Quick one this week because I have my baby dribbling onto the keyboard.
Keep thinking about these Always Ultra with Wings countertops at the Trellick tower. They’re almost translucent Uranium glass, I wonder if they glow at night? Great for chopping a veg, great for icing a cake, but unfortunately, I won’t know peace until I rest my bare buttocks on their cold refuge.
I know you’re looking at the necklace—we’re all looking at the necklace—but the magic here is the shirt and slacks in the same material with a fuck-it knit over the top. It’s quite hard to source head-to-toe in one fabric, unless you go for denim which is more outdoors-y that indoors-y. I had silk two-pieces made like this a few years ago, coming to a full day of childcare near you!
What if, after the wholesomeness of Christmas tablescaping, you made dinner look like sperm under a microscope?
I wish I was above the fashion inspiration of Marty Supreme, but the doctor’s bag is an instant classic. I don’t remember what he has in it? A fuck load of orange ping pong balls? I tried to get a company to make me one in crocodile—or even fake crocodile—but they deemed it “too Liz Taylor”.
Speaking of which, there’s something appetising about a cluster of pearls at your earlobe while it rains cats and dogs (on a hot tin roof) and you’re just in a trench coat, your burning sixties lust keeping you warm. Liz’s hair is kinda Jerry curl, which is a bold leap if you’re willing, but didn’t work out for that lass in the OJ trial.