Straining Restraint

I have been so good. I haven't bought one item, not one, in over a month. The last piece of clothing I purchased was a yellow sundress from Sportsgirl to wear for my new year's eve celebrations back in Sydney.

Now, some of you (my mother included) would argue that one shopping trip a month is enough, and since interning began I have been forced to comply. However, it's chilly in London and I don't have any boots. And my jeans look shabby. And I'm tired of wearing the same drab gear into the office every day. My wardrobe is on rotation. It appears to me so bare that I literally have outfits assigned to days of the week with a big load of washing done every Friday. And I’m bored.

But good girl that I am I lock myself in the office every lunchtime to avoid the retail-magnet of Carnaby Street and Oxford Circus. I’ve even gone to lengths of immediately deleting ad-emails sent by ASOS.com, WhoWhatWearDaily.com and Topshop.co.uk. Sad as it is, if I were to eye their goodies (all available through online purchase) I might lose my resolve. But today I slipped. Scrolling through my Hotmail account I clicked ‘next’ and low-and-behold it was an email from ASOS advertising among other trends, flared jeans, specifically Rock & Republic Sexy R Stitch bootcut jeans (£235 – eek!). And I sighed like Pumba – from Disney’s The Lion King – “Ohhhh, the shame!”

Would it be so bad if I were to take a walk along the High Street and suss-out the jeans in H&M and Uniqlo? Surely they’d have a pair of flares under £40… and surely £40 isn’t such a splurge, surely, surely I am not that destitute. But I’m afraid I am.

I hear my mother sigh with relief.

For those of you with slightly more poundage to play with, check these babies out!

BAZAAR's Real Beauty

We interns need to stick together, but this gorgeous lady helps me on a daily basis. As the intern for BAZAAR's Health and Beauty Malena organises the team, as well as writes and edits copy. As a friend she gives me first dibs at the beauty closet before a 'sale' and sneaks out with me for a smoothie when a busy day has not granted us a lunch hour.

Here are her thoughts on Beauty and BAZAAR.

1. How did you first enter the mag world?
I interned back home in Canada at Flare magazine throughout University then got a job as an Assistant Editor for Beauty and Features.

2. What has been your favourite position so far?
Strangely enough, (although you know I don't get paid much) the beauty team at BAZAAR.

3. Were you a little girl who always played with make-up?
Not so much on myself but I destroyed many a barbie with lipstick, loads of blush and a variety of tacky eyeshadow colours.

4. Is there one cosmetic that you swear by, above all others?
I'm a lash girl and can't go without DiorShow mascara.

5. Finish this sentence: "I just won't leave home without my......."
Notebook and Rosebud lip salve -I'm addicted.

6. Where do you see yourself in five years?
Hopefully in a deputy editor or editor role. Possibly still in London but who knows!

Tough Love

It’s always good when you meet a person that is the ‘real deal’ – the type of person who’ll tell it to you straight. Except that is, when you’re naked from your navel down.

Last night I met with my new waxing lady. Those of you who remember my glowing review Waxing Lyrical about the friendly staff at Gina Conway might wonder why on earth I changed locales. Simple really, lack of funds.

At The Beauty Spot in Clapham Junction (just up the stairs and round the corner from sweaty men pumping iron at Fitness First) I can get a full-leg and brazilian for £45, that’s more than 10-quid cheaper than the lovely ladies in Fulham. So the move was necessary, and up until now, quite pleasant. Good service, quick service and friendly service. Then I met Madame Italiano.

She’s boisterous and lively and jolly and lovely. Asking me questions, seemingly interested, encouraging me that the hard work I’m putting into the mag world now – that be my internship – will pay off sooner than I think. And that I too will be buying Fendi and Prada like the ladies I now babysit for. I joked with her that I might pop-in, in between waxes, for pep-talks when I’m feeling low…

Waxing over, I hopped off the bed and went to put on my skinny jeans. A production at the best of times and always with a few hops and yanks and tummy tucks. But this time my legs were still glazed in wax and calming creams so the process was a little tighter. I laughed that my legs were still sticky. She shook her head and said, “No darling, that’s fat.”

Scusi? Could she be serious? I managed a smile between flushed cheeks. You see my friends always assure me that I’m nowhere near fat. They roll their eyes when I comment on calories or my need to exercise. But what do my friends really know? This lady had just spent half-an-hour focussing on my inner-thighs, wasn’t she a better judge?

I like to think that somethings are lost in translation, but Madame Italiano has been living in London for more than 14 years. And even though I should be horrified, even though I have every right to never wax with her again… I think I like her. There's nothing like a bit of tough love in a big city.

Finding Alexander

Last week we lost Alexander McQueen. I can tell you all now, because we found him. Bright and shiny, patent-purple leather with gold-edged trimming, McQ (a.k.a. an Alexander McQueen handbag from the SS08 collection) went into the chaos that is BAZAAR’s fashion cupboard and then… was gone.

As the days passed and more and more people were quizzed, the situation began to look a little dire. As the intern it was my job to track McQ down. Kinda hard to do when I had never seen the bag in the first place – it had been sent in by their press office and discarded to the cupboard before I had a chance to glimpse it. With the fashion girls denying they’d ever seen it either, and the girl who the bag was delivered to being out of the country for a week, I emailed round the office a plea for assistance – no reply.

The next day the girl from their press office called, “Have you finished with your shoot? Could I send round a bike to pick up our bag?” Ummmm..... Hmmmm….

In these situations it’s best to delay. So delay I did. But once off the phone I felt a little panic was in order. Worst case scenario the bag was gone and we’d be up for 600-quid. Best case scenario the bag was still somewhere in the cupboard, although unlikely as we’d literally turned the room upside-down.

With the girl from the press office calling first thing the following morning I laboured over all of the pink receipt slips filled-in by Fashion when returning items – nothing! Next step was fast-forwarding through a week’s worth of security footage. After thirty minutes, my eyes were watering and the footage was blurry, and I’d only managed to get to 2:48pm on Monday. The decision was made by the powers-that-be that I call the press office and admit defeat.

Timidly the girl said she’d have to speak with her boss about the extent of our liability. I asked for her to email me an image of the bag for me to pass around the office – a last ditch attempt in a seemingly hopeless situation.

And then out of the cloth-wonder one of our fashionistas found a pink slip for a patent leather bag sent to another illustrious designer's PR. She called… and they had it. They’d had it all week. Apparently they thought BAZAAR was now gifting press offices with other designer-wears. Needless to say we asked them to send McQ straight back and I got to tell the boys in security that they could stop scouring the tapes. The poor guys had almost made it to Wednesday.

I’m not sure about the moral for this story. Maybe it’s not to rely on fashion girls to be able to decipher their Loub’s from their McQ’s, or maybe it’s not to leave things in the fashion cupboard in the first place. Or maybe it’s simply to accept that in the mag world you’re likely to develop stress ulcers over pretty little things. Maybe I need another holiday.

Crack in the night

So, like, you know, I live next door to a crack dealer. I mean, by all accounts he’s a pleasant individual. Quiet, unassuming and proffers “hellos” and well-wishes when we pass in the corridor. He even offered my flatmate a bag of perfumed soaps the other day (probably discards from his laboratory!) – which in hindsight she’s glad she refused.

You see, while we were quite certain he dabbled in herbology, last night we learned that his creativity extends to cutting-crack too. We found this out at around 8pm when twenty-odd policemen bounded up the stairs of our block of flats, making more noise than a herd of elephants, and began banging on our next-door neighbour’s door with crowbars and batons. Flatmate and I jumped off the couch, and Flatmate ran straight to the door to see what was happening.

Out of our peep-hole we saw a scene fit for The Bill. Ploddies in black vests and helmets, armed to the nines, all jabbering into their walkie-talkies. Flatmate opened the door to, “Get a better look!” The door made it to about a 45-degree angle before she was gruffly told to go back inside. At this time she began with the squeals – and squeal she did for the next hour, in between calling her friends to announce that there was a drug-raid going on next door and that our neighbour was the dealer.

The raid lasted about an hour and a half. At one point the police buzzed our door to ask if we had an extension lead – you see Neighbour had cleverly cut off his power so that the coppers couldn’t take photos of evidence once they’d made their way inside. A little while afterwards our buzzer, buzzed again. It was the copper Flatmate had chatted to earlier (when she had been dressed in tight pyjamas and jumping around like an excited five-year-old), he wanted to, “apologise” for the noise and disruption to our evening, and offered to take Flatmate on a tour of the crime scene! Not sure if this offer was kosher or not, but other flatmate and I ceased laughing at the two of them and decided to jump-in on the tour.

Imagine a hollowed-out shell of an apartment, paint-striped walls and bare cement floors. The bathroom wasn’t in too bad a state, but the ‘lab’ was pretty dismal; a few sleeping bags strewn across the floor, lots of crack pipes and other equipment, and, oddly enough, a chessboard. Dare I say, “Check-mate”?

After snooping around a little too much, I scuttled back into our nice, warm and furnished flat – passed a non-too-please handyman called in late to fix the broken door frame – and decided to call my parents to give them the update. After all, they love watching The Bill.

Happy 100!

Well guys, today's post marks my hundreth 'blog' as The Intern. Very exciting stuff!

I thought I'd take the opportunity to thank my loyal readers, ta very much, and also encourage newcomers to read some of my older posts so that they can better understand what LivingOutLondon is all about - basically, Me... in the big city!

Take your time to click over these ones...

Yours faithfully,

The Intern

Introducing the Intern
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/07/introducing-intern.html

Spacebook MyFace if you please
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/07/spacebook-myface-if-you-please.html

Hit Me Britney One More Time
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/07/hit-me-britney-one-more-time.html

French women don’t wear bandaids
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/08/french-women-dont-wear-band-aids.html

Waxing lyrical
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/08/waxing-lyrical.html

Washed out in a curry
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/08/washed-out-in-curry.html

Sweet enough?
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/08/blog-post.html

Gotta love a list
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/09/gotta-love-list.html

Travel’s where it’s at
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/09/travels-where-its-at.html

Two press meets and a (nearly) pair of Louboutins
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/10/two-press-meets-and-nearly-pair-of.html

Gold Party
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/11/gold-party.html

Beautcamp my booty
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/11/beautcamp-my-booty.html

Little bit of excess
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/11/little-bit-of-excess.html

One wedding and the funeral of Mr. Fabulous
http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2007/12/one-wedding-and-funeral-of-mr-fabulous.html

Polish me pretty

http://livingoutlondon.blogspot.com/2008/01/polish-me-pretty.html

Star Bucket

Picking out differences between life in New York and life in London can be quite fun. Take for instance how the Brits welcome two of Hollywood’s biggest stars – Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman; with a polite and refined rap-a-tap-tap of their hands. In New York there would have been a standing ovation, lots of whoo-hooing, and a fair few squeals mixed in with a bunch of, “We love you Jack/Morgan!’s”

Where was I to witness this display of reserved civility? At the London Premier of Rob Reiner’s new film, The Bucket List.

Nicholson and Freeman each thanked the audience for coming, 'Jack' wearing his signature black shades and Freeman donning (small) gold hoop-earrings, each man decidedly cooler than the average seventy-something. Then with our complimentary mini-bottles of bubbly, we nestled in to enjoy the show.

The film centres around two elderly men each dying from cancer (Nicholson and Freeman), bonding while in hospital and banding-together to complete their slightly eccentric list of things to do before they kick the bucket. What transpires is a very funny, and at times quite moving, journey. Nicholson’s character is a multi-million-dollar mogul while Freeman’s has led an illustrious 45-year career as a mechanic and yet the two are able to enrich the last days of each other’s life by dispensing the lessons each have learned.

Leaving the film I felt inspired to write my own list. But where would I start? The notion that I could fit on just one piece of paper all the things I want to experience and accomplish before I die seems a little unreal. I decided instead to write one for the year, a 2008 List, if you like. On it I’ll put some goals, some dreams, and a few little challenges to help me grow so that hopefully when I reach seventy I’ll feel a little bit better about kicking my own bucket.

Polish me pretty

Is it just me, or does nail varnish chip off no matter how 'strong' or 'long-lasting' it's advertised to be? I file, buff and polish, and even wait a few minutes in between each layer-application to ensure the varnish dries properly. But without a doubt, in less than twelve hours the corners will peel and the tips of my nails will start to resemble the crumbling walls of Roman ruins.

Except on my tootsies. For some reason (and I believe this is a universal truth) pedi-polish can last a few weeks before it starts to lose its shimmer and shine. So why is it different for your fingers? I began to wonder, is it me, or is it the brand of varnish?

Like any good researcher, I went to ask the experts: the girls in the beauty department! The general consensus was that most people struggle to keep their fingernails polished-pretty, but a suggestion was made that people whose nails are weaker and have a tendency to crack or tear will often find their nail polish will do the same. While some varnishes are designed to strengthen nails, essentially they only do so by acting as a protective layer atop the nail. Cuticle creams and other strengthening oils may or may not solve the problem. Good to know.

As for some brands being better than others... well, much hype has surrounded O.P.I. over the last couple of years thanks to the likes of celeb fans like Mischa Barton and Nicole Richie, but generally, there's much of a muchness between them. And if nail protection isn't guaranteed, why do we bother coating at all?

Adding colour to nails apparently goes as far back as 3000 B.C. among Asian, Egyptian and Roman cultures. The Chinese first created a coloured lacquer by mixing gum arabic, egg whites, gelatin and beeswax, and in 600 B.C. under the Chou Dynasty, royalty would often use gold and silver to enhance their nails. But the vibrant colours seen today are actually thanks to the motoring industry - when the paint on automobiles inspired the creation of coloured nail enamels. The invention of the modern nail polish is credited to Michelle Ménard in the 1920s, however, I have yet to discover exactly who this lovely lady was (Google fails me, and I haven't time to make a trip to the library). I like to think she was a French courtesan with a penchant for red lipstick and fishnet stockings.

But there is hope for the hopeless. According to O.P.I. regular manicures -using cuticle oils - will replenish essential moisture and lipids (fat-soluble molecules) and will enhance your nail's health and appearance. So hopefully your colour will last a little bit longer, and you can feel a little bit more of a lady. I'm tackling Hilary Duff's fave next, O.P.I's Black Onyx, it's winter chic after all.

24-hours: Conditions Apply

On a limited budget, I plan the week's groceries very carefully. I know that I have about £20-25 to play with, and hopefully I'll spend less than twenty. Thus, I have embraced food of the canned variety - spinach, mushrooms, chick peas, lentils and good ol' Jessica's Chicken of the Sea - and I snack on low-cost vegetables like carrots and beans, and fruits like apples and mandarins. My meals are regimented but luckily, I'm satisfied.

Problems arise however come the end of the week when my pantry is bare. Given the amount of cans I buy I can only carry one week's supplies of groceries at a time - because lugging my bags home is equivalent to weight-lifting with Arnie - so by Saturday morning I generally have only one more serve of cereal left and I'm know that I must once again mission to the supermarket. But yesterday I was left wanting.

Forgive me, but I need to vent. You see my local ASDA supermarket let me down in a big way. While I normally have nothing but praise for their low prices and friendly service, yesterday they caused me to scream blue murder - because they lied. While they claim to be open 24-hours, and large red signs don their building's facade advertising to that effect, this alleged 24-hours of community-servicing actually only applies Monday through Friday. You see on Saturday's they close at 10pm and don't open again until 11am Sunday. Fair enough, their employees deserve big Saturday nights out too, but not so cool that they are then only open a mere six hours on Sundays - that's right, 'open-24-hours-ASDA' is actually only operational 27 hours out of 48 every weekend. But isn't that when most people shop?

Apparently there's some fine print underneath their big, red signs... Unfortunately I missed it.

I woke early on Sunday to get my shopping out of the way before a very big day of socialising. I rushed out of the flat and made my way up the hill to ASDA - fifteen minutes in the cold and (almost) rain... I even rushed past an old man at a set of stairs in my haste, only to propel myself into the glass doors at the store's entrance. I ran smack-bang into a sign displaying opening times that asserted, "Sundays 11am". I was livid, and kinda sweaty from my walk/run. So I turned in a huff and marched my way home.

In hindsight I really should have studied their sign more closely, as that afternoon, after my day of markets and lunching, I once again trudged up the hill (cursing their big, red, 24-hour sign that blazed down upon me), and went smack-bang into their glass doors once more. Because at twenty minutes past five, ASDA doors had been closed for almost a half hour.

With little other option than to laugh at my own stupidity (for I had cursed the ASDA corporation enough in the morning) I made my way back home. Luckily I had a spare tin on spinach in the cupboard, Popeye would have been proud!

Feb's Issue: Loving Leona

Bazaar-ians are big fans of Ms. Leona Lewis - she even graced our Gold party back on '07 with a private performance of three of her latest singles, including her award-nominated 'Bleeding Love'.

Even back in Oz, Lewis' soulful tunes coveted commercial radio and I hear she's making her mark in the States as well. From all of us at Bazaar, "Leona, congrats!"

On newsstands now!

Bazaar's Fasionista!

Here at Bazaar we have some fabulous individuals. One of my personal faves is fellow Sydneysider, fashion intern, Kelly Hume. At twenty-four Kelly already has five years of mag work under her belt - and more than a few designer belts, bags, shoes and rags to clutter her closet space.

In an effort to inform you, dear readers, on all aspects of Mag-land, I stole five minutes out of Kelly's jam-packed day to ask her a few questions...

1. What's your position here at Bazaar?

I started back in September 2007 as the assistant to Bazaar's Fashion Editor, Vanessa Coyle (Intern).

2. How did you start working in mags?

I started out doing work experience at Vogue Australia, which led to the position of Editorial Assistant on the Vogue Girl title and Vogue Australia.

3. What inspires you fashion-wise?

The 60's, 70's and 80's and all that that entails, music (punk, folk, psychedelica, rock), the French aesthetic and Parisian women, Francoise Hardy, Emanuelle Seigner, Brigette Bardot, Lou Doillon and Charlotte Gainsbourg. My friends and their amazing personal style. Doingbird magazine.

4. How does a fashion spread come together?

Long hours and ALOT of hard work. Essentially, we come up with the concept, request the clothing from the various designers all over the world, get it into the office, edit it and pack it all up to take to some far flung location to make look incredible!

5. What's your favourite part of your job?

The clothes and the girls (models) - really, I love them.

6. Where do you see yourself in five years? London? NYC? or back in Sydney?

Probably either London or NYC. As much as I love Sydney and the Australian lifestyle it is just not big enough an industry to allow for any real creative freedom while earning a decent income. I'll be back every Christmas though - you can't beat the sun and the surf.

A desk of my own

The funny thing about being an intern is that while the work we do is real (read: necessary and required) our position is temporary. We work full-time hours for a pittance of pay and yet at the end of our 'term' unless a permanent staffy leaves it's, "Thanks for the memories, and best of luck." Given this, it's important we get daily reminders about how fabulous we are.

Be these in the form of lunch invites, freebies from the beauty cupboard or even press trips, they reaffirm in our mind the reasons we're there and help to highlight the elusive 'greater good.'

Today I got my own desk.

Yes, for the past four months I have lived the life of an office nomad and jumped around from corner to cubicle, where ever on that particular day a permanent person was sick or out of the office, or both. Finally today I was given a little bit of territory, about 3-square feet of it, but it's all mine. At least, that is, until I'm replaced by the next intern.

Along with this office space comes a computer of my own and a phone line - yes, I even have my own extension, c'est magnifique! I remember experiencing a similar high last September when I received my Natmags e-mail address... ahhh, the memories. However, with the fashion intern leaving on Monday for her forth trip overseas - in as many months - for an 'on location' shoot (she's managed South Africa, LA, St Lucia and Marrakech), I'm starting to think that I chose the wrong internship. If only I knew how to style a shoot.

The Other Side of Life

At only twenty-four I know that I would hardly be described as an ‘older woman’ – but then why do I feel like the new Mrs. Robinson?

Let me clarify that this feeling is not prompted by any desire to date younger men, I am merely commenting on the social aspects of growing older, when you’re still deemed young (by some).

That is, we grow in stages. When you’re five anyone about the age of ten is older and wiser. When you’re fifteen people above twenty and below thirty-five are far cooler and more sophisticated than yourself, and those above thirty-five are in line with your parents, that is, they’re just old and cranky. But when you’re in your twenties things get a little confusing. We start to judge people on a more individual basis. They’re younger for their years if you know them well and admire them, but if you don’t like them they suddenly seem wrinkled and grey even if they’re only twenty-nine.

But these stages also go in reverse. And herein lays my dilemma. For the greater part of my life a boy in his late teens and early twenties was ‘cool and sophisticated’ and definitely crush-worthy. But now that I am in fact older than this bracket it would appear I need to shift my vision. This isn’t entirely devastating given that there are lots of nice (looking) men in their late twenties and thirties – any older and they’re closer to my Dad’s age than me – but it would imply that I need to give up my ‘boys’.

I was faced with this horrible prospect over Christmas when, at a party with friends, a gorgeous boy of twenty-one happened my way. Okay, maybe I circled him but only because he was just so divine! And even though there’s only three years between us, when it’s the girl who’s older (and she’s not Demi Moore) it just seems unfair to the little chicks climbing the age ladder that we in our twenties take dibs all-round.

Never mind the object of my affection had a girlfriend in the next room, he was eye-candy for me and nothing more… But what saddens me is that for the first time in my life I felt ‘old’. I was the cougar in the room while the other girls were kittens. And now I can’t seem to stop eyeing out little-uns. On the plane of the way home I watched The December Boys (2007) and started to think that eighteen-year-old Daniel Radcliffe was a bit-of-alright! Is this a sickness or merely paranoia? And heaven help me when I hit thirty!

Back into the Spring of things

Dark and early this morning, the Intern found herself waiting outside her beloved Beautcamp Pilates in East London - in the wind and rain - for the arrival of her salvation, in the form of her trainer Daniel. After six long (and lovely) weeks of sunshine, wines-and-dines, coffees and cakes and everything baked back in Oz she's ready to lose the pudding. Her core is kaput and her muscles are jelly, and the fake tan she so diligently applied while away has faded completely. Simply put, she's schlepping back into London life.

While friends and family made sure that her time back home was fun-filled, the daily grind of 3 to 4 catch ups (that's breakfast, lunch, dinner and drinks) with them all was enough to make her question if she'd been on holiday at all. And now returned to London there are friends that wait eagerly for her tales from abroad, demanding every juicy detail and expecting embellishment of stories lacking-lustre.

So what does a girl do when her body clock is out 11 hours, and her brain turns to mush before the dinner bell has had a chance to chime? When the body that she tortured with an hour's stretching, contorting and resisting, decides to spasm and strain as she reclines on the couch? She blogs of course. Why? Because she's missed it. She's missed telling her tales and sharing her thoughts, and uplifting pictures from Google that so perfectly illustrate the stories she spins. She feels she's let down her loyal readers and for that she apologises. Never again will she take such a long break from her laptop. So stay tuned, and keep smiling, 2008 looks to be a very promising year!