Ooh, dumpling.

Sad for you, Kristen Adam.

I realise we can't all be glamorous lovelies like myself, but must you resort to common thievery and, frankly, out-loud hilarious hyperbole to make yourself feel less common than you clearly are?

Professor at London University.  Pfft.  As if anyone worth her salt would ever ruin a perfectly good manicure studying heart surgery.

As a special pressie, I will give to you the advice The Old Bat gave to me back in my terrible, dark Spencer days of yore.

Get your SHIT together, girl.

Love,
Jonquil

Brunch of a Brunchness

Darlings. 

It's been a while, I know, and I'm sure you've all just been pining for me, really.  I've been far too busy exploiting friendships, selling my soul and going back through old posts to add links so you too can buy useless shite (and I can get a cut, sweetie; cocaine doesn't buy itself, you know). 

Yesterday we went to brunch.  Brunch isn't worth it unless you truly splash out, and plus, if you go early enough, you can jot back to your flat and spend the rest of the day on the treadmill to negate all the calories you couldn't hork back up afterwards.  It gives you a full day to mend your gluttonous ways, you podgy slag relax and catch up with a good book.

For brunch this week, we went to an absolutely darling little hole-in-the-wall place in Lewisham, which truly isn't so bad as you are automatically the thinnest person there the moment you arrive.  I'm sure they all appreciate our attempts to gentrify such a dump of a borough.  

Anyhoo, the place was called Fats, and our spread was utterly delish.  I simply cannot illustrate how totally outlandishly luxe it was, so a pic will have to do. 

I mean, HOW SCRUMPTIOUS. 

Our group simply devoured the entire spread, and then we even had pudding for breakfast!  I mean, if you're going to binge God, you obese whale indulge, you may as well go all in, yes? 

Pudding was a hectare of ice cream.  My boyfriend TJ took all the photos today, but I wouldn't allow him in the frame.  I've given him a stand-in.  TJ is delightful to have someone to take me to excellent restaurants and he's a pal at taking photos of me and not remarking on obvious thigh Photoshopping, but I fear his sweaters are simply not up to snuff, and thus I have assigned him a secret double I can use whenever we go out.  This way TJ gets to Jesus, hide that terrible face preserve his privacy, and I can have photos of a handsome, finally couple.  

TJ doesn't mind.  He says he doesn't want anyone knowing he's seeing me.  Silly.  I can only assume it's because of my blog fame.  Right? 

Not TJ

Ta, darlings.  The old bat is ringing and cripes, Mum, DO something about those silver wings already.  You look insane.  Also, I do not care in the least that the Wellesley has changed their Earl Grey blend.  I know fuck all about actual tea.   God, would she just die already?

--Jonquil

Of a Muchness / Paris and Beyond

Mum decided we needed a trip to Paris.  It's now a "thing," our "annual thing," though really it's entirely meant for Mum to get me away and bellow about whatever nefarious scuffles she thinks I've got up to over Christmas.  

Unfortunately for the old  twaddlebrain, she's no Eleanor Shaw and no amount of brainwashing or browbeating will convince me that it wasn't entirely appropriate at the time to introduce Cousin Niles's new girlfriend to the family by sneaking off with her to the stable and leaving her there.  Locked in.  For two days.  

Sod off.  It wasn't even that cold.  She was FINE.   There are BLANKETS there, for the horses and such.  It's hardly my fault that she's so milquetoast nobody even missed her. 

And anyway, maybe it was even more Christmassy to spend the night out there instead of in with us sipping spiced cider and singing carols around our quaint living room.  I mean, Jesus WAS born in a stable, right?  Chuh, the whole thing is totally spanking ridiculous, and I got an earful about it, but at least the old twat managed to buy me a fur while prattling on. 

    

This one is mine.  Mum also bought one for Dad, who may be closeted, I'm not sure.

Anywhozits, the lecturing aside, it was a delightful trip aside from the part where Mum tried to climb the flying buttresses of Notre Dame shouting, "Quasimodo!  On y va!" and they had to pull her down.

So now we're at New Years, which was typically understated in that I showed up tits-out to a fabulous do held by important people, though I did wear opaque stockings with a strapless dress which seemed an odd choice.  The important thing is tits-out though.  

Reflections on 2013.  Loves lost, 0 really.  I also gained zero pounds, though I did have to have several fillings in my teeth and the plumbing entirely redone in my flat.  

As for the rest of it, ah, who cares?  Introspection is for the masses, darlings, and I've simply too much fun to be having to bother.  So keep on reaching for the stars, and those of us who live among them will keep dropping little bits of stardust for you to catch in both hands.  

.....Oh, goodness.  I'm SUCH a good writer.  That was EXCELLENT.  It is utterly BRUTAL that I haven't a book deal yet, though to be frank just the word "deadline" makes me reach for the wine glass.  

Many happy tidings, my peasants, 

Jonquil

Oh, Dear Miss Laycock:

Oh goodness, my little dollymops.  Not a day goes by that I’m not unfairly targeted by holier-than-thou arseholes armed with truly awful costume jewelry.  I will say I find it rather delightfully amusing when someone speaks of bloggers creating “unrealistic lifestyles” in one breath while buying three pairs of Louboutins at a sample sale in the next.

Quite frankly, one’s entire self-righteous rant is automatically negated the very minute one begins narrowing one’s eyes at others in a public forum.  Thankfully, I’ve never claimed to be holy or righteous or anything other than -- well, better than you, so I’m under no such obligation to remain consistent.  About this, or about wearing fur coats as a veggie, but it’s okay as long as the animals were tortured sixty years ago and not yesterday.  Distinction, ducks.  It’s all about distinctions.

Don’t hate me for being able to eat deliciously fatty burgers while you have to spend days at a fat farm ingesting nothing but mushy peas and vitamin injections to stay thin for “exhaustion.”

And don’t expect me to create any sort of realistic expectation for anyone.  My lifestyle is glam and fab and if things are sometimes comped for me, who honestly cares?  If anyone is reading my blog strictly for the reviews, they’re barmy anyhow. 

Lastly, sweetie, go get a blowout.  Your hair is unspeakable. 

I’m off to go Christmas shopping.

Ta, 

J.

Several Small Things

I'll do this in list form, so you peasants can keep up.  Do try to comprehend what I say.  Part of the reason I no longer hang out with old Fi is 1, she kept insisting she wasn't watching what she ate, which, chuh; but also 2, she'd been stuck on level 23 of Candy Crush for like a week.  Level 23.  Darlings, I barely got through university, but even I'm on level 145. 

1.  I've had a few questions about why, when I recommend products to you peasants, I don't use affiliate links.  

     a.  They require you to post a certain amount per week or something, which, sod off, sponsors; don't tell me what to do.  and also, 

     b.  affiliate links are for the poor.  I don't request a commission every time someone buys a goddamn jumper from M&S because I don't need your meager coinage.  If you'd really like to do something for me, come see me when I'm out at the Box and buy me a whisky.  I'd go to Boujis but Fi's gross old boyfriend is the business manager or some such nonsense and they've barred me for life. 

2.  I plan to do a style post at some point in the future, but I'm running my ideas past my housekeeper to make sure I post things normal people can afford.  In a rare show of affection for you.  

3.  I may start an Instagram account at some point this year, but the plain truth is that the people I hang out with are far too good for you and sometimes like to be shielded from the prying eyes of the proletariat.  If you want to know what our lives are like, truly, I suggest you go view Rich Kids of Instagram, add about five years, and take away some of the bling because we're far classier than that. 

So terribly gauche, darling.  Though I do own most of these pieces.

4.  And lastly, if you want to turn your kitchen into the Swiss Alps, a recipe for macaroni and cheese won't do it, but six ounces of pharmaceutical "snow" certainly will.  You don't even have to misspell "envelop" to do it.  And you'll feel far more comforted without all those fucking calories. 

Added bonus:  Your old crone of a mother who unexpectedly shows up will think it's flour and  you
can laugh at her while high out of your mind as she tries to make cookies.

Ta, rustics.
J.

A Sojourn of Sorts

Once upon a time it was a Wednesday morning in London. 

Most of the city woke up and went to work, but there was one lovely, nubile young maiden who scoffed at such things.  “Fuck work,” she said petulantly, her perfectly-glossed lips pursing peevishly.  

Luckily, her wizened, old, wrinkled, hunched-over, Quasimodo, 25-year-old friend AJ was there to save the day. 

“Let’s go hiking, damsels!” he said brilliantly, brandishing hot mugs of tea and leaving me wondering just how in the blue blazes he managed to break into my flat.

And so we went. 

By “hiking,” of course, I mean we got all dressed up in appropriate hiking clothes and spent an hour at the bottom of a very small hill taking pictures that make my ass look good. 

Afterwards we spent a few hours at the Fox and Tassel pub drinking appletinis and eating kidneys on toast, and then had a lovely old afternoon photoshopping all the pictures inbetween threesomes with my newest best friend Victoria.  Who, aside from being far more attractive than old Fi, also brings to the table a large country house, two trust funds and remarkable double-jointedness.

TAKE THAT, FIONA.

Psst:

Only the poor are crazy, darlings.  The rest of us are just eccentric.  If you must make sport of the costume party I attended at the nuthouse, make fun of the hors d'oeurves, which were unspeakable; and my ex-friend Fi, who drank a Methuselah of Cristal and let Prince Harry's PR secretary do unmentionable things to her on top of the banquette.

 

I wore this as a costume, which allowed for all sorts of interesting access.

 

 

 

Look, some might find the whole thing in poor taste; but like I said, only the proletariat can be truly crazy.  We are above such things.  For example:  Mum.  Someone should have locked that old Bertha in an attic long ago, but as she's wealthy we simply smile and dump Valium into her Scotch.