Bye-bye Bazaar... See you in 6

About a month ago our Art Director found LivingOutLondon during his Web travels. It may surprise some of you that I have kept this little-bitty under wraps, but in a way, my blog is my baby and like all proud parents I want it to be loved and not judged. My workmates are in the mag world. They are talented writers whose names are routinely in print – and they’re the subjects of a lot of entries – so I was a little anxious about how they’d take it.

Then last week two more in the team came across it when searching for info on Elton’s party (see Little bit of excess) and news of my hobby has spread like wildfire. So far – feedback-wise – so good.

But today is my last day in the office so I thought I’d take some time to say thanks for the last 3 months… and I’ll see you again in the second week of January.

All for Organic

Today I met with a girl from work for a good-ol’ cup of Fair Trade Organic coffee. I’m all for organic, when it won’t completely break my budget. Because as much as I like to think that my body is a temple, I am aware that my holy-rear is rounder than my bank balance.

Back at the office I thought I’d check out a bit more about this organic craze – you know, just to confirm in my mind why I paid three quid for a coffee. I was interested to find out that because of the intensive processing methods of all types of tea, coffee and cocoa (non-organic ones as well), “it is highly unusual for any pesticides to be present in [any] end product” (according to www.aboutorganics.co.uk) … So, sorry, why should I go organic?

Apparently organic foods are grown using sustainable farming practices (so, no deforestation), and for those who go further to produce Fair Trade foods and beverages, this ensures that the workers on the plantations enjoy good working conditions free from exploitation.

To be honest, £3 for coffee is fairly average on Carnaby Street so if given the chance I’ll go Fair Trade Organic if it’s available, and I guess that’s what we as consumers should do – every little bit helps. For those of you energised from your organic-caffeine hit and ready to take on the world, check out www.FairTradeCertified.org.

No sugar and little spice, isn’t very nice

Okay, okay, I know. Fad diets are bad. But that doesn’t stop us getting desperate and hoping without hope that the next one we try will actually work. So, last week I tried another one.

After two months of ‘regular exercise and eating right’ (as in low fat, low sugar, good amounts of protein and lots of veges and legumes) I still hadn’t lost any weight. And my jeans didn’t feel like they were swimming on me, so I argue that my measurements hadn’t changed that much either. When told about a new fang-dangly ‘detox-diet’ I thought, “What the heck? May as well.” I’ve tried them all. Beyonce’s Lemonade Diet – where you don’t eat for 10 days and only drink a concoction of freshly-squeezed lemon juice, purified water, cayenne pepper and organic maple syrup – was by far the most enlightening. Unexplainably I had more energy than I’ve ever had. Like I was doped-up on speed… Perhaps my starving body was going a little gah-gah?

This new one cut out all additives – no salt and no sugar – but allowed balsamic vinegar. So before lunchtime I could eat all the fruit my heart desired (except bananas), on the menu for lunch was white fish with salad or steamed vegetables dosed in balsamic, and dinner, just veges, again covered in black gold. No legumes, no meat, no lemon juice (that’d be like having fruit after 12pm!).

The first three days went along fine. I felt full, if not a little sad that I was missing out on yogurt and morning bran flakes with cinnamon (note: cinnamon helps balance your blood sugar so I add it to cereal and tea to quench cravings). But come Friday I was a woman on the edge. My poor flatmate had to listen to me moan about the lack of sweetness in my life – it’s amazing how cutting out sugar can turn your smile upside down.

Never one to want to give up, I pushed on until Saturday night. Then I caved with a lovely glass of Tempranillo, and a poached egg on multigrain courtesy of a girlfriend desperate for me to start eating normally again. With a little salt and pepper, it was the best darn sandwich I’ve ever tasted.

While definitely not sustainable, I did learn a few things from my week on lean-greens, they be:

Fruit is not the enemy, but should be eaten on its own to help your body digest it, and stick to the types higher in Vitamin C (like oranges, mandarins and berries); and that

Balsamic vinegar works just like soy sauce in terms of adding flavour to your meal, but has none of the sodium so detrimental to a happy heart.

But bring on the red meat baby and gimme gimme gimme a cup of tea with milk!

Our Aussie Angel

At only 22 years of age, Miranda Kerr has established herself among the ranks of the 'Supermodel'... and she's proudly Aussie, born-and-bred. Most recently she was seen sashaying down the catwalk of the coveted 2007 Victoria's Secret Show as one of the 'top Angels'. From one Aussie to another - "Congrats, babe!"

The Intern had the pleasure of meeting Miss Kerr on a few occasions during her time as a waitress at Cafe Gitane in New York's SoHo... and even got invited to Kerr's joint-birthday party earlier this year - and she would have gone too, had she had something, anything in her wardrobe suitable to wear! One of life's regrets...

Flights (and hotels) behind the fancy

Flicking through all the pretty pages in a magazine it is easy to take for the granted the enormous amount of work that goes on between the seams. Even as a writer the process is fairly easy – you’re briefed and commissioned for a piece, you write it and you’re done. Then you just have to wait a couple of months to see your words printed on glossy paper and maybe a few more months to actually get paid!

As an editor, things get a little bit more complicated. Fashion and Beauty editors are notorious for spending their days running here and there; to and from shoots and when they are in the office they’re frantically calling in samples and more often than not asserting down the line to a designer’s PR that clothes or shoes have been returned. For some reason said-PRs always call before actually looking for the pieces in question.

For the Managing editor it’s all about ‘the Budget’ (that will never be met) and reigning in copy that is way overdue. And then there’s the Bookings editor… the poor soul who is in charge of all the nitty-gritty. When Fashion decides that they want to shoot with a Shaman in the rainforests of the Amazon it’s her job to book the flights and transfers, find accommodation (and a Shaman!) and organise the model/s, the photographer and assistant/s, hair and make-up, a producer and all the extras – because there are always little extras that need to be factored in. And this is one person’s job. And it’s a nightmare. I know, because at the moment I’m helping out our BE.

This is a job that doesn’t stop at 6pm. In fact, the past two nights I’ve been online until the wee hours confirming accommodation in the States before all the PRs head home for the Thanksgiving holiday. Our BE, however, is in the office most nights until after 10pm. Crazy and thankless, it’s a job that can drive even the most organised individual completely bonkers. I have spreadsheets and costings coming out my ears and am racking up a pretty hefty international phone bill (Natmags account, of course!). So keep in mind next time when you ponder about how glamorous the mag-life is, because the prettier the pictures the more troublesome the shoot – believe me!

Busy Little Bee

It is my firm belief that the world is divided into those who plan, and those who play. Play their life out like everyday is a new beginning and every hour a gift that just popped into their life’s inbox. Obviously, I’m a planner.

This characteristic has caused me some heartache in the past, with friends taking offence to me ‘pencilling’ them into my diary a week or more in advance. My argument: such premeditation shows how important they are to me. I want to ensure that I’ll have time to see them and that months won’t fly past without a catch-up, coffee or telephone conversation shared. And the reason I pencil? In theory because it allows them to change their plans if needs be… Sadly, in reality it is often me doing the event-shuffling.

I’m not a piker by nature, although I have been known to cancel nights out in favour of the couch. But I’d never cancel on a friend specifically… I’d never leave someone hanging at the club’s doorway unless I was sure they were safely surrounded by other (more reliable) mates. That’s honourable enough, isn’t it?

No, it’s not that I’m flaky; it’s just that I’m a realist. I know that some of my nearest and dearest are prone to making that last minute phone call (or even sending a character-killing text), whereby they say, for whatever reason, that they are no longer able to meet up. So, sometimes – more often than I’ll admit to them – I double book. And sometimes, this bites me in the behind.

Last Saturday I scheduled myself six-consecutive catch-ups, and I ended up cancelling on two of them. While the friends in question weren’t at all put out, I felt like a failure. I cursed the London transport system for not being able to get me from A to P to S to Z in less than 30 seconds... And then a friend (who I had managed to squeeze into my day) commented that I shouldn’t feel guilty, that I always over-extend myself, and that if I continued like I have been going, I was going to burn out. Actually, two friends I saw that day said the same thing.

So, am I a failure? Or am I too ‘nice’ (her word not mine)? Is it better not to put people in your diary at all, for fear that you might not be able to make it to the ball on time? I’d like to think that I will honour all commitments to the best of my ability and that if a friend is in need I’ll find a way to get myself by their side (London Underground be damned!), but even in today’s rush-rush world it’s just not possible to be in two places at once.

I suppose that’s a good memo for me to stick on my calendar!

No pain, no gain!

Even though it’s raining and the average temperature in London has dropped to 10°C
I feel totally pumped. Why? Because I’m on yet another mission: to get bikini ready before heading home for Christmas.

I’ve always been a crammer. Rote learning is my specialty. So while other people give up hope faced with the reality that your body cannot undergo a complete metamorphosis in only 2 weeks, I take it as a challenge. Without the aid of medications (diet drugs are bad, n’kay) and with no funds to allow for lipo, gastric-bypass or plastic surgery, I have taken to the pavement and taken to ‘the bed’ – Pilates bed, that is.

But this is not news. If you read your daily Feedblitz you’ll know of my current Pilates-faddiction and even my attempt at a mini marathon – what is news is that I’m not the only crazy-cat out there. In my Pilates class this morning, I discussed with the four other attendees the nature of our obvious masochism. How else can you describe people who voluntarily get up at ungodly hours – in the freezing cold – to stretch and contort their bodies to the point where their muscles burn and they are at serious risk of throwing up or fainting, and then break into fits of laughter when their instructor orders another 10 reps?!

I remember when I was about 12 and I started jogging in the mornings with my Dad, I used to sing the mantra, “Your body doesn’t stop until your brain tells it to” (sung in 4/4 time with a lilt at the end!). And for the years that I practiced Bikram Yoga – 90 minutes of sustained torture in a 34°C heated-room – I used to deliberately push through painful positions by focussing on impressing my teacher with my endurance. Now I wonder if I sound a little mad.

At least I can take solace in the fact that there are a bunch of other ladies who are similarly obsessive and likewise fickle in their exercise pursuits – because sure enough (although I truly hope I keep this one up) I will be singing the praises of a technique one day and rejecting it the next… Go on then, call me crazy.

Little Minds and Bodies

I consider myself an optimistic person. Not a saint by any stretch of the imagination, but I truly believe that if you choose to see the brighter side of life that good things will come your way. This trait definitely helps when you're living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, earning less than your rent from your day job and trying to squeeze in two part-time jobs on the side. Because that really could be enough to get a person down. Instead, I like to blog about it -so that others may derive some enjoyment from my sad existence.

So lets talk about my last couple of weekends, shall we? They have included babysitting, babysitting and more babysitting (Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, and all-day Sundays). While others were out at the pub or sharing a meal with friends, I've been playing dress-ups with eight-year-olds, watching Nickelodeon, and on the rare occasion (if I can help it), chasing little boys around small courtyards in an attempt to catch-them-if-I-can. I was coaxed into the latter activity by an eleven-year-old boy who suggested that it would be a good form of exercise and further asserted, "No girl wants to be fat." Ahhhh, thanks. And I thought I was looking good.

The Sunday jobs, while far more exhausting than the average couch-fest (three kids: B11, B8 and G5), have given me the opportunity to see two of the latest kid's-flicks. I do love a good Disney film. The other weekend was Ratatouille - the one about the rat, Remy, with the great sense of smell, who makes it big in a Paris restaurant with the help of the hapless but well-meaning Linguini, a young man destined to meet the girl and take over the restaurant! Mixed with some token bad-guys and a few kitchen capers... It's simple, yet so entertaining.

Yesterday's theatre experience, however, left me feeling very old. Warner Bros latest movie, Nancy Drew (introducing to the big screen Emma Roberts, niece of Aunt Julia) in the title role, is definitely one for the whole family - sneaky sleuthing with good morals, pink cupcakes and a dash of crime where the criminals are suitably dense to ensure Nancy teaches them their lessons and takes them willingly to the court house. There's even a love interest for Nancy... the only problem (for me) is that Nancy looks barely thirteen and her boyfriend, Ned, even younger. And yet the film has them driving! Not only driving, Nancy has her own car - a blue vintage Roadster. And Ned even drives it across country from Long Island to Los Angeles. Ummm, he looks like the little boy I told to brush his teeth and head off to bed last Friday at 8pm.

I was struck with the realisation that when I was fifteen I thought I was so old, so mature and ready to take on the world. Now I cringe. Oh my golly, did I really look like Nancy? Did my first boyfriend resemble the bare-faced Ned? Jeepers creepers... say it isn't so!

Buy Now

Keep an eye out at newsstands for our December issue. It's all about Glamour!

A little bit of excess

Have you ever wondered about the lives of the uber wealthy? Heard someone say, "Money can't buy you happiness..."? Well, I think it can. I think it does. And I want in on the game.

Last night I attended Elton John's Grey Goose cocktail evening - held at the majestic Piazza in Covent Garden - to raise money for his AIDS Foundation. While Elton was on tour, his longtime partner, David Furnish, presided over the evening, where five custom-designed (by the likes of model Liz Hurley, artist Sam Taylor-Wood, Burberry Creative Director, Christopher Bailey, artist Dinos Chapman and Furnish himself) cocktail mini bars were auctioned off to London's elite. It is interesting to note that as I write, I am babysitting in the home of one of the bidders (just found out that little coincidence tonight). Mr and Mrs X bid a whopping £40,000 for the chance at owning Dinos Chapman's Ice-Cream Van and the rights to the designer cocktail that went with it (a yummy blend of Grey Goose vodka with lemon curd, orange liqueur, sugar syrup and whipped cream)... They were in fact outbid, at £45,000.

I'm all for a good cause - but I have to say that I was more into the cocktails and the drop-dead gorgeous waitstaff than any of the bars themselves. Trust Elton to have organised a modelling casting call when hiring his servers. The boys were dreamy - bare chested studs wearing tuxedo shirts undone just enough to make your knees go wobbly - and the girls, stunning - having had their hair and make-up professionally styled and all wearing skinny jeans, stilettos and Penguin-suit shirts with waistcoats.

Then there were the delicious canapes. Tiny portions of melt-in-your-mouth delights like caviar and goats cheese on a spoon, salmon and roe buttons and Thai-style beef in mini tortilla wraps. There was even a buff-waiter dressed in khaki commandos carrying a hot plate of potato wedges with sour cream and ketchup.

Before you get too jealous, I must insist that I was there in a official capacity (yeah, right!). It was my job to point our photographers in the direction of the celebs who had graced the evening with their presence and point out any stylish fashionistas - and then harass said-socialites about Who they were wearing and ask their favourite obscene cocktail. During the course of duty I chatted with Kelly Osbourne (yes, she really does wear too much make-up and that pastiness isn't just bad lighting), got my neck nuzzled by Jefferson Hack (ex-flame of Kate Moss and father to Lily Grace), and even got propositioned by a seriously wealthy (seriously old) London Sir - who shall remain nameless - who invited me for lunch at Luciano's next week. Have yet to officially decline the invite... such an outing would be great fodder for a blog!

If mixing with the rich and famous at the Piazza, and being served by men who can only be described as sex-on-legs, wasn't enough, when the party came to a close I joined a few of my fellow reporters in a cab to arguably London's hippest hangout, Bungalow 8. Being a Wednesday night, and with one of our party on the members list, we were ushered to our table by our personal waitress for the evening, BB. She was lovely, and happily served us our £45-a-pop Valentinos (champagne cocktails topped with an Elderberry flower, and a gift from my new found friends). There we chatted until the wee-hours - 2am or thereabouts - until we called for our private (company-paid-for) cars to pick us up and take our Cinderella-slippered-selves home.

Now you can't tell me money doesn't buy happiness. Last night I was elation personified!

Dinos Chapman and model waitress in front of his Ice-Cream Van Bar

Jodie Harsh, David Furnish and Kelly Osbourne

David Furnish's Aqua Bar with its live Mermaid and Master Mixologist, Salvatore Calbrese

Tube Travels

Catching up with friends last night, discussion turned to London's beloved Tube. As the world's oldest underground transport system (services began on 10 January 1863) responsible for an average of 3 million commuters each and every day, the Tube is the life force of our fair city.

But as with all things that nourish and protect us (think, your parents) we love to whinge and complain when they don't always meet our expectations. There have only been a handful of mornings where I have had to wait more than five minutes for a train, and even less times when I have had to wait for the next service because my train was too full. Usually, when this happens, travellers patiently bide their time until the next one, but if that train is likewise packed, that's when the shoving starts. And boy, do we Londoners know how to shove!

With the underground tunnels being in some parts over 140 years old they aren't exactly spacious, and modern trains have had to keep within their tiny dimensions. Thus, as passengers we have learnt to contort our bodies and jam ourselves into the smallest of spaces, often times rubbing more than just shoulders with the other random people on board. And here we come to the crux of last night's conversation... smelly Londoners.

Maybe it's the unusually close proximity. Maybe people smell similarly bad on New York and Sydney trains and I've just never been pushed up under their armpits to know it. But in London you're very likely to find out exactly what someone has eaten for breakfast/lunch/dinner, simply because you'll find your nose within an inch of their face for a good ten minutes of your Tube journey. Bad breath is one thing, but sweaty-pits are the worst. Last night one darling friend regaled a story of throwing up after being thrust into the hairy, wet armpit of a man at a rock concert. Tragic, I know. But while her story didn't occur on the London underground, the rest of our party agreed they had found themselves equally close to puking when Tube-travelling.

And then there are those passengers who like to take the opportunity to cop-a-feel. I find it interesting that a country not known for overt public displays of affection or physical contact, has commuters who readily cram themselves into already packed trains. It's not uncommon to find yourself spooning some businessman, and having his briefcase wedged in between your legs, because the automatic train doors closed just as you scrambled on board. But occasionally some Jockey decides he'll take a sticky situation and run with it. Said-friends acknowledged more than a few incidents of pelvic twists they weren't quite fond of, and yet at no time did they ever address their molester. It seems that we're more than happy for our bodies to squish if it means not having to wait for the next train, but it's too much to formally address a person we don't know, even if they are taking liberties with our breasts and bum!

That just wouldn't be proper.

Beautcamp my Booty

Okay, it's time to admit it... I'm a fad-happy kinda gal. I tend to go into a new venture super gung-ho and after a few months (18 months max.) my resolve fades...

But not this time. I swear to you, I have found the answer to everyone's prayers re: their wobbly bits, and it is Beautcamp Pilates (an extreme Pilates where the exercises are performed on a reformer bed with the aid of springs and weights).

I first read about it in the UK's beloved Grazia magazine (a weekly glossy that surprisingly manages to squeeze quite a bit of text onto pages of celeb photos and fashion must-haves). So with only three weeks to go until I head down under for some sunshine and beach-action, desperate times have called for the serious expenditure of my new found babysitting-earned cashola. At £20 a pop - and that's with a discount, peak-rate classes are £25 - Beautcamp Pilates is not exactly cheap. But... it works.

Yes, I have only attended one class, but I have started (and stopped) enough fitness regimes in the past to know which ones work and which ones are just for laughs. In Beautcamp, there's no laughing. This morning, bright and early, I made my way all the way up from South-West London to the North-East for a 7am session. Given that the temperature had barely reached 6 degrees when I set off, and the fact that in my neurotic-style I arrived 30 minutes early when sadly the club didn't open until 7am, it's surprising that I enjoyed myself at all. But I did.

Daniel, our instructor, asked if I had done Pilates before, which of course I have (that was actually my longest running fad starting back in 2003 and ending 18 months later when my gym membership got too exy), but I told him that I had never ventured into the world of reformer (with the exception of my Supreme Pilates machine that now leans idly behind my wardrobe door, gathering dust)... He was surprised then when I took to the bed so easily. Along with being slightly neurotic, I am also delightfully competitive, so I tend to thrive in classes, call it Teacher's-Pet-itis. After his first pat on my back, I started to regret my actions, because once Daniel knew my strengths he wouldn't let me show any weaknesses. With only 6 reformer beds in each class this is almost as good as one-on-one training. Today's session focused mainly on leg work (Pilates is all about you core-muscles so most mat classes tend to work your abs, but with the reformer bed, the muscle-torchering possibilities are endless) before we were even half-way through my thighs were shaking, and carves aching. But at the end, I felt amazing. If I could have physically jumped for joy I would have, but unfortunately my little legs found it hard enough keeping my body upright, so instead I texted some girlfriends about my joyous find. Without doubt I will now spend the next three weeks (three classes a week) boasting and gloating, and trying to recruit new members. London-based friends beware.

http://beautcamppilates.co.uk/

Beautcamp Pilates City of London
Unit 10 (Grey Gate), 10 Willow Street

Shoreditch, London EC2A 4BH

http://www.fastfitness.me

020 7739 1130

Beautcamp West London

34 Porchester Road

Bayswater, London W2 6ES

http://www.fastfitness.me

020 7034 0000.

Note: The Intern is indeed keeping up with her running three times a week (for those of you who read often and may have wondered what had happened to her mini-marathon dreams)... and in fact competed in her first 10km race a few weeks ago. She was going to blog about it but was waiting for the pics to come through of her charging past the finish line - in 57 minutes! - but alas, they have yet to be posted on runnersworld.com. Sorry...

Boutique Musings

In a last-ditch attempt to make some cash before she heads home for the holidays, the Intern has convinced her editors that she can complete five days work in just four (at least for the month of November), leaving her free to pursue a Friday role at a little boutique off High Street Kensington, Musa.

Musa sells a range of contemporary and vintage clothing and jewellery for women, by original designers, from all over the world (including British label Pink Soda, Australian designer Megan Park and New York jewellery designer Yvone Christa). Its owner formally dressed the rich and famous before opening her store, and now has her own range of original Musa footwear – ornate sandals made in Italy and studded in Swarovski crystals. Having pre-sold her entire first order (retailing from £100 for a basic set) it is clear that the store isn’t her only bread-and-butter. This leaves the Intern dusting and folding the shop and preparing tissue paper for the upcoming (and much-anticipated) shoe packing in December.

Like many of the boutiques in the area, customers are few and far between. Those that do stroll in are of the highest order – the wives of wealthy traders who spend their days at the spa, or with their personal trainers – and barely blink an eyelid at spending upwards of £600 on an outfit for a casual dinner or weekend get-together. Last Friday was no exception. Open from 11 until 6pm, the store saw less than a dozen shoppers, and made only two sales.

This new role will certainly be a source of more entries to come – ladies of leisure can be so much fun!

Musa

31 Holland Street, Kensington, London, W8 4NA

020 7937 6282

Calling for Cavalli

Yesterday marked a moment in designer history - Roberto Cavalli launched his one-off collection at H&M (available in only eight of their UK stores, 10 in the USA, and 200 worldwide).

The Italian designer, known for his luxurious runway collections, has previously celebrated the exclusivity of his ranges (signing a dressing contract with Victoria Beckham, and announcing Kate Moss to be 'the face' of his Spring 2006 collection), but now it seems Cavalli's name will be donning many a mere mortal. Even shoppers not familiar with H&M's range started lining up at 5am at their Oxford Circus store to buy from the much-anticipated collection.

But is it worth the hype?

Promoted as a sexy, festive and affordable line, the range includes a whole-lotta-leopard-print, tuxedo styles and faux fur jackets (see pics below). The Intern has yet to make her way into the store - sadly even with H&M price-tags her budget this month leaves little room for wardrobe updates - but if it's anything like Kate Moss's Topshop collection, she can take it or leave it. There's only so much polyester one can wear in a lifetime, and her limit was reached in her late teens. But what is glorious about designer fashion is the fine attention to detail and the luxurious fabrics. Real silk, 100 per cent cotton, cashmere wool and soft leathers... no matter how stylish a design, it's what the clothes are made from that counts. No one likes sweaty, sticky fabrics on their skin, and unfortunately, that's what you generally get what you try to make low-cost couture.

Leopard print blouse: 59.90

Tuxedo blazer: 99.90

Faux Fur Jacket: 249

Note: Thanks to WhoWhatWearDaily.com for images from the collection.

The Ring

When I think of Vienna, I think of the stunningly-debonair Baroness Schraeder in The Sound of Music. I think of crisp mornings and gorgeous gothic architecture and of Marie-Antoinette being whisked through the forests (that surround the city) to meet with her new French countrymen…

But if you’re planning a visit, you’ll need more than just my idle-wondering to tide you over – you’ll need a place to stay. So I give you, The Ring.

Located in the main Ringstrasse (city centre), the hotel offers its guests casual luxury at luxurious prices. Having stayed there on its opening night, I have to be honest; they need a few more months settling into their surrounds before I’d suggest a stay there. The rooms are indeed plush – king size beds, mounds of fluffy pillows (with a colour scheme of chocolate, latte and pistachio), flat-screen televisions, Villaroy and Boch bathroom appliances, Molten Brown soaps and creams, and well stocked mini bars. The fitness centre leaves a little to the imagination; however, the sauna does have a lovely porthole window overlooking the city’s gothic buildings and Stephansdom cathedral.

Take a peek for yourself…

The Ring Hotel
www.theringhotel.com
Doubles start at € 325 per room, per night
Kärntner Ring 8 1010 Vienna Austria +43(1)51 580-761

Two Days in Vienna

Well the Intern has hit the big time. Late last night she trundled back from Luton Airport after a whirlwind 24 hours in Vienna – Austria’s capital city – having just been taken on her very first press trip. Yay, yay!

As travel assistant, I have gone to great lengths to make myself the go-between for all the PR peeps. When screening my editor’s calls, I make sure people have my email as first point of contact. But this isn’t as devious as it may sound… having been so busy with our January travel supplement, Ed and depEd haven’t been answering their calls anyway, and at least if I get the emails I’ll make sure they hear about the important ones. Last week I even managed to schmooze the owners of a five-star safari lodge in Tanzania with the hopes that my winning smile could induce a press trip invite early next year. But it was only on Friday that I received confirmation of my invite to the opening night at The Ring in Vienna.

You have to love London’s location, that you can simply jet off to another country for a day, a night or a weekend. Vienna is only a two-hour flight, and after meeting with my fellow press members, and our two PR agents (ScarlettPR: www.scarlettpr.co.uk/), we boarded our flights and off we went.

Arriving in Vienna in the early afternoon we were picked up at the airport by the hotel car. Vienna as a city is lovely. Colder than London – which I learnt too late so ended up freezing when on our guided tour on Wednesday – but blessed with gorgeous old buildings from the baroque period, and more than 800 public gardens.

At 6pm on Tuesday we were ushered out of the hotel, and taken across the road to their sister hotel, The Grand (http://www.jjwhotels.com/en/grandhotelwien/). Over 135 years old, The Grand is historically luxurious, with architecture that celebrates the age of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Champagne, wine and canapés to start, we were then rushed back to The Ring at 7.30pm to wait for the big opening show.

Think lights, camera, action! The hotel’s white-stucco façade was lit with blue lights and giant speakers blared out the sounds of helicopters and police sirens – apparently they tried to hire an actual helicopter to drop off members of the police special squad, but aviation laws didn’t permit the level of low-flying required. Spot lights swirled across the six storeys, as we waited for something to happen (mulled wine in freezing hands!). Finally, two men in burglar-black abseiled down the building only to be captured by two members of the Viennese special police squad, who gallantly took back the key to the hotel and handed it to the owner, Sheikh Mohamed Bin Issa Al Jaber. It was only then, that we were let back in.

The night progressed full of Eastern European canapé delights (not to the taste of all our members, but loved by yours truly), and all de champagne, de vin und de bière you could drink! Festivities went on until the wee hours, apparently, but I was eager to take to my plush room to drown in the enormous pillows that lay scattered across my king-size bed!

The morning saw our group looking slightly worse-for-wear, as we indulged in a casual-luxury breakfast of pastries, bircher muesli and eggs any style (casual luxury being the hotel’s calling-card), and then set off for a tour of the city. The highlight was definitely the gothic cathedral Stephansdom where interior-refurbishments allowed us to take an elevator to the top of the cathedral's muraled-ceiling (see pics below). Our guide, a slightly feisty Viennese lady in her fifties, took to the only male of our troop, so their flirting (her giggling) definitely added to the entertainment factor, and kept me slightly warmer in the sub-8 degrees Celsius temperatures! No gloves. No scarf. I was delighted when lunchtime came around and we were once again off to another five-star establishment for some local delights. I relished the chance for real strudel once more (having missed my grandmother and aunts while I have been gone), and then we were off again, via the hotel car to Vienna’s International Airport. Talk about jet-setting!

Notes on the party...

Best bit Telling the local TV personality to tuck in her designer tag, her clothes on loan, of course...

Bit of a downer Waiting 20 minutes to have our tarot cards read in the sauna-come-séance-room only to find out our reader spoke no English!

Our station in life...

At the weekend I babysat for the first time in more than six years. I now live a truly contradictory life – BAZAAR parties and press trips one day, bath-times and bedtime stories the next. Sadly the last two months of my internship have left my Barclays bank account battered and bruised, and fear of another overdraft fee come rent day has forced me to take on a second job. Of course, the slightly-OCD-person-that-I-am started planning this job more than six weeks ago, but to work with children in the UK you need to be confirmed by the Data Protection Act, and it takes 40 days (and 40 nights) for Scotland Yard to make sure you’re no one who would offend Sherlock Holmes.

So now, at least three nights a week, you’ll be able to find me lazing on a couch, watching the clock and waiting for the parents to come home. Yes, I really do feel sweet-sixteen all over again.

Not one to feel sorry for myself, and not wanting to destroy the image of success I have been attempting to create, I must point out that these families are all uber-wealthy, and the couches in their gorgeous abodes are all very, very comfy. The Intern isn’t suffering too much, and her wallet loves the extra padding.

Saturday night introduced me to two charming little cherubs as well. Eight-year old twins, relocated from the States, boy (B) and girl (G) are just as polite as can be (B shook my hand when he introduced himself!). While I kept G company in the lounge room, watching Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses, B was in the kitchen watching a documentary on the building on a space ship that he had already watched, “ten times, maybe more”… Curious, I asked if he wanted to be an engineer when he grew up… to which he replied,

“Well, there are a few jobs I want to have, really. I either want to be the head of an oil company, or the head of a company that makes really big planes, or the head of a… (He went on heading another few large corporations), or the head of an airport. Yeah, I’d like to be the head of a big airport.”

It’s nice to aim high, isn’t it?

Gold Party

Last night was the Harper's BAZAAR Gold Party - decadence at its best. Bottomless glasses of Moet, girls in their glittery-finest, boys in their bests (although to some this still means jeans), and lots and lots of schmoozing.

Typically a night for BAZAAR to thank its nearest and dearest advertisers with some celebrity eye-candy and a few nibblies, 2008 was a bit low on the celebs, but not on the champas. And many a woman in pinching-stilettos was thankful for that.

The festivities began around 3pm when, although unvoiced, a general consensus was reached that work must stop and chatter about dresses, make-up and manicure and hair appointments must begin... Fashion of course had called-in the latest from Roberto Cavalli, Dolce & Gabbana and Balenciaga, while the rest of us had settled on a version of the Little Black Dress that hung in our wardrobes, and visited Accessorize in a lunchtime for something kitsch to gild our garments. By five o'clock the office had turned into one large dressing room. There were calls across the cubicles for eye-liner, perfume and tit-tape (to keep our gorgeous knockers in place)... And in typical mag-style we called for cars to take us the two minutes from Carnaby Street to Green Park.

Upon arrival there was the customary black curtain backdrops and paparazzi lined up waiting to snap those people who are actually somebodies... The Intern got snapped - unfortunately none of her pics made it into today's papers (sigh). Among the notables who did, were Leona Lewis (2007's winner of the X Factor, who sang three songs on the night), Sophie Dahl (with Jamie Cullen in tow) and Saffron Burrows. The Intern was gutted that she didn't get to chat to Sophie during the night, but took pleasure in the fact that she had at talked to the doe-eyed beauty earlier that afternoon when arranging her and Jamie's transport for the evening.