I’ve just been admiring Tavi Gevinson’s inspirations for her bedroom. She references lots of stuff that I was into as a teenager: Hole, The Virgin Suicides, dabblings with the occult (yep, I totally tried being a witch after watching The Craft and deciding Fairuza Balk was a GODDESS). You know, just your standard teenage stuff…   Anyways, the post got me thinking about how I expressed myself through my teenage bedroom. It was brilliant; doors covered in glittery collages, nail polish stains all over the carpet, childhood toys still appearing on shelves – partly because they looked “cool” and partly because I secretly still wanted to be a little girl. The bookshelves were arranged so self-consciously, with Sylvia Plath and Poppy .Z. Brite’s biography of Courtney Love being used to hide countless volumes of Babysitters’ Club and Saddle Club books*.   In terms of decor, my Mom was in charge. I hated the chintz curtains and matching frilled bedlinen. The floral border and yellow speckled paper made me gag. I loathed the fluffy carpet (laminate was so where it was at back in 1997). On reflection, it was more me feeling like I had to hate it than a genuine sort of hate, what with grown-up’s taste being so lame and all. Either way, I decided that I didn’t like it. That’s why I stuck crap everywhere and was so reckless with my black Spectacular nail varnish. It was an act of rebellion. The confused aesthetic of surburban innocence and reluctant womanhood was acheived through my attempts to trash something that had been thrust upon me.   I reckon if Tavi let my Mom decorate her room she’d be on to something. Though now she’d get the laminate flooring and minimalist painted walls that I so badly craved. She’d[.....]

  I used to make scrapbooks after my holidays. I still always intend to make a scrapbook after my holidays. I never get around to making it. Instead, I have accumulated random piles of leaflets, ticket stubs, matchbooks, restaurant cards, city maps and sugar sachets. I’ll blog about them one day – “Bookish Brunette and the scrapbooks that never happened”.   In the meantime, here’s a selection of pictures from my recent holiday to Bergerac in Dordogne, France. I didn’t have much opportunity to pose for “proper” pictures. In fact, I spent most days wearing no make-up, tatty M&S flip-flops, denim shorts and a green vest. I have no idea what it was about that vest, but I developed a strange fixation with it that meant I had to wash it four times whilst I was there.   The Dordogne region is such a beautiful place. Pebble the dog really liked it too, though that could have something to with all the rabbits she got to chase. I got wine and macarons, the dog got small and furry playmates/snacks.   BBxx      

  Gather round close, come on, I’ve got a secret to tell you. I’m going to have to whisper it and I’ll only say it once, so listen up. Ready? Good. Here I go: I’m not peppy, I’m not a go getter and I’m not a “highly effective person”. At least not naturally. There, I’ve said it and it feels good.   Over the past few months, a lot of good stuff has happened in my life. Good stuff that I have shared with you all on this blog and via Facebook and Twitter. I’ve been trying this whole “presenting a positive face to the world” schtick. It has been quite easy, especially when so much positive stuff has been going on. I’ve been busy, busy riding the roller coaster of life and hitting some pretty dizzying heights.   Social media and blogging makes telling you all about this amazing stuff easy. Dangerously so. Social media makes “image management” easy too. I can simply choose not to tell you about the time that I exhaustedly sobbed on the train at the prospect of the umpteenth 14 hour day in a row. Or the four foot high pile of ironing in the airing cupboard that I ignored until it collapsed and spilled out onto the hall floor. Or the time that I screamed and threw a coat hanger across the bedroom when I couldn’t find my left shoe.   Not telling you this stuff isn’t really me. It is a restrained and reined in version that I dabble with from time to time. I can’t be a perky robot.   There are some lines in a Rilo Kiley song that pop into my head nearly every time I click “publish” on a blogpost:   “Any asshole can open up a museum;[.....]

This is turning into an obsession. A worrying and expensive obsession.   Two weeks in France was an ideal opportunity to eat two of my favourite things: cheese and macarons.   Thankfully, I didn’t feel any urge to take loads of photos of cheese, instead I channelled all of my photographic energy into documenting macarons in their numerous guises.   From the rustic “Macaron de St-Emilion” through to the exquisite sparkling macaroons from the trendy “M le Macaron” on a Bordeaux back street, I’ve eaten and snapped them all. I even had my first ever savoury macaron, flavoured with dark chocolate and foie gras; it was interesting.   I spent the journey home daydreaming about future macaron related career options: 1) A luxury coffee table book all about macarons, exploring their history and the craft of making them (publishers, please get in touch, seriously). 2) Opening a macaron shop with my sister (investors in such a venture, please get in touch, seriously).     [/caption] 

  What a birthday weekend! Not only did I get to go out and celebrate lots, I also got this beautiful new blog!   This is the new home of Bookish Brunette, designed and built by Tom and co. at Phoenix WS, thanks to funding from SPEED WM. It also features a beautiful illustrated header by the talented and fabulous Claire Goldthorp. The site and illustration are so perfect that I shed a tear of joy when I first saw it.   Have a look around and enjoy it. This is a pretty big deal for me as I’m finally starting to realise that anything is possible. Bookish Brunette started out as a mere mouse of blog, the voice of a girl who wasn’t sure what she wanted from life, other than to write. That girl is now a journalist and business woman, who has found that life really is what you choose to make of it.   My story isn’t spectacular, I haven’t had any real adversity to overcome other than my own self-doubt. But I know that there are millions of young men and women who share the same nagging doubts and worries. You know what? Sometimes we have them for good reason, other times they do nothing but hold us back from doing what we really want to do in life.   Enough of this self-help, motivational speak. Time for pictures of me posing in an outfit in Birmingham’s Brindley Place on my 27th birthday:   Top: The Kooples Jeans: Topshop Brogues: Topshop Satchel: The Cambridge Satchel Company Sunglasses: Topshop  Necklaces: Gifts   Before posing, me and Mark went to the launch party for Brewsmiths Coffee and Tea on Livery Street in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter. The place had a real arty and community orientated, friendly atmosphere. The owners, Dave and Kate[.....]

  Jacket: Topshop Tennis Dress: Annie Greenabelle Leggings: M&S Shoes: Carvela (three years ago) Clutch Bag: Topshop   Going out and getting squiffy on cocktails is a blast. But it is not without problems.   When I’ve had a few too many margaritas, I tend to leave things in taxis and spend the whole of the next day mentally torturing myself for my stupidity.   I wore this outfit for mine and my husband’s joint birthday celebration on Saturday night. We had yummy chinese food at Cafe Soya before heading to the Victoria and Island Bar for cocktails. I tried my first ever Campari and soda (arsey soap water from HELL) and had a gorgeous Boston Sour (with the egg white, always with the egg white).   I’m going to blame the Campari for me leaving this jacket in the taxi. It looked so cute and I adored it, even if my husband said it reminded him of the costumes in “Total Recall”.   Leaving jackets and cardigans in cabs is one of my bad habits. I’d like to think that the drivers pass them on to their appreciative teenage daughters, though they probably end up in a manky box in some godforsaken taxi rank that reeks of damp and fag smoke.   The shoes are my wedding shoes. They get an annual outing, then I remember how painful they are and tuck them back into their box for another year until the pain is wiped from my memory.   The dress/tunic is by Annie Greenabelle – an ethical label that specialises in wonderfully sweet dresses in reclaimed, Fairtrade and organic fabrics. Their catalogue is like entering my dream world: cupcakes, picnics and little dogs.   It was a fun outfit for a fun evening, albeit tinged with jacket related[.....]

  Watching “Troubadours: The Rise of the Singer-Songwriter” on BBC Four last night made it very clear that I need a time machine.   I’d pack some floaty dresses, a dog with a bandana and plenty of floral hair garlands, I’d then drive over and pick up Alex before travelling to LA circa 1971.   We’d head to the Troubadour and watch Carole King then try to chat up James Taylor and Jackson Browne (mmmmm…1970s floppy haired boys with guitars…). I’d insist on heading up to Laurel Canyon, just to see what all the fuss was about. I’d also find out exactly how Carole managed to make a crew neck jumper and jeans look so good.   It would be the road trip to end all road trips. And we wouldn’t have to straighten our hair or even bother to brush it for, like, a whole week.   While I’m waiting for the time machine, I’ll make do with YouTube videos, ditching the straighteners and walking around with bare feet.   See you in 1971!   BBxxx