V-day

As Valentine's Day approaches each year many romantics are filled with equal measures of hope and dread. Not me. Mr. B and I decided long ago it was not for us. I think of it as a 'Hallmark' occasion.
This year was a bit different, well for me anyway. I had a bride and her sister checking in to our next-door AirBnB house on the 13th. They would spend the night before the wedding there, having a bit of a girls night with the bridesmaids, then prepare themselves and leave for the wedding on Valentine's day. The newly wed couple would then return for their wedding night. No pressure . . . I just had to make it perfect for the bride. After-all this was going to be part of a big chapter in her life, the stuff of memories. I decided I would festoon the house with flowers. I started planning it in my head weeks before.
As it happens, and it may be a symptom of my over-excited, over-active thyroid state, I was uncharacteristically swept up with the romance of it all. I decided I would put on a surprise romantic meal for two for me and Mr.B, but on the eve of Valentine's Day, as I needed him to be at work so I could spend the day cooking without interruption.
Just the week before, he had spontaneously bought me 2 cook books that I had admired recently - 'Jerusalem' and 'Plenty' by Yotam Ottolenghi, so I thought I'd prepare a middle eastern style feast for my beloved. A few weeks before, I had also spotted a beautiful beaten metal lamp shade in a local bohemian home wares store, reminiscent of one we had seen in Bali and regretted not buying. I bought it immediately and it became the centrepiece of my plan. I would set up a table and chairs for 2 in our back yard and hang the lamp from the tree above. I planned fairy lights in the jasmine and candle-light clustered amongst the potted palms. I pictured a balmy summer evening. I obviously read too many 'lifestyle' magazines.
I'll start with the lamp. Of course it was not supplied with any kind of electrical fitting. No problem, I'm a handy kind of girl. So early in the week, off I went to our local DIY superstore and perused their lighting department. A kindly staff member tried hard to make head or tail of the issue, was charmed by the back story, and came up with a suggestion. Plan A: I buy a cheap outdoor floodlight and dismantle it, then pass the electrical wire through the top of the lamp shade and wire on a plug - Bob's your uncle! I got straight to it, no time to waste. Unfortunately once the flood light was out of the packet, I saw the plug was sealed on, and the light itself not as dismantlable as I hoped. I cut through the wire at the light fitting end, and passed it through the narrow tubular opening at the top of the gorgeous lamp shade. It came through, but the rough metal took rather a lot of the plastic off the wire - dodgy. I spliced the wires back together and wrapped them tightly with insulation tape - tah-dah! The flood light globe was too big for the lampshade and hanging at a alarmingly rakish angle. With baited breath and wearing rubber soled shoes, I plugged it in and flicked the switch. The light came on - victory! I stood back and gave it a final appraisal. It was a Frankenstein's monster of a thing - I could not hang that from our tree. One of us would definitely end up in A&E. I took it apart - it actually fell apart - just as well for the rubber soled shoes. Plan B: The next day I went to our local Swedish home-wares  behemoth and bought a cheap little table lamp, thinking that if I couldn't disconnect it and feed the wire through the lampshade, at least I could use it as a lamp elsewhere. It didn't work. Plan C: Next day I went over the road to my neighbour to ask for help. His lovely wife generously volunteered his time, and he had a horrified look at what I'd done so far. He looked online and sent me back to the DIY superstore to get an outdoor path light and a plug. The reasoning was that it would be low voltage and for outdoor use, smaller than the previous floodlight set-up, and not as dangerous to work on myself. Off I went again. I found the exact thing, but it looked a bit dubious to me. As I was leaving I saw a super-cheapo plastic garden up-light - only $4, the right shape if turned upside down, and totally made of plastic. I bought it as back-up. Once home I set to again. Time was of the essence and day was approaching fast. I couldn't make the path light work due to another sealed on plug, and I was not game to disconnect everything again. Plan D: The cheap plastic up-light was my final hope. It had the kind of rudimentary set-up where the electrical wire runs up into the globe connection where 2 metal spikes are driven directly into the wire to complete the circuit. I managed to get the wire through the lamp shade tube, but didn't seem to be able to drive the spikes deep enough into the wire, so off to my patient neighbour once more. He managed to do it in about 30 seconds flat. Thank goodness for kind and handy neighbours. The lighting part of the plan was accomplished.

The best laid plans . . . the beautiful, bohemian lamp shade.

Now for the cooking. I had been designing the menu for a few days and settled on the following menu.

Mezze course:
Burnt aubergine with garlic, lemon and pomegranate
Bittersweet salad (like love apparently, bitter and sweet)
Pureed beetroot with yoghurt and za'atar
Figs with basil, goat's curd and pomegranate vinaigrette
Main:
Roast chicken with clementines and arak served on a bed of rice
Dessert:
Set yoghurt puddings with poached peaches

Bear in mind I have never cooked from these books or anything middle eastern before. What's the worst that could happen? I discussed my plans with the ladies from the dog park. "You know you have to be a pretty experienced to cook from Ottolenghi. Have you cooked middle eastern food before?" Ha! Negative to both. My resolve was weakening. My over-active thyroid spurred me on. A frantic, but surprisingly fun, few days saw me driving all over town for exotic and unfamiliar ingredients: Za'atar, orange blossom water, date syrup, pomegranate molasses. I couldn't source Arak, but Yotam assured me that Ouzo would do the trick. Then onto the fresh ingredients. I was informed by the dog park cooks that Ottolenghi's recipes are maddening in their disregard for seasonal produce, and so it transpired. Fennel is in season now, but the clementines to accompany it are not - tired-looking mandarins from the USA had to suffice. Pomegranates are abundant, but blood oranges nowhere to be seen. The stand-in was a ruby red grapefruit. I soldiered on being creative and not discouraged.
The actual cooking went pretty much to plan. Dessert was completed the day before and stowed in the fridge next-door. The heady perfume of the peaches poaching in Ouzo was intoxicating. All good so far. Mr B was banned from the house next-door under the pretext that it was cleaned within an inch of it's life (which it was, simultaneous to the shopping and light connecting) for the bride/guest who would be checking in the next day.
The morning of the 13th dawned and finally panic set in. 8.15am drop girls at school. 8.30am at the market getting chicken and other fresh stuff for the meal and flowers for the AirBnB house bride/guest festooning. No time for breakfast. 10am take Annie to the dog park. 11am marinade chicken etc for main dish - needs a few hours. Beetroot in the oven for roasting. Midday cut branches from magnolia tree in the front yard, olive from the back yard and purple foliage and gum flowers from the trees in the street. Combine with market flowers to fill 4 huge vases and arrange at the house prior to check-in. Guest arrives promptly at 2pm, just as I'm accepting pretty white flowers for the house from my neighbour, who's gathered them from the street on her walk and is also caught up with the excitement. I greet the guest with dirty hands and face and leaves in my hair. It's around 30 degrees and I like to think I'm glowing, if somewhat damp. First impressions are so important.

Branches of magnolia, olive, flowering gum and ornamental cherry.

Festooned with flowers ready for our AirBnB bride. The bride leaving for the wedding ceremony - you should have seen the size of the stretch limo parked in our narrow, one-way street!

 

2.10pm back in the kitchen burning aubergines directly over the hob on the stove top. Messy but fun. Always up for something new. 4.30pm girls arrive home from school to find their mother and the kitchen in disarray. I've still eaten nothing by this point. They take charge, one organising tea and biscuits, the other extracting pomegranate seeds. 5.30pm Miss S goes to taekwondo - thank goodness I'm not doing the driving run today. The mezze dishes are mostly done or at least ready to assemble. The chicken is ready to pop in the oven. It starts to pour with rain. Torrential rain. Plans A,B,C,D for the bohemian, lamp-lit al fresco feast go out the window. 6pm Plan E takes shape as we spontaneously fling together table cloth and candles to create a 'romantic restaurant at home' setting. I put on a pretty frock and try not to look hot and bothered.

Romantic table set up. Look at the torrential rain outside.

6.30pm the doorbell rings, like a scene from 'My Kitchen Rules'. Mr. B and his bike are dripping and bedraggled. "Why don't you jump straight in the shower?" I call from the back of the house, desperately trying to buy some time, to no avail. Miss E launches another stalling strategy, throwing his own dirty socks at him as he strips off soaking wet gear. It's a little ritual they do most nights, but usually his socks aren't sopping wet. He doesn't buy it, and miss E gives up. He saunters down the hallway in his bathrobe, dripping unattractively. This is not the breathtaking restaurant reveal I'd imagined. "Surprise!"
"Oh! What's this? Special Friday 13th dinner?" He got with the programme pretty smartish and went and put on appropriate attire whilst I plated up the first course and got the main in the oven.
It went brilliantly. The feast was sumptuous, if I say so myself, and I was proud I'd accomplished this not insignificant event with a just little help from my friend Yotam, and a lot from my wonderful daughters. Mr B. declared it one of the best meals he'd ever eaten. Every dish was amazing, but my personal favourite was the Bitter Sweet salad. As Yotam said, both bitter and sweet, like love itself. After 28 years with the same person, you've got to pull out all the stops in the name of romance just once in a while.



Bitter Sweet salad - my favourite.

Roast chicken with clementines, fennel and arak (I used ouzo)

Set yogurt pudding with poached peaches.

A long time between posts . . . .

It has been a long time between posts. How have you been? I've not been so good since I saw you last.
2014 seemed to be going along nicely, and I was in a good place. Until I wasn't.
It's a long drawn-out story, and pretty familiar to lots of people, I imagine. We all go through this sort of thing at this stage in life, but that doesn't make it any easier.
Last May my mum was diagnosed with vascular dementia after having a hip replacement operation, apparently very common for elderly patients. I wish we'd known that before, but hind sight doesn't help the situation now.
My family were thrown into disarray, suffering from shock, anger, disbelief. Reports said early intervention could minimise the effects, but it seems the British National Health system moves at a glacial pace. We were frantic with frustration. By the time there was even an official diagnosis, months later, it was too late.
After months of nursing Mum at home, Dad needed a break and asked my brother and sisters to look after her while he went on a 10 day fishing holiday in July . . . to Russia. Yes, remote Russia, with contact only by satellite phone, and at a time like this. A bone of contention to add to the simmering pot of frustration.
Since they all work full-time, and both my sisters have young kids, I volunteered to go over to do my bit. The plan was that I would stay with Mum the entire time, and they would take shifts for a few days at a time, so there would always be 2 of us on hand.
It was great to catch up with each of them, and wonderful, if sad, to spend time with Mum. We talked about old times and sang hymns in between Mum forgetting who I was from moment to moment. Unfortunately our fears were realised when Mum had an episode which called for hospitalisation. They suspected a silent heart attack or mini stroke, but never got to the bottom of it. A stressful time was had, and Dad couldn't be contacted until he was on his way back anyway, and Mum came home even more frail and confused.



Mum and me - August 2014. Confused, but still Mum.

Dad couldn't seem to accept Mum's further incapacitated state. He was in denial, and wanted to take control as if nothing had happened. I was exhausted, distressed and resentful. We had a huge fight and some dreadful things were said. I tried to leave. He wouldn't let me. An uneasy truce was formed for Mum's sake. When the time came for me to come home, sadly I couldn't get out fast enough. Unfortunately due to massive flight delays in Birmingham and Dubai it took 3 days to get back to Melbourne. In the end I just made it in time for our 20th wedding anniversary.
No time for a breakdown once home, with my mother-in-law descending on us for a 4 week visit, just a fortnight after I got back. I'm very fond of her, but I wasn't overly pleased, and that's an understatement. She came with us on our much needed family holiday to Queensland, where upon she promptly twisted her ankle and required several trips to doctors and the hospital. It wasn't her fault, but I was in no fit state to care for anyone. A less than ideal situation. I sorely needed quiet time with my family to recover. It was a stressful and nit-picking month, which saw me in tears too often.
I was losing weight, mentally and physically exhausted and bitter. I have been going to counselling ever since.
Mum's dementia has progressed quickly, and she is now waiting for a place in a residential care home. Frustration has been replaced with acceptance. I've recently been diagnosed with Grave's disease, an autoimmune overactive thyroid condition.
OK, that's out of the way now. Enough of the self pity. The overactive thyroid, whilst having debilitating symptoms of anxiety, weight loss and insomnia, also comes with a side-order of super-energy, so I have been really busy getting all sorts of things done around the house. I finally painted the front door frame I commented on a year ago, finished painting the inside of the window frames, and made several pairs of mittens for koalas recently burnt in the South Australian bush fires. I'm planning a total re-design of our front yard complete with tiled porch and new planting. Skinny and busy - I can't seem to slow down, but I have decided I'm now mentally able to start posting on The Urban Nest again. I'll take it slowly - don't expect too much. I think it'll do me good now that life is back in focus.

Mild Obsession

My name is Therese and I collect mid-century crockery. I've said it. I admit I'm a recovering addict of sorts, obsessive, if you will.
My obsession began when I made my first breathless purchase, a gift to myself for getting my fashion degree, in the late 1980s. There was a cool little shop selling retro fashion and knick-knacks on my route between the town centre and the college campus, and I ogled the window as I passed by every day. During the frantic weeks of preparation before the final collections were due, I promised myself the gorgeous set of 1950's ceramic storage containers in the window if I achieved my goal. I willed myself on and prayed the set would not be sold before the final results were received. I can still taste the thrill of possessing that first set. I see it every day and I still love it.

My first (crockery) love. We've been together almost as long as me and Mr. B.

I can remember where each piece came from, and how I felt when my eyes settled on it. Each piece feels like treasure to me, though most of it is worth absolutely nothing in money terms. I have found pieces at antiques fairs, charity shops, retro-vintage stores and garage sales. I have pieces designed in England, Scandinavia, Japan and  Australia. I have sets collected bit by bit, from all over the place, stand-alone statement pieces, and several odd saucers - I love them all.

Homemaker - I've collected this set for years; Parisienne - discovered last year in Portobello Road Market; Stardust - bought from an antiques fair at Alexandra Palace (Ally Pally) in the early 90's. Don't you just love the names!

We found this stunning piece by Rathjen in a little store off Chapel St.; One of my most treasured - found in an Op-shop for $5. I use it as a fruit bowl.

Most of the collection is from the UK and was eagerly sent for from storage in my sister-in-law's attic after we settled in Australia in 1997. It felt much more like home once they were here, like having my family around me. I feel oddly emotional about my crockery collection.
I had 2 tiny matching saucers that didn't make it out to Australia with the rest. Bought in a second-hand shop, they had been at the back of the cupboard under the sink in my parent's kitchen since 1991, when Mr.B and I left for Hong Kong. They were hand painted with a charming leaf design called Palma Nova, and made by Broadhurst of Staffordshire in the late 1950s. Over the years I would covet them whenever I was visiting. Mum often said I should take them home with me to Australia. Last year when the whole family were together at my parents house I decided I would this time. They made their final appearance during afternoon tea in the garden, when Dad, bless him, got his foot stuck under the table whilst handing out biscuits. One of those precious saucers flew high into the air, in slow motion, and smashed into smithereens in front of my horrified family. I tried to make light of it for my Dad's sake, but I brought every tiny particle back with me, wrapped in bubble wrap - a bit late for that. I tried to stick it back together, without success. I don't know why I should be so upset, I hadn't had it with me for over 20 years and it probably cost about 10p.

Gorgeously quirky platters; Odd saucers - I use these friendly little things for tea and biscuits. From front: the rather lonely survivor - Palma Nova, Kingston, Jamboree

Although I'm not a purist and I don't follow particular designers or manufacturers there does seem to be a common aesthetic to my collection. I'm not sure what it is - maybe colour, pattern, shape?
They come out sometimes if we're having dinner guests, or more often when there are tasty comestibles being served with drinks. They are not contemporary, minimalist or chic and I sometimes wonder if people think we can't afford nice things, or have terrible taste. Not everyone appreciates their quirky beauty.
These days the collecting has slowed down to almost nothing, mostly due to lack of space and hunter-gathering time. Maybe it's because I haven't spied the perfect piece lately. Whatever the reason, it's a tantalising thought that I could find something amazing in any place at any time. Maybe I have my addiction under control . . . and maybe not quite.

Full to capacity, and there's loads more in the kitchen.

Farewell to old friends.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm a hoarder. Clothes and shoes have been my obsession for most of my adult life, and working in the fashion industry hasn't exactly helped. This was excusable when I was working, and needed to be suitably attired in the latest niche whatever (I told myself this anyway).
Well, I haven't been going out to work anywhere for the past 2 years, and silk dresses aren't really suitable when cleaning out the chicken coop, nor high heeled boots much good at the dog park. My wardrobe doors are increasingly difficult to shut, and it's making me feel guilty. So, this Sunday coming up, I'm going to sell a whole heap of my hardly worn fashion at a designer re-cycle market. More room in my wardrobe and a bit of cash for me - win, win!
I heard of the Take 2 Markets a few years ago - they specialise in 'Recycled Designer and Vintage Fashion'. Sounds right up my street. I tried to book a stall several times over the last year or so, but they sell-out quickly - a good sign.

Cropped linen jacket - Yeojin Bae; Padded cotton jacket with cut-out under-arms - Akira; Polka Dot blazer - unworn - Gap; Navy leather bomber jacket from Argentina.

Well, my luck has turned and I finally managed to secure a stall, and now it's all systems go here at Fashion Hoarder HQ. Whilst going through my wardrobes and throwing anything I haven't worn at all, or for at least a year, onto the bed in a disheveled heap, I realised that I was feeling a bit sad, disloyal even. Most of these frivolous things have a story, or at least a distant memory of the euphoric feeling you get when you find the latest must-have. There's a lot of history here, of my former self, the fashion career girl travelling the world on inspiration trips. There's also quite a bit of history of the fashion mug buying unsuitable things at designer sales, in the heat of the moment. That's probably more accurate.

Oh you pretty things!

Cotton embroidered dress - Husk; Silk and lace dress - Thurley; Silk embroidered dress - Catherine Malandrino; Silk print dresses - Anna Thomas (above), Ted Baker; 

The high of a fashion purchase is heady stuff indeed. I've fallen in love with the most outrageous and unsuitable items - too big, too small, too ridiculous - and bought them anyway. What was I thinking? The perfect Italian made, snakeskin leather cowboy boots - size 36 when I'm a 38. I hobbled around in them once, for about 2 hours and my feet nearly fell off. The amazing, low slung, slightly cropped and bell bottomed pale blue, viscose/silk pants - I bought them in Amsterdam, seduced by the European vibe no doubt. Probably too dressy for the supermarket. Goodbye my pretties! 

Regrets!

So, as I photograph and price things for the sale, I'm saying goodbye to all these old friends. I'm a bit nostalgic right now, but glad there's way to liberate these things to new owners who will hopefully get more out of them than I did. It feels good to be less wasteful and maybe even make a bit of cash. Who knows, I may even find new friends there to take home with me.
If you are in Melbourne this weekend and would love a good rummage through heaps of international and local designer fashion, and Edenstar samples and seconds, pop in and say hello - and try to stop me buying anything else!

Busy!

It's been a long time between posts. I'm busy, really busy - busier than a person with no job has a right to be. I have a new job, of sorts. I've become a host with AirBnB.
For those who don't know, we bought the house next door a little over 4 years ago when our neighbours moved to Sweden.  Since these houses are pretty tiny, it was our dream to eventually join the two houses together to make it possible to swing a cat without having to move to the outer suburbs. Mr. B likes to call it the 'West Wing'. For the first 2 years we rented the 'West Wing' to close friends. It was lovely having them right next door, and wonderful watching their daughter grow up. Then Edenstar's warehouse lease ran out, so we said goodbye to our friends and moved Edenstar in so I could work from there, with the bonus of realising my veggie garden dream. This has proved to be a wonderful dream that we couldn't quite afford, and we started thinking that we'd have to rent it out again - something we'd rather not do. I love my garden too much, and Edenstar still needs a home. We had a visit at Christmas time from our ex-neighbours from Sweden who were keen to see what we'd done with their place (remember the grapevine prank?) They suggested AirBnB as a solution to our dilemma, and they were absolutely right. Thanks M and C!
I grabbed this life-raft with both hands and set about making it happen. It seemed pretty straightforward setting up an account and listing our place - somewhat more difficult photographing interiors competently. Looking at other similar listings the photographs looked good - the bar was  set pretty high. After following several online tutorials and Pinterest tips and learning a bit more about how to actually use our camera, I ended up with shots I was quite pleased with. I found out after uploading them, that AirBnB offer a free professional photography service - note to self, read the fine print! Anyway, I learned a new skill.
So, I finally got everything uploaded and had prices and details sorted. After faffing about with the smallest details the moment of truth arrived to go live at the beginning of March. I was anxious for everything to be perfect. Mr. B was gently scathing, " It's not as if we will be inundated with bookings in the first 24 hours," he scoffed. It'll probably come to nothing." Poo-pooing is his specialty.
12 hours later we had our first confirmed booking, a lovely young couple from Amsterdam for 4th - 6th March. We were as nervous as kittens in the days before, and also had to turn away 2 more enquiries who wanted to come even before that. They arrived and were absolutely lovely, left the place neat as a pin, and we got paid straight into our bank by AirBnB, no dramas. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Since then we have been flat chat with guests. We were hoping for 10 nights per month occupancy and so far have had 11 in March and 16 in April. We're up to 6 booked so far for May, but plenty of time for more. We've had enquiries as far ahead as October and January next year. There's been quite a few scare stories about AirBnB being used for unsavoury purposes, but so far everyone has been nice, quiet, tidy, normal.
It's hard work, but honest. It's not as glamorous as the fashion industry, that's for sure. I spend my days cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, mopping floors and ironing bed linen (I've never ironed my own sheets, but they look like someone's already slept on them if they're wrinkled). I've become a nit-picking perfectionist, but we've earned a 5 star rating and I'm proud of myself. If anyone fancies a stay in a nice little place in Melbourne, check out our listing here.
Edenstar still occupies 2 rooms which are locked when we have guests, we keep the garden, and we can decline enquiries whenever we want the place to ourselves - perfect!
We get paid on time and without fuss, and there's nothing glamorous about waiting up to a year to get paid for stock that's already been sold, having to bring in debt collectors and always being made to feel like the bad guy. Bah! I'm over the fashion industry.
So it's a new direction for me, and if things keep going well I won't have to re-join the workforce. Hopefully that means plenty more pottering about in the garden, walks in the park with Annie, being around for my family and Urban Nesting.

Credible, Likeable, Superstar Role model.

I'm so happy that the Misses S and E have strong nerd tendencies
Last night I went to the theatre with friends. This doesn't sound unusual, but since I hardly ever go out in the evening, and I dislike live theatre, this was quite an adventure for me.
I was keen as it was a rare chance to get together with girlfriends I hadn't seen for ages, without Mr. B and the girls. Quite grown-up really. I hadn't the faintest idea what the performance was about, couldn't remember the name, and didn't really care.
After a slightly awkward, live-performance-art kind of start, I was mesmerised. The show was Credible, Likeable, Superstar Role model, performed by award winning UK artist Bryony Kimmings and her (now) 11 year old niece, Taylor.

Bryony Kimmings and Taylor in Credible, Likeable, Superstar Role model

The stage show was born after Bryony spent time with 9 year-old Taylor in 2012, and experienced the sorts of role models being marketed to this vulnerable tween age group. She tried to view today's world through a 9 year-old's eyes and was understandably horrified, terrified and angry. I'm sure we all remember our 9 year old selves looking up rude words in the dictionary. Don't even try to imagine what happens when you do this on an ipad. Not so funny. She quotes ongoing research into child development where for forty years children chose kindness as the most important personality trait to have as adults, and now they choose fame. Miss S told me that the sole ambition of one of the 'popular' (read disruptive and rebellious) girls at school is to be famous "like the Kardashians". That is sad.
The show is about her reaction against this and the journey to find out what 9 year-olds really want in a role model. She helped Taylor create her ultimate alterative role model for tween girls, Catherine Bennett, a pop-star paleontologist who loves eating tuna pasta and wears knee-length skirts. She's a bit weird, but she's the creation of a 9 year-old girl, and is that really any weirder than Miley Cyrus or Katy Perry? When you look at the difference between them the realisation is horrifying - what tween girls really want, and what's being marketed to them. Dear god, these are 9 - 12 year-old girls we're talking about. I was interested in horses and guinea-pigs at that age, not sex and pop-music (still am).

Catherine Bennett - alternative role model and pop-star paleontologist.

I found the show inspiring and thought-provoking. The opening scenes were laugh-out-loud funny (not me - I'm the miserable theatre poo-ba), then the middle made me so angry and upset - I looked around and saw people in tears in the dark. This performance is not for children. Taylor herself wears headphones in the adults only parts. The end was uplifting - a bit of audience-participation song-and-dance stuff - I was totally into it by then, doing all the silly hand movements. I came away from this experience feeling less powerless against the exploitative nature of the world our daughters are growing up in. Apathy is unacceptable and we all have to be on our guard, but it's not impossible. I felt empowered somehow.
Bryony and Taylor are trying to make Catherine Bennett a real, famous, role model in her own right and quite separate from the stage show. Bryony thinks they're doing well, having appeared in Yoko Ono's Meltdown festival, Woman's Hour on Radio 4, and at The Southbank Centre. Taylor sees fame more from her tween perspective and is seeking 1 million hits on YouTube and an appearance on the Ellen DeGeneres show as a measure of true fame and success.
The Sydney Morning Herald called Credible, Likeable, Superstar Role model . . . "brilliant, provocative, humorous, angry and deeply moving theatre, born of intense love and profound worry about the world children will grow up in."
Luckily for me, my girls love Dr. Who, Taekwondo (both double black belts now) and the entire recent book genre of teenage girl assassins (think The Hunger Games and Divergent - violent, but at least the girls are in charge - refer back to double black belts). They are not the slightest bit interested in Miley Cyrus or the Kardashians. Thank god.
If you have a daughter anywhere near this age group go and see this show if you can find it, and see if we can't get Taylor her 1 million hits on YouTube.

A Certain Age - How I customised my new dress, and why.

Last week I bought a new dress. A simple enough transaction you'd think, but my feelings are so conflicted towards this garment.
I had admired another dress on a lovely friend of mine who possesses a certain style and grace. I was in luck. She'd got it in a mega bargain sale and would take me straight there without delay. I was excited to say the least.
The shop was one I had walked straight past a million times. There had never been anything in the window that caught my eye. It was a nondescript boutique, and I imagined, frequented by ladies of a certain age, from a certain middle-class family suburb. However, it turned out that the racks were packed with garments I would definitely wear every day, and I happily exited the change room with an armful of bargain goodies.
I spotted this dress in the far corner. I loved it from the get go and as soon as I popped it on I could imagine every daily situation. It's a useful dress, to be worn in hot weather to the dog park, the garden, the chicken coop, school pick-up, even to lunch if I was one of those ladies who lunch. It looks great layered over jeans and came in loads of colours, but the yellow was so cheery. It was 75% off - a grand total of $26. A no-brainer.

Cute as a button - the dress that wasn't good enough for a fashion snob.

I started to have misgivings as soon as I'd made the purchase. I had just bought a dress from a middle-aged, middle-class, lady-of-a-certain age, family-suburb type boutique. My ego silently screamed "No! You are a fashion designer from the fashion world. You wear designer dresses from upmarket boutiques that cost a lot of money." On the way home I spotted a lady wearing exactly the same dress in a different colour. She was 'of-a-certain-age' and not very fashionable. I was horrified, and I felt like such a cow because I was horrified. Conflicted most definitely.
I wore the cheerful dress to the dog park the very next day. Cute and comfy. The sunshiny yellow attracted a lot of compliments. I felt a bit better. Then one of my dog park pals, Georgie, admitted to having the same dress, and she's at least a decade younger than me. I spilled out my story, hoping for redemption. At the part where I mentioned middle-aged women from Malvern, I was suddenly struck by a thunderbolt. That is exactly who I am. She was amused at my discomfort. We were joined by another doggy pal, a lovely, friendly lady also of-a-certain-age. "That's a lovely dress!" she exclaimed. Georgie burst out laughing. It was too much for me. I haven't worn the dress since.
My excuse is that it's in the laundry, but deep down I know why it's really there. So after a bit of internal turmoil I have pulled my elitist, snobby, uppity self together and resolved to customise the offending garment.
Today I decided to dip-dye the hem and make it my own. I used a Dylon dye suitable for cotton, and dampened the bottom half of the dress and gave it a bit of a wring to crease it a bit so the dye runs up. I mixed the dye up according to the packet instructions, but halved all the quantities and made only half the amount as I didn't want too much liquid. I used a large stainless steel salad bowl for the actual dyeing. I rigged up the laundry rack in the backyard and used a plastic drop sheet under the bowl. I hung the dress on a plastic hanger on the rack over the bowl with the hem dipped in, and waited the 1 hour specified. I didn't do all the stirring instructed on the pack as I don't mind an uneven effect and I didn't want the dye to splash up onto the rest of the dress.

Waiting for the dye to fix. It looks beautiful already.

When the dyeing time was up I followed the rinsing / washing instructions carefully, but only for the hem part of the dress trying not to get any surplus dye on the un-dyed part. Then I wrung out the wet part really well so that it didn't stick back on itself whilst hanging and transfer unwanted dye. Whilst it was hanging on the line drying I decided to do a bit of hand stitching at the neck area. I was aiming for a Boho chic / Isabel Marant type look. Head in the designery type clouds, I know, but there's no stopping me now. I looked on the internet and found a tutorial for feather stitch. Just the look I was after.

Using a bit of baking parchment I traced a grid and pinned it on to make my stitching even. I'm quite pleased with that.

Once the paper was torn away, I couldn't believe my eyes. I absolutely LOVE my new dress now!

NOW I love it!

The End of an Era.

Today is the funeral of my beloved Grandma, know to everyone as Doody. She passed away quietly last week aged 100 years old. She was the last of her generation.
I feel melancholy rather than out and out sad. I'm not upset. I've hardly cried. It's not what I expected, and I feel conflicted. I feel that I ought to be sadder, but actually I feel relieved, for her and all those that loved her. Maybe it's because it was her time, or well beyond her time really. She lived her life well and fully, and left behind 3 generations that have felt her wonderful warmth. OK, now I' crying.
The last 4 years, since Pappa died, have been awful for her. He was the lucky one - he had a massive stroke and died the next day. Quick and clean, the way he would have wanted. They were a formidable team and a lesson to all on how to build and maintain a marriage over a very, very long time. They had celebrated their Diamond wedding anniversary and more.
When Pappa farewelled this mortal coil,  Doody found herself drifting, rudderless in a bewildering sea of loss. It was no longer possible for her to live independently, so she moved to a home for the elderly. She was a social lady, and we hoped for new friends and another episode in her twilight years, but it wasn't to be. After a nasty fall she was bedridden and dementia soon took hold. There followed four years of confusion and heartache, but it is how she lived that showed her calibre.

Young Doody; Doody and Pappa's wedding; Kate and I on holiday with Doody at Butlins - 1970

From the moment she welcomed my Mum, 5 years older than my Dad, a different nationality and a different religion, she showed her true warmth and strength. The expectation had been that my Dad marry his sweetheart, the daughter of a close family friend. Instead his adventurous spirit took him to Hong Kong to join the HK police, where he fell in love with a beautiful and exotic local girl from a good family. Doody fell completely in love with my Mum from the very start. There was not a drop of stuffy British prejudice in her, and so her loving and staunch support of my family began.
My childhood memories of Doody are pure magic. She was a young granny by today's standards, at 52, and we all benefited from her energy and vigour. I was the first grandchild. Lucky me. I had her for the longest.
My cousin, Kate, was next in line and only 18 months younger. Doody paired us up early on, and we would often stay with her together, just the two of us. I remember the long summers we spent, and all the brilliant and often hilarious stories we have to tell.
On one lunch outing, when we were very young, Doody wore a rather sophisticated turban style hat. We were nonplussed. I was anxious. “Doody, have you broken your head?” Kate piped up, “Don’t be silly, can’t you see she’s a magician!” Doody told us she never wore that hat again.
She fostered a close, life long bond between us. We are like sisters, even now with me in Australia and Kate in the USA.

Lee Bay in the front yard 1974 - I'm top left; Lee Bay in the front yard 2013 - I'm second from the right

2 summers running, some time in the 1970's, Doody and her sister, Aunty Mary, gave my parents a much needed break and took me and my siblings, 4 of us, on holiday to a fantastic old house, The White House, right on the beach at a tiny hamlet called Lee Bay in Devon. Aunty Mary's house keeper and her two sons came with us. We were a jolly party. The fortnight was spent picnicking on the beach, catching unfortunate crabs and tiny shrimps in the rock pools, and walking over the cliffs to the enchantingly gorgeous twin towns of Lynton and Lynmouth - 6 children - toddlers, strollers, the lot. Women were made of hardy stuff in those days! They were magical times, and not a theme park or iphone in sight. We visited Lee Bay last year on our UK visit. It's almost exactly the same and we re-created an iconic family photo right in the front garden of The White House. So many happy memories.
Our family moved around the country quite a bit when we were kids, so when it came to choosing a location for our wedding, Mr.B and I chose the my grandparents parish church. The roots I had there were stronger than anywhere else. Dood and Pop were delighted, and hosted a special family party in their garden the day after the event. No caterers here, Doody and other family members prepared all the scrumptious food themselves. It was an event in itself. Think clipped lawns, a white marquee, Pimms and smoked salmon -  a perfect English summer garden party to welcome Mr.B's family to ours.

Our wedding 1994 - Doody on the right in the navy hat, Mum on the left in cream

Doody and Pappa were so excited to welcome great-grand children, and the Misses Sand E were the first of their generation. We visited when the girls were 10 months. The oldies were beside themselves when we arrived, late, after the car broke down, with hungry babies. There was no time for proper introductions. Doody and Pappa got straight to it with a baby and a bottle each. The expressions on the faces of all 4 of them were priceless.

Doody and Pappa with Misses S and E 2001; Doody and the girls 2008 - the last time we saw them.

We visited several more times, but not as much as we should have or wished for. That's the price you pay for living so far away from family. The last time we saw Doody and Pappa was 5 years ago, when they were both still pretty sprightly. Our last goodbyes were raw and emotional. They knew it was the last time and held me so tight I thought I would pass out.
Today is bittersweet. They will be together again in a woodland grave site carefully planned  by Pappa. Let's hope he's still in there and hasn't been too badly damaged by badgers that have been digging in the area. His sister, my Great Aunty Gwen, will join them when her ashes are scattered there today too. It'll be nice for her to get out from under my Aunty's stairs after all these years!
So farewell, Doody. Here's to you, and hoping that the 3 of you are up there with a glass of sherry and a good game of Scrabble.

Edenstar

I've been thinking a lot about whether or how to write about Edenstar. The highs were so high, and the lows so low. It's been difficult to think about,and I have mentally put it away in a box and shut the lid tightly. Since it has been such an important and almost all consuming passion, and taken up 10 years of my life, I decided it would be good, even cathartic. I warn you, it's a long story with lots of pictures. I may be a basket case (again) by the time it's finished.
I started my kid's fashion brand, Edenstar, in 2003 when my girls were just 2 years old. After working in the commercial fashion industry as a designer since 1987, I became driven to put my ideas into my own boutique brand for my own kids after doing it for others for so long. It also gave me the flexibility to work around my family's needs, or so I thought. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The first collection - Summer 2003 - We sell to 8 local stores

I survived on adrenalin in the early years, working from home and around the girls. Mr. B was on board and designed graphics, did the photography, the accounts and all the back end admin as well as working full time in a real job. Friends caught onto the excitement and gathered over tea and cake to help hand embroider skirts, sew buttons on shirts and pin tags onto garments. The girls were the cutest models, and the brand was fresh and new. Boutiques lapped it up. Our wholesale business grew quickly. It was hard work but so much fun.

Winter 2004 - Our first order for New Zealand; Summer 2004 - We take on a NSW sales agent

Reality set in when I started showing at trade fairs and wholesaling interstate. Together with two other local brands, Purebaby and Mill & Mia I travelled around Australia putting together mini trade shows from hotel rooms and having the best of times. We had such a laugh and supported one another through the chaos.

Winter 2005; Summer 2005

A few years on and things escalated when I became friendly with sisters running another local brand, Moppit, and we travelled to New York together to meet sales agents and show at trade fairs. This period was equal parts excitement and terror. Showing at an international trade fair was absolutely exhilarating, and Edenstar won the award for Best Newcomer. It was great to have the Moppit girls to share with. We are good friends still.

Winter 2006; Summer 2006 - The collection that won us the Best Newcomer award at New York's ENK Children's Club Trade show

The business had outgrown our tiny home. There were rolls of fabric in every room, and you couldn't see the lounge room floor for boxes when we were packing orders. I almost despatched our old cat to New Zealand once when he fell asleep in a box full of stock.

Winter 2007; Winter 2008

So we took on a small warehouse. It was too ambitious financially, and somewhat cold and unfriendly. We had no choice. Stress was at an all time high, and I felt as if on a hamster wheel, running at top speed, getting nowhere, and unable to get off. We were exporting internationally by now. We had sales agents on the East and West Coast's of the US, the UK, Hong Kong, New Zealand, and locally Sydney and Brisbane, a distributor in Spain, and were the in-house brand at the gift shop of the Palm Jumeira Resort in Dubai (the one where Kylie sang at the opening!). I was travelling to trade fairs both here and in New York. I was exhausted, terrified, and guilt-ridden, but driven on by the promise of elusive financial success.

Winter 2008 - We get an order from the fashionable Scoop chain in New York; Summer 2008 - We get an order from the prestigious Selfridges in London

The high point was when Edenstar was included in a book - Kid's Fashion Designers - published by Daab, an international distributor of design books. We were the only Australian brand included. It was good for the ego, but meant nothing in real terms. I just couldn't give it up. Like a class A drug, so addictive and harmful. It looks pretty in the pictures, but it was ugly behind the scenes. Edenstar had become a monster.

Winter 2009; Summer 2009 - The Global Financial Crisis takes hold and our Northern Hemisphere orders are cancelled

At this point the Global Financial Crisis hit. Perfect timing. Stock for our international orders was in the warehouse ready to ship. Most were cancelled as global panic ensued. We were left with A LOT of cancelled stock we had to pay for. It was a disaster.

Winter 2010; Summer 2010 - The local retail market is still afloat and we scale down production.

Mr. B put his foot down. As a director of the company he ordered a halving in expenditure, or he would close it down. He was right. I can see that clearly now. We moved to cheaper warehousing and I halved my assistant's hours. I felt crushed and my designs suffered. I was pretty much on my own, trying to keep my head above the water, and diversified into women's wear hoping that retail market might be better. The first signs were encouraging, and I really enjoyed the change, but that sunk too in the coming year.

Winter 2011; Summer 2011 - Australia finally feels the effects of the global economic downturn and we call it a day for children's wear.

We came to a cross roads when retailers stopped paying their bills and our warehouse lease ended. I felt trapped, but couldn't see a future without Edenstar. It defined me.
Then fate stepped in and my Mum became gravely ill in the UK. It was sudden, and instantly things became clear. Edenstar was put on hold and there it stays. Mr.B was very kind. There could have been finger pointing and 'I told you so's', and it would have been deserved, but Mr. B came through for me when I was at my lowest. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health . . . . 

Things slowly returned to a new and better kind of normal. I'm happier than I've been for a decade. I hope never to put Mr. B and the girls through that again, or myself for that matter. I'd like to say I've been the victim of the world recession, but that's not entirely true. Ambition played it's part. I did it to myself, and it wasn't pretty.

The highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I feel like a recovering drug addict. There, it's on the page and I feel all the better for it. Now you know.

Summer 2011; Winter 2012 - Edenstar women's wear only lasted a couple of seasons, but I loved it.