Sartorial Splendour
Oh, heavens! It's 6.30am. No time to waste. Up and straight into my K-Mart Yoga pants and ancient Floyd Productions company t-shirt. Not doing yoga though. Fuck that for a joke at 6.30am. I consider going commando in the yoga pants but decide to keep myself nice. My cat weaves at my feet as I make the long and treacherous journey to the kitchen to give him his morning Fancy Feast and put my egg on to boil. My bloke is wearing Peter Alexander shorts covered in Buddy Holly (or is it Patrick White?) glasses as he tames the espresso machine. He is the coffeemaster.
Shower time. Oooh, in the nekkie-noo-nah as the warm water gently wakes me. I am wearing Redken on my hair and, er... some kind of nice lemon myrtle soap from Byron Bay. Aah, and then, wrapped in an oversize bamboo bath sheet. It hides my shame. So soft. It's a bit of luxury as I pick the bits of vintage cat litter from the soles of my feet and piff them back into the vintage litterbox.
Clarins on the face. Chanel and Lancome on the eyes. Doesn't help much. They still look like piss holes in the snow. Hair looks like one of Phil Spector's cheaper wigs. On a humid day. Could be worse. Could look like one of Bea Arthur's cheaper wigs. On a humid day. I bundle up my hair into a knot held with a Japanese style hair clip from Harrison's Pharmacy. I know it's Japanese because it has a flower on it. The paint is peeling off it, so I figure it's vintage enough.
The work hour draws near, but I'm going via Broadway Shopping Centre to check my PO box. I like to look nice for Broadway. Skinny jeans, some shit from the fat chicks' department at David Jones on top and shoes I bought on sale at Bloomingdales a year and a half ago. I'm not so concernd by the jeans as it's Pantsless Thursday at work. The lady at the post office is wearing an exclusive Australia Post shirt. Intimidating!
Arrive at work. Off go the jeans. I'm straight into a meeting with the head of our video company. He knows me and is accostomed to my idiosyncrasies, so I'm feeling ok. I make myself a cup of some kind of berry-related herbal tea in my Remo 'Keep Calm' mug.
Lunchtime. Off to the House. Glad I wore closed toes shoes, as otherwise there might be a safety issue while I'm poking around on stage. No pants poses less of a problem, thankfully. Mostly because it's a stage orchestral for Figaro, so Dominica Matthews is also pantsless for some of Act 1 and most of Act 2. I'm in good company.
The workday ends, which means I have just enough time to change before dragon boat training. I slip into my blue Stingray rashie with neck zip, 3/4 lycra leggings, new Merlin gloves, faded Adidas cap and vintage Timberland water shoes. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent water shoe? Thankfully, my Merlin cd3 paddle hides a multitude of sins! Or, at the very least, takes the attention off the rest of my outfit due to the lairy trident painted on it. If only the zip on my water bottle belt wasn't rusted shut from the salt water, I'd be able to pop on some vintage lip balm.
The training session ends after hours of paddling in a 300kg boat, dragging a giant orange plastic cone around Blackwattle Bay. The cone is technically known as a sea anchor, so depending on which one it is, it's either known as "The Bitch" or "Son of a Bitch". Mostly because after about 30 seconds, it leaves people exclaiming "Son of a bitch!" We crawl off the ramp and into our cars after putting the boats away. We all look as good coming off the water as we did going on. Consistency is key.
I write this at night on my balcony before retiring to bed, on my something-or-other thread count sheets from Adairs. I decide to piff my contact lenses into a pot plant. They are far too vintage. It's time to start afresh tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day!
(In response to this)
Shower time. Oooh, in the nekkie-noo-nah as the warm water gently wakes me. I am wearing Redken on my hair and, er... some kind of nice lemon myrtle soap from Byron Bay. Aah, and then, wrapped in an oversize bamboo bath sheet. It hides my shame. So soft. It's a bit of luxury as I pick the bits of vintage cat litter from the soles of my feet and piff them back into the vintage litterbox.
Clarins on the face. Chanel and Lancome on the eyes. Doesn't help much. They still look like piss holes in the snow. Hair looks like one of Phil Spector's cheaper wigs. On a humid day. Could be worse. Could look like one of Bea Arthur's cheaper wigs. On a humid day. I bundle up my hair into a knot held with a Japanese style hair clip from Harrison's Pharmacy. I know it's Japanese because it has a flower on it. The paint is peeling off it, so I figure it's vintage enough.
The work hour draws near, but I'm going via Broadway Shopping Centre to check my PO box. I like to look nice for Broadway. Skinny jeans, some shit from the fat chicks' department at David Jones on top and shoes I bought on sale at Bloomingdales a year and a half ago. I'm not so concernd by the jeans as it's Pantsless Thursday at work. The lady at the post office is wearing an exclusive Australia Post shirt. Intimidating!
Arrive at work. Off go the jeans. I'm straight into a meeting with the head of our video company. He knows me and is accostomed to my idiosyncrasies, so I'm feeling ok. I make myself a cup of some kind of berry-related herbal tea in my Remo 'Keep Calm' mug.
Lunchtime. Off to the House. Glad I wore closed toes shoes, as otherwise there might be a safety issue while I'm poking around on stage. No pants poses less of a problem, thankfully. Mostly because it's a stage orchestral for Figaro, so Dominica Matthews is also pantsless for some of Act 1 and most of Act 2. I'm in good company.
The workday ends, which means I have just enough time to change before dragon boat training. I slip into my blue Stingray rashie with neck zip, 3/4 lycra leggings, new Merlin gloves, faded Adidas cap and vintage Timberland water shoes. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent water shoe? Thankfully, my Merlin cd3 paddle hides a multitude of sins! Or, at the very least, takes the attention off the rest of my outfit due to the lairy trident painted on it. If only the zip on my water bottle belt wasn't rusted shut from the salt water, I'd be able to pop on some vintage lip balm.
The training session ends after hours of paddling in a 300kg boat, dragging a giant orange plastic cone around Blackwattle Bay. The cone is technically known as a sea anchor, so depending on which one it is, it's either known as "The Bitch" or "Son of a Bitch". Mostly because after about 30 seconds, it leaves people exclaiming "Son of a bitch!" We crawl off the ramp and into our cars after putting the boats away. We all look as good coming off the water as we did going on. Consistency is key.
I write this at night on my balcony before retiring to bed, on my something-or-other thread count sheets from Adairs. I decide to piff my contact lenses into a pot plant. They are far too vintage. It's time to start afresh tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day!
(In response to this)