How does one know what compliment to shun as masochistic jargon and which to devour favourably without thought of ones future health like an obese gentlemen gobbling down a heart stopping cheeseburger?
During my years at the Roskilde Music Festival the felicitation of my appearance that stuck with me with the most exuberant consistency was a Danish lad saying: "I love your legs!" loudly and considerably out of the blue. The best compliments usually do erupt out of thin bluish air towards the incidentally transient bypasser I sometimes have the honour of being. I have also had the pleasure of a 50 year old man approaching me and saying: "Don't take this as a sexual advance, I am happily married with children of all ages, but you are one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen." These are the things that keep you going; the impromptu greetings of a flattering nature. I try to reciprocate or "do to others what you want done to you" as best I can, but sadly it is usually construed as poorly covered sarcasm or a sexual advance, which it usually is not. My sexual advances are mostly drunken, blurred stutters concerning the infinite beauty I see in the person I want to undress and doink. And sadly, it usually works...
All "compliments" are however not meant as compliments as such, but moreover an ill-conceived mating call: "Hey sexy," "nice"(I heard that one whilst running towards the tram today), "You got some booty on you giiiirl" (heard that one said in the US after gaining 12 kg by some lovely black gentlemen) I believe they know there is no chance of coitus just by saying these things and that the reasoning behind these blurbs of masochistic loveliness is that they see inconceivable beauty and must instantly acknowledge its presence or it will disappear forever!
Hare Krishna my lovelies
Siren (I'm really getting the hang of writing shorter posts!)
Viser innlegg med etiketten beauty. Vis alle innlegg
Viser innlegg med etiketten beauty. Vis alle innlegg
tirsdag 21. april 2009
lørdag 4. april 2009
London adventure
I have fallen profoundly in love with London, or more specifically Camden Town! A lot happens in a week and since I had at least a bottle of Jesus-juice every day, I can’t recollect every second of my trip. I can however humorously take you on a trip through a London that maxed out my credit card, forces me to hide from my land lord until I can scrape together some dosh and made me fall in love with many a man ludicrously similar to me (narcissism is a fickle lover, surpasses gender and embarrassing likeness)
I stayed in a wonderfully rustic “hotel” called The Camden Lock Hotel right next to a shockingly loud music club called BarFly. It looked exiting, but sadly I never set foot in it. A thing to know about living in Camden lock is that if you ever want to sleep, don’t live there… I however, did not want to sleep and therefore the hotel was perfect for me and my equally insane, drunkard friend Maria.
I did some shopping research for our trip. Research might be pushing it a bit; all I did was browse my fashion guru Susie Bubbles blog: http://www.stylebubble.co.uk/style_bubble/
My hearts desire was met both emotionally and shoppingly by Berty and Gerty Vintage (http://www.bertyandgerty.co.uk/cart.php) where I dribbled over agonisingly beautiful vintage stuff many a time; the second day I came there the preposterously attractive Australian merchant recognised me from the day before. I instantly fell in love with him and therefore blushed, stammered and lost all grasp of the English language in his presence. Still I bought a pair of black gentlemen’s shoes, a huge (fake) fur coal and Native American inspired belt.
I fell in love with many other nameless individuals in Camden Lock. A man with the facial hair of Eugene Hütz, every good-looking Britpop-grunger in tight jeans, a funny little man in a shoe shop and Scar in The Lion King (the musical).
This shop was only a small part of the wondrous universe of the Camden Lock markets where I laid down a Paris Hilton’esq amount of money on jewellery, T-shirts, artwork and general knickknack. I especially love my toy car ring and playmo broche!
We found a day to meander about Oxford Street. We did however not meander; we came up from the underground, found Top Shop to be a divine four floor haven of fashion. As we picked every intriguing garment in the shop, a lovely Top Shop lady came up to us and gave us access to the VIP section dressing rooms with a lounge, personal assistance, no queuing and a check out counter only used by the VIPs. I even overheard an annoying lady taking incessantly about her “friend” Kate (I assume she meant Moss) and about their children and how happy they where that they could now dress their fashionable kids in Top Shop outfits. Deep in the pit of my soul I suspect this lady used the celebrity name to get out of the exasperation of public dressing rooms and endless queues, but all she really needed to do was talk loudly in a foreign language, be about 5’10, slender and look a bit trendy.
One mind-boggling self-esteem enhancing occurrence happened while promenading Camden Lock where a man stopped me on the busy street and told me about this book he was writing about London or people in London and asked if he could take my picture to use in his book. I really had to struggle as not to bulge out in a Singing in the Rain spectacle with this new-found acclaim of my style. “We need a good background” he said charmingly like any ageing photographer/author would. He placed me in the middle of a car-riddled street while reassuring me that he would watch for cars. How one watches for cars while peering through a camera lens I have yet to comprehend, but I survived. The pictures didn’t come out great inasmuch as the evil Njord constantly blew the hair across my face and my pasty skin colouring being exactly as the colour of wall in the background. But I still choose to see it as a testimony to my stylishness even though a very similar outfit only ensued stares and giggles in Norway.
I also have a dating tip for Camden Town (if one enjoys immense amounts of attention): wear a cool hat. It gives people an excuse to strike up a conversation.
And don’t talk to men from York. They seem to massively dislike London and everything foreign, possibly except Scandinavian girls half their age…
We met many an intriguing character while in London. To my despair some of them where French; since my friend speaks French I spent most of the time they where around confused and attention deprived. So I spent my time talking to a flamboyantly gay Brit who must have beet intrigued my mannish apparel that evening seeing as how he came on to me.
I wish I could give you more of a Lonely Planet introduction to Camden Lock, but I cant for the life of me remember the names of the places we shopped and drank at.
BarTok is the Camden bar that has the longest drinking time (3am). Gerty and Berty Vintage and Stables market are by fare the best places to shop, and Oxford Street is the place to shop in the posh shops.
Go to London and love it like I do!
Hare Krishna
Siren
I stayed in a wonderfully rustic “hotel” called The Camden Lock Hotel right next to a shockingly loud music club called BarFly. It looked exiting, but sadly I never set foot in it. A thing to know about living in Camden lock is that if you ever want to sleep, don’t live there… I however, did not want to sleep and therefore the hotel was perfect for me and my equally insane, drunkard friend Maria.
I did some shopping research for our trip. Research might be pushing it a bit; all I did was browse my fashion guru Susie Bubbles blog: http://www.stylebubble.co.uk/style_bubble/
My hearts desire was met both emotionally and shoppingly by Berty and Gerty Vintage (http://www.bertyandgerty.co.uk/cart.php) where I dribbled over agonisingly beautiful vintage stuff many a time; the second day I came there the preposterously attractive Australian merchant recognised me from the day before. I instantly fell in love with him and therefore blushed, stammered and lost all grasp of the English language in his presence. Still I bought a pair of black gentlemen’s shoes, a huge (fake) fur coal and Native American inspired belt.
I fell in love with many other nameless individuals in Camden Lock. A man with the facial hair of Eugene Hütz, every good-looking Britpop-grunger in tight jeans, a funny little man in a shoe shop and Scar in The Lion King (the musical).
This shop was only a small part of the wondrous universe of the Camden Lock markets where I laid down a Paris Hilton’esq amount of money on jewellery, T-shirts, artwork and general knickknack. I especially love my toy car ring and playmo broche!
We found a day to meander about Oxford Street. We did however not meander; we came up from the underground, found Top Shop to be a divine four floor haven of fashion. As we picked every intriguing garment in the shop, a lovely Top Shop lady came up to us and gave us access to the VIP section dressing rooms with a lounge, personal assistance, no queuing and a check out counter only used by the VIPs. I even overheard an annoying lady taking incessantly about her “friend” Kate (I assume she meant Moss) and about their children and how happy they where that they could now dress their fashionable kids in Top Shop outfits. Deep in the pit of my soul I suspect this lady used the celebrity name to get out of the exasperation of public dressing rooms and endless queues, but all she really needed to do was talk loudly in a foreign language, be about 5’10, slender and look a bit trendy.
One mind-boggling self-esteem enhancing occurrence happened while promenading Camden Lock where a man stopped me on the busy street and told me about this book he was writing about London or people in London and asked if he could take my picture to use in his book. I really had to struggle as not to bulge out in a Singing in the Rain spectacle with this new-found acclaim of my style. “We need a good background” he said charmingly like any ageing photographer/author would. He placed me in the middle of a car-riddled street while reassuring me that he would watch for cars. How one watches for cars while peering through a camera lens I have yet to comprehend, but I survived. The pictures didn’t come out great inasmuch as the evil Njord constantly blew the hair across my face and my pasty skin colouring being exactly as the colour of wall in the background. But I still choose to see it as a testimony to my stylishness even though a very similar outfit only ensued stares and giggles in Norway.
I also have a dating tip for Camden Town (if one enjoys immense amounts of attention): wear a cool hat. It gives people an excuse to strike up a conversation.
And don’t talk to men from York. They seem to massively dislike London and everything foreign, possibly except Scandinavian girls half their age…
We met many an intriguing character while in London. To my despair some of them where French; since my friend speaks French I spent most of the time they where around confused and attention deprived. So I spent my time talking to a flamboyantly gay Brit who must have beet intrigued my mannish apparel that evening seeing as how he came on to me.
I wish I could give you more of a Lonely Planet introduction to Camden Lock, but I cant for the life of me remember the names of the places we shopped and drank at.
BarTok is the Camden bar that has the longest drinking time (3am). Gerty and Berty Vintage and Stables market are by fare the best places to shop, and Oxford Street is the place to shop in the posh shops.
Go to London and love it like I do!
Hare Krishna
Siren
Abonner på:
Innlegg (Atom)
Innlegg
