Book update: Dom Joly “The Dark Tourist”: This book was something of a landmark for me. It was my first ever e-book. I read it entirely on my iPad and found the experience to be wholly positive. My minor technological triumph aside, “The Dark Tourist” is a great book. Dark Tourism is tourism with a macabre twist; visiting places that are “off the beaten track” for good reason. The opening chapter sets the oddball tone for the book, with the tale of Joly’s ski trip to Iran. He then plays crazy golf in North Korea and gets crazy-drunk in Cambodia. It isn’t all fun and frolics though. His adventures are often countered with sensitive observations of countries bound by tyrannical regimes or recovering from past atrocities. Joly’s description of Cambodia’s killing fields and meetings with former Khmer Rouge officials are genuinely unsettling. When writing of his home country of Lebanon, there is a true affection. He depicts stunning landscapes baring the pock marks of war, and pokes fun at the national “trigger happy” mentality. His American road trip, visiting famous assassination sites, is intriguing but seems somehow less “dark”. Maybe this is because the places he visits are now common tourist traps. The strangest parts of the chapter are his observations of tourists visiting ground zero. Apparently, no New Yorkers want to visit. Are some things too raw and horrific to ever be seen as tourism? Is it right for sadness and suffering to become the fodder of an entertaining travel book? Caitlin Moran “How to be a Woman”: I didn’t want to read this. You know why? Twitter kept telling me to. Twitter brings out my inner contrary five year old. Tell me to do something and I instantly decide that I will not do it, even if I,[.....]

This is one of those annoyingly chirpy/smug posts. If you are feeling cranky or have had a shiteous day, you probably won’t want to read it. It is a simple list of some of the good stuff that has been happening in my life lately. It probably constitutes “showing off a bit”. Right now, I’m off to chatter with some bluebirds, squirrels and chipmunks about how wonderfully chipper everything is. Laters BBxx Good stuff that has happened in my life lately: I’ve spent lots of time in London with some lovely people I’ve finally been to the Primrose Bakery Wahaca serve pork scratchings with guacamole I rode a Boris Bike though Regent’s Park The Kooples had a sale I’ve been to Graduate Fashion Week I’m now writing for bitchbuzz.com I have business cards that say “Fashion Journalist” I’ve worked with my first copywriting client I’m set to launch my copywriting business “Word Candy” in the next few weeks I’m delivering two professional writing workshops for business start-ups (tomorrow – GAH!!!) Bookish Brunette is getting a new blog I’m going to be an Auntie in a couple of months My friends and family are brilliant Mid-height block heels are where IT IS AT I had one of those lovely “this is my life and it ain’t half bad” moments: I walked out of Earl’s Court, hopped on the Tube to Knightsbridge and walked to Laduree in Harrods. I bought a box of macarons in the brightest, bestest colours they had. I held on to them all the way back home to the Midlands and tucked into them with my husband when I got home. That myth about not being able to have your cake/patisserie and eat it is totally bogus.

I’m just back from a week in Belgium. It is my new favourite country and here’s why: It is really flat and they like planting trees in straight lines Chocolate (obviously) Belgian people love small dogs. They sometimes put their tiny dogs in little baskets on the front of their bikes Kriek Beer – cherry beer is liquid Haribo Sour Cherries Amazing music, art, architecture, windmills and fashion We stayed in Bruges, in a cute cottage just off one of the main canals. My husband spent the whole of the first day trying to spot locations from “In Bruges”. He was thrilled when we stumbled upon the hotel Colin Farrell leapt out of onto the passing barge. Pink cardigan: Forever 21 Green vest: Topshop Rainbow necklace: H&M Sunray pleat skirt: Hobbs NW3 Leopard loafers: Jones Bootmaker Bruges is so beautiful; all hazy sunshine and fairytale buildings reflected in the glistening waterways. Everyone travels around on old fashioned bikes and you can always hear the clip-clop of horses hooves on the cobbled streets. The bars are a big draw with many offering menus of at least 100 different Belgian beers – we spent our days wandering around and allowing for many “refreshment” breaks. Each beer has its own special glass which I found highly pleasing. One of my favourites was a trappist beer (brewed by monks) called Orval. It came served in what can only be described as a chalice. We rode bikes to the nearby village of Damme, it was a blissful ride along the tree lined canal. The village is said to be Belgium’s answer to Hay-on-Wye and there were plenty of charming bookshops with tempting tables of second hand books. If only I could read Flemish… Sunglasses: Topshop Cream cardigan: H&M Floral top: Elephtheria Jeans: Topshop Mary Janes:[.....]

Jealousy and envy are things that we all like to consider as beneath us. We are all so sure of ourselves and the choices that we make that we are not remotely bothered by the successes and achievements of others. We are all such big and generous people that we can look at a premiership footballer, with his huge house and fleet of flash cars and think “good on him”. Schadenfreude is an emotion that we cannot comprehend – the failures of others make us feel sad. Their pain is our pain. That is how enlightened we all are. HA! Yeah right. Chances are, that when faced with the successful footballer we think along the lines of “but is he really happy?” or “what a ridiculous world we live in, where he earns a squillion pounds for kicking a ball around, whilst I, with my PhD in Zoology and tireless recycling efforts, earn less than £25k p.a”. When Mr Footballer’s life goes tits up, his beautiful wife leaves him and he descends into a life of alcohol abuse and cheap hookers, we gleefully gaze at the tabloid headlines and think “Serves him right. That’s what you get for being so bloody successful.” This may sound like Charlie Brooker levels of nihilism (not a common feature here at Bookish Brunette), but human beings are ultimately insecure. We judges ourselves against others. Some do it more than others and some, who like to consider themselves fiercely individualistic, do it less. Either way, the urge is always there. Let’s not get into who or what is to blame for this. It could be the media, it could be capitalism, it could be “Sex and the City 2”, it could be David Cameron. Who knows? We are all desperate for a measuring stick, something[.....]

Some people dream of moving to another country or living in a slightly bigger house. I’m currently longing to live inside a song. No. It isn’t “C’est La Vie” by B*Witched or “Don’t Stop” by Ke$ha. It is a song with the most exquisite accordion solo – yes, that’s correct, I said “accordion solo”- and lyrics that lull me into a divine Parisian daydreams. I’m talking about “Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?” by Peter Sarstedt. Everyone’s favourite faux Euro-waltz (they just don’t know it yet). Released in 1969, the song is the tale of glamourous young woman called Marie-Claire who lives amongst the bold and beautiful of the European jet-set. And, by heck, do I want to raid that girl’s wardrobe and contact book. Check out the lyrics to the first verse: You talk like Marlene Dietrich And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire Your clothes are all made by Balmain And there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are It would be easy to hate her but, for some reason, I want to be her. Fair enough, I’m not sold on the blinged out hair, but if the aforementioned diamonds and pearls could be arranged onto a collection of snazzy alice bands, then I could live with it. Talking like Marlene Dietrich would be incredible – all husky and sexy. Dancing like Zizi Jeanmaire (a French ballet dancer) would also be far preferable to my odd slouchy shuffle that only looks good with a) heels and b) alcohol. I don’t want to be overly picky, but if “all” of my clothes were going to be made by one designer, it probably wouldn’t be Balmain. Though the label has the allure of old school French mega-wealth, they are just a little bit too keen on shoulder pads[.....]

This is an article I wrote a while back to apply for a job as a columnist. I didn’t get the job and I always feel a bit bummed out when I’ve worked hard on something that has, ultimately, lead to nothing. But such is the life of a wannabe writer. Sigh. Time to pick myself up, dust myself down and keep on at it. At least you guys now get to read it. Enjoy! If I was a sheep mommy or daddy, I’d be locking up my daughters about now. It’s tupping time  - the season for some serious sheep lovin’. As we are eagerly opening the first doors on our advent calendars, sheep are out having a total boink fest. Rams are off smearing their raddle on the fleece of many a ewe. And that is not a ewe-phemism. Good for them. You may be wondering how I have such knowledge of sheep mating rituals. Maybe I’m a thwarted sheep farmer or maybe I have some weird fetish. The latter is the closest description, though fear not, I do not get aroused by the sight of ovine carnal activity. The site of Matt Baker paddling a kayak along the Thames is an all together different matter. Yes, I have a problem. I am a Countryphile. Sunday night TV has always been my dirty little secret. I’m going to whisper this because all my liberal hipster buddies might overhear and I’ll lose my hard-earned cool points (quelle beast): I really love Antiques Roadshow, Last of the Summer Wine and even *gulp* Songs of Praise. Most of all I love Country File. These are TV programmes that I don’t really understand, they offer nothing I can possibly relate to. The most valuable thing I own is a copy of the[.....]

This blog is two now. I therefore feel obliged, in true ‘X-Men’ style, to give you the back story. It all began with a bloke being rather rude to me in a tapas bar just off Grafton Street in Dublin. In mid-December 2008, I’d travelled solo to Dublin to visit two of my university friends. I remember feeling strange boarding a plane without my new husband, but soon cheered up when I bagged a row of three seats. I sprawled across them, treated my self to an in-flight bloody mary and devoured the January 2009 issue of Vogue. It was two years since graduation and I was feeling distinctly disappointed with the way that my career was heading. I’d always longed to be a writer but had no clue how to make it happen. You’d have thought a degree and a post-grad qualification in journalism would have helped, but no. Looking back it was terribly spoilt of me, I was producing corporate videos and working on youth media projects. A job I still do Monday-Thursday and love. I now understand why some people would give their right arm to do it. I just didn’t see that then. It wasn’t my dream – I naively assumed that destiny held something better and different in store for me. That said, such maudlin thoughts were far from my mind when I met up with David Maybury and Deborah Gaffney at the airport. We embraced warmly and spent a day wandering around Dublin and admiring Islamic art in the Chester Beatty Library. In the evening, we cracked open a bottle of champagne and ate chinese food by the light of the Christmas tree. The next night was to be our big night out. Dave had already established himself as a prominent figure on the[.....]