hear the paparazzi next to me shouting her name and my colleague Emma who was interviewing her was mouthing 'breathe' to me before I 100% lost my shit. She came over and I froze, I couldn't move,  I couldn't say anything I was completely star struck. Then Emma - the wonder woman that she is - seeing that I might pass out, turned to Rebel and said 'Would you like to meet Billie she's a big fan'. My muted bubble was burst and I introduced myself, we exchanged compliments on our dresses and then she asked me...'Do you want to get a photo?'

Twins? 

I was bounding off the walls so much so I didn't even notice the brownies everyone was handing around (I made up for that later). I was jut shoving my phone in anyone's face that would look. My night was made even better when I was told that (after some hardcore grovelling) I was allowed to go on set for the cover shoot with Rebel the next day. If you haven't seen the cover...you should pay more attention to my instagram game.

I arrived just in time for lunch (obvs) and when I opened the door Rebel was stood on the other side of the studio and she waved at me. SHE WAVED AT ME. SHE REMEMBERED ME. I didn't get too involved on the shoot, I was too busy eyeing up the pavlova. I strategically sat myself down where the only obvious place for Rebel to sit was next to me. We talked over lunch like gal pals. We chatted about her house that she's building, what she has been doing in London and most importantly about how after meeting Jennifer Saunders at the Style Awards they are going to do a film together, and in the end we both agreed I would be part of this venture too.

When I finally read the cover interview in this month's mag (total plug, go buy it now) my love for Rebel was cemented. She is brilliant. Clever, witty, funny and her siblings are called Riot, Liberty and Annarchi - enough said. What I did learn from her is this: her size is not a hinderance to her, nor is it even an issue, because right now she is the best at her game and the way she looks has absolutely nothing to do with it. She has inspired me to #BeMoreRebel, to maybe step away from the box sets for a while and basically...crush it. I won't become the President by sitting on my arse.

Here's to you, Rebel.

Fatty BB xxx

FashON. FashOFF.

When people find out I work in the fashion industry I am usually greeted with a (very poorly hidden) shocked reaction. Fat and in fashion? This cannot be so. But unfashionable and in fashion... scaré bleu.

When I was younger I was probably the least fashionable person, ever. Aged 4 I was frequently mistaken for a boy - it could have had something to do with the afro like hair cut or the hand-me-down rugby shirts. A lot of it had to do with the fact I didn't fit into any of the Disney princess dresses. A young wart hog some may say (well, Baz may say...proudly).

Aged 12 it wasn't much better. The age of Bootleg shoes. The only cool-like school shoes because they had a heel, but best of all you got a pencil case whenever you bought a pair from Clarks -just to boast on your desk that you had a pair of Bootlegs. Of course I didn't have a pair of Bootlegs. There was no way I was squashing my square, fat, little, hobbit feet into a pair. No, I had the pleasure of velcro grandma shoes from Ecco. Mother fucking Ecco. Comfortable and sensible the words every 12 year old craves. Throw in a budding monobrow and a Per Una skirt for non uniform day and you had the least fashionable 12 year old.

Aged 15 I was really hoping for a transformation and make up was going to be the solution to all the tom boys years. That was going to be the tool to the new me. Forget the naps on the bus every morning to school, instead I was going to perfect the feline flick, the ruby red lip and the lashings of mascara. I had seen Annie do it for years how hard could it be to copy? Hard. My first outing to MAC to get myself the tools of the trade I came back with an eyeshadow called 'Electric Eel' - think bright blue, but brighter. In hindsight a subtle shade would have been an easier introduction. Carefully applied to my ENTIRE eyelid and underneath just to be extra sure everyone saw it my bold eye was complete. C'est chic, non?

Aged 17...it was about bloody time, right? Nope. Outfit of choice for a night out: wide leg linen trousers. Not even joking. To make it even better - paired with a wide tan belt that did as much for my figure as the wide leg linen trousers. I won't divulge on the crotchet bolero jacket the image is frightening enough.

Sponsored by middle aged M&S shoppers

Aged 18. I'll spare you the guessing game, I still didn't have my shit together. University is where people experiment with their clothing so the fact I wore cowboy boots with EVERYTHING is totally fine. Sequin dress with brown cowboy boots. Tshirt dress with brown cowboy boots. Leggings with brown cowboys boots. It seems the only thing I didn't wear where with my cowboy boot was blue jeans, probably because that would have actually looked ok.

These boots weren't made for outings. 

Or the classic pink bra under see through tops...classay.

Look different coloured cowboy boots 

Pink bra don't care. 

The more concerning part is that very little has changed since 4 - apart from the pink bras they have gone. The time came for me to finally up the fashion stakes when I was a very last minute addition for the British Fashion Awards. For those who do not frequent Daily Mail (what do you spend your mornings doing?) the BFAs are the Oscars of Fashion.

I was told at 2pm I was going to the BFAs.The event started at 7pm. There was no time to go home. At that precise moment in time I had greasy hair, very little make up on, ripped jeans and trainers. Basically only something Miley Cyrus would wear on the red carpet and get canned for it. Heart palpitations, a panic attack and mega sweats ensued. The previous 'what do I wear?' battles in my head didn't have a patch on this, I was actually near tears.  I don't think I said anything to anyone for the next hour aside from 'what am I going to do?' 'What am I going to wear? 'How do I shed 4 stones is 5 hours?!'

I was calmed down and a plan was formulated and went a bit like this:

• Get a motorbike courier to my house and pray that Juliet can find me something to wear, but more importantly that she can find a pair of tights that aren't ripped/laddered. 
• Ring around everywhere and book an emergency blow dry (this was the most difficult task) 
• Try and get my make up done 
• Do my actual work 
• Don't cry 
• Practice walking in a straight line so I don't humiliate myself later 
• Don't eat (I caved on that one and had half an avacado...so fash) 
• Don't what ever you do....fuck up. 

And whilst all of this was going on I had to find something to wear (aside from partially laddered tights). Juliet was sending options but they were not options that I wanted to wear. Ordinarily if you work in fashion, you are a sample size and then it's a piece of cake. You ask to borrow a dress. If you are not sample size then life gets a little more tricky. If that's not an incentive to get to sample size I don't know what it...the Dolce dream Billie, remember the Dolce dream. As soon as I have got there and worn the Dolce dream, then I can revert to ice-cream for breakfast lunch and dinner. Until then it's just ice cream for breakfast.

Bianca Balti...that's the Dolce dream. 

The time came and I was inadequately suited and booted, and of course true to form entirely unfashionable. As predicted Kendall Jenner did not bat one single eye lid at what I was wearing nor did anyone else for that matter. BUT at the after party Hilary Alexander (google her) not only sang a range of songs from Oliver Twist to me and David Gandy, but also said I had great style. Holy moly. Of course I immediately text Geeta telling her I had made it and was totally cool now. To which the reply was go to bed it's 1am on a Monday night. It is perhaps fair to say that Hilary had had one or two glasses of champers, but that was not going to rain on my unfashionable parade. 

So instead of striving to fit the fashionable mould Hilary and I have both agreed it's best to stick to what I know best: dress other people and certainly not myself. 

Victims line up. 

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. If you think the make up got better after the disaster of the blue eyeshadow...think again. Although this time I blame the blusher on alcohol.

Welcome to the Real World.

Not the MTV version.

I think I have been living in a little bubble – ok fine larger than normal sized bubble. One that has sheltered me from this phantom 'real world' and all it's...realness. The reason I haven't blogged in such a long time is because my beautiful little bubble has been burst, BIG TIME. This is not necessarily a bad thing, I just thought when I would finally enter the big bad real world I would have my shit together maybe a little more (a lot more) than I actually do. When I think back to what I wanted to achieve by the time I was 24 (speaking from my 9 year old self) I can't say I have crossed much off the list. 

When I was 9, 24 seemed a very long time away and people that were 24 were OLD. Like really old. I had envisaged being a hugely successful 'something' (poignant, I know.) I hadn’t decided which of the conventional Asian routes to follow yet doctor/lawyer/dentist the possibilities were endless. Air hostess was ruled out when I realised rolling down the aisle wasn't an option. But anyway by 24 life would have completed sorted itself out: I wouldn’t be far off marriage, I would have a great job, being living in London and going to the Natural History Museum every weekend (my 9 year old self anticipated I would still be really into dinosaurs). How wrong I was. 

From that list – I have ticked one box. One. But that’s ok because I’m only 24 right?! And living in London is definitely the only attainable thing on that list. 

Moving on from my lack of really achieving anything. I am now at ELLE. (Woo.YEAH.) Which is the reason this has taken so long to post, it's real work. Whoever said fashion was all Champagne, glamorous parties and free clothes that don’t fit me were 95% lying. It's actually really hard, this is blog is supposed to be persuading BBB that I actually work hard now. If I had actually worked this hard at Law School I could have been quite good at it, oh well live and learn.

I have protested for quite some time that I am not made for the working world, but I may just have found the industry that suits me. We don't officially start until 10am, which means I don't have to get up until 8am, macaroons/cakes/treats are sent to the office daily, I get to play with clothes and shoes and bags that I can't ever afford.

After a couple of weeks I was asked to interview Rosie Huntington-Whitely. I think maybe ELLE were under the impression that I had actually interviewed someone before. I hadn't. I mean my cross examination as to who had the last chocolate hobnob is pretty impressive but a real life interview with a real life supermodel was terrifying. I accepted the challenge and proceeded to call Geeta and squeal down the phone that I was doing an interview, Baz was less impressed he asked why I couldn’t interview Jason Statham instead – because he wanted some fitness tips…

The day came and I put on my best black on black on black chic outfit. Baring in mind it was July this was already a huge fail. Sweaty to meet the glowing goddess was less than ideal. So I arrived 20 minutes before my allocated time like a keeno and was offered some Prosecco (told you the Champers was a lie), I refused thinking keep a straight head and straight face and I might be able to say some words in the correct order. Howeevvvvverrrr. The guy who was serving the Prosecco was really, really hot so I was swayed. We got chatting and it turns out he owned his own cookie company at which point I had convinced myself I had definitely met my soul mate. Obviously realising that I was visibly shaking and taking pity on the only non sample size girl in the room he ditched the tray and whizzed me round the side of the room to neck a large glass of fake champagne with me - he was quite literally the dream. Newly found strength in alcohol I let my mind wander to the best and worst case scenarios from this interview:

Worst case: I forget how to speak or I forget to press record on my dictaphone, or she refuses to speak to me or I ask her about Jason Statham and why she pouts so much in Transformers – ‘is there really time for pouting and lip gloss when the world is on the brink of destruction?’

Best case: We became bessies and then I flew all around the world with her drinking Champagne and partying and become the new Hilton/Richie combo, but with less convictions and sex tapes. Through this now budding friendship she would introduce me Olivier Rousteing – he would dress me in Balmain. I would be his new muse, replacing Kimmy K. Who then realizes she needs to befriend me and boom I’m a Kardashian.

Before anymore Kardashian dreaming was allowed, time was up. So I finally met her, and she was absolutely lovely. I remembered my questions, I remembered to turn on my voice recorder, I remembered to breathe - all was good. Then it came the photo time. Everyone in front of me had had their picture taken with her, but why would you do that?! Why would you stand yourself next to one of the most beautifully breathtaking women in the world?! Je ne comprends pas. So I picked up my phone ready just to get a shot of her for my article and then the PR jumped in, snatched the phone away and pretty much pushed me into her. Excellent. 

So here it is... my face smiling so much I look like a smushball. 

Obvs this was instagrammed and facebooked instantly. 

And so the real world continues comprised of fashion weeks, little sleep, and more Leon wraps than I care to admit. I think I might love it.

Fatty BB xxx

Living The London Life: Part 2

The last time I documented living the London life I was a struggling impoverished intern…6 months later I am a struggling, impoverished intern (who on occasion gets paid). A lot has happened over the past 6 months I have been back to Vogue to do the international shows, I have interned at Vogue India, I have interned at Harper's Bazaar and I am currently back at Vogue HQ writing this and dropping quinoa all over my desk (and getting paid to do it…woohoo, living the dream). 

As far as living the ultimate, brit-cool, Nick Grimshawesque London life - I think I am still falling very, very short. Harry Styles is not my bessie (and completely off topic neither is Emma Stone and we would be such good bessies), I don't eat at Berner's Tavern every night and I don't have a membership to any private member's clubs.

Up your game BBB

Current Residence: Hounslow West. Which I fondly refer to as the ghetto, with in fact very little fondness. Despite being only 8 miles away from Chiswick it's like being in a different country, I have come to the conclusion that it's not quite the place for me.

You might think that I am being a snob (which I am) but there are also a number of pointers which have lead me to this conclusion: 

1. A bus driver spat in my face -which kind of backfired due to the glass in between us and verbally abused me when I asked to get off the bus at a designated bus stop. Obviously being a total whimp I burst into tears and called Baz. 

2. A drunk man got on the bus, shouted at some already pretty angry looking kids, the kids then decided to kick the bus door down and the three year old sitting next to me threw himself into my lap, pulled my hair and cried. All the while the lovely drunk was screaming in my ear 'Hounslow is my land.' (Dude, totally not standing in your way…it's yours.) 

3. After lunch at Pierre Koffman's restaurant a day of perusing Harrods for my birthday, I came back to Hounslow to find that the area around the tube cordoned off due to a stabbing. 

4. There is no Starbucks in sight and my addiction to skinny caramel coffee frappuccinos is not waning.

5. It takes me an hour and a half to get into work. AN A HOUR A HALF EACH WAY - That totals at least 4 episodes of Suits that could have been watched. And whilst I sleep most of the time, whether it be standing or sitting (I have mastered both), by the time I get to Green Park to change my contacts have gotten so dry I look like I am winking at every passer by whilst I try and re-jiggle my sight.

And if that doesn't quantify a reason to not live so far away, the the result of the Tube strikes definitely cements my decision to move closer to the city. My attempt to get into work was a joke. I walked to the station (a good 20 minute Billie paced plod) and got on a bus to Hammersmith - promising. The bus then took 2 hours to travel all of 4 miles, during which I had a man sat next to me who constantly poked me and woke me from my tube strike induced sleep to ask me how far away from Oxford Circus we were. This is just a glimpse as to how irritating he was... 

Suddenly the bus driver decides he doesn't want to go any further and makes everyone get off on the Gunnersbry flyover, helpful. We all peter off and luckily another bus follows...which reads 'Out Of Service'. As does the next bus...as does next bus. Pretty pissed off by this point (due to hunger setting in), I marched to Gunnersbry station to see that the station was closed. Out of options I decided to play my damsel (Princess Fiona) in distress card and called my aunty to come and rescue me (unfortunately all good looking knights on handsome steads were trapped at Finsbury Park.) So I made myself comfortable in a B and Q car park, after being kicked out for just sitting on the garden furniture. 

An hour later still no sign of my saviour, and hunger is on the prowl. As are the builders who keep staring at the random girl dolled up perched on a curb - classsayyy. Girls if you are ever in need of an ego boost, head to your local handyman shop, whilst you will be offered 'nuts and bolts' of a different variety its definitely a lol. (Just not for 2 hours). 

I have found that London has changed me, I have become a bit meaner. If there is me and another person standing in front of a newly vacant seat on the tube I now take it without any guilty feeling of not offering it to the other person. I only do this if I have been on the tube longer, I am not that callous. Before I would always give it up out of politeness, but then I soon realised no one was doing that for me - it's dog eat dog on the Piccadilly line. I even shouted at someone the other day for standing in the middle of the steps at Oxford Circus tube station (I mean really). However my attempts at being a cold hearted London hustler were thwarted when I turned around to throw him a stink and he was completely and utterly gorgeous, so instead of following through with the stink eye I was overcome with a pathetical girly giggle. Way to stand your ground Bills. 

I guess it's not all bad though. I get gorgeous home cooking every night, a hilarious Aunt and Uncle and I'm in bed and watching Suits by 10pm. Regretting giving up Law if they all look like Harvey by 10.07pm.

So whilst the residence isn't quite living up to the London life is there is light to the end of perpetual strugglings (I really need to ease up on the dramatics, but I simply can't). Come September not only will I be a permanent London tosser I will be a Chiswick resident (again). Hallelujah praise the independent shop, organic veg, too many patisseries on one street gods - mama's coming home. 

Prepare for a house warming party of crudités, champagne and a huge selection of cheese. It's going to be hugely (un)civilsed - especially when the replacement pringles, cava and babybells come out to play. 

Gotta dash - curry's ready. 

Fatty BB xxx