Social Notworking - Blag meets Blog…

Humour me for a brief moment whilst I FACT you….

…today there are more people globally accessing the internet from their cell phone than from a computer. Pretty compelling if you think about it. So bar you live in an igloo, you’re climbing Mount Everest or you have joined some form of wild jungle tribe, you can pretty much be sure to ride the super information highway whatever.wherever.whenever you, well….wishever!

Put simply, wi-fi has sent us sci-fi. 

Life on earth is now a life in the ether. Friending through Facebook can grow your little black net-book faster than Hayley’s Comet can hit our dot.com, so it is little wonder that our free-time has rapidly morphed to me-time, as we abandon the art of talk for an addiction to text.  

The concept of personal space has become as rapidly jurassic as a Nintendo 64. We carry ‘content’ rather than conversation.  So, as I share my lunchtime bandwidth with a complete stranger, I wonder... are we so powered by a world of efficiency and technology that we are in fact evolving into a new-age Gattaca, a super-breed of multi-taskers?

The cull of the smoke-room has killed the whispering of office gossip in the workplace, in fact you could almost hear a pin drop during new millennium elevenses. That is, of course, if it wasn’t for the crescendo of pocket-sized polyphonic ringtones telling us ‘you have mail’.

No - the truth of today's hardworker.com is nothing but smoke and mirrors. The office blagger has metamorphosed to rogue blogger, a nation of dextrous texters that can foil the eagle eye of any class room teacher or office manager, capable of downloading more updates through a 15 minute chatroom than was ever possible in a 15 minute secret smoke in the bathroom.

Life after-work is equally as promiscuous. 2 is no longer company, and 3 is no longer a crowd – social networking has us connected virtually in crowds of double and triple figures, faster than you can say logmein. A rendez-vous can turn photo in an instant - shared, liked, commented and tweeted before the physical conversation back on terra firma has barely even started.

Life on-the-go has transported us into a virtual world of bandwidth-bootleggers, moonlighting on the payroll hour to keep up to speed with a life that is moving faster than time itself. If the virtual clock keeps ticking so quickly, how long will it be before the real life turns TIVO, our lives pre-programmed with the function to stop, rewind and replay?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Sliding Doors….is getting the next train better late than never?

We’ve all seen the movie - Gwyneth Paltrow’s cinematic moment of truth where love and life hinges on whether or not she catches a train. In the Gwyneth version, she steps into a parallel universe with the luxury of seeing how her decisions affect her life, whether she catches or misses the train. For the rest of us, well they say hindsight is a wonderful thing, and our choices make us who we are.

In a whirl-wind week of networking and socialising I have rubbed shoulders with all walks of life, all with different train stories. It’s funny how keen strangers are to reveal their life and times and the many trains that have been caught and missed, tickets lost, tickets re-found. And it has made me wonder, does the journey we start out on in the morning have a pre-defined destination, or can the train we choose actually shape where we will go?

Clambering for the back are those that don’t even care if they make the train or not. The young and restless, with no consequence to worry about on the decisions they make and with a rock ‘n roll carelessness that is a pre-requisite for starting out on life’s journey - armed with student rail card and entrapped with the excitement of the euro-pass to discover and blunder at every stop along the way.

The trendy singletons, standing on the same Gwyneth platform, typical dot.com in attitude, the world is their oyster with one eye on the dream of the first class carriage and the other on the next stop please. The singletons are on the party train, usually sleepy eyed and on the first one out on the morning, usually from someone else’s neighbourhood station, rarely the same station one weekend to the next.

Already armed with the newspaper and coffee (travel mug, from home) and standing just before the yellow line is the 2.4 regular, owner of the obligatory value travel card. Fed up with the days of missing trains, they work to a disciplined routine and make sure they are on the platform 15 minutes early for the train that is guaranteed a seat.

However what has surprised me most, perhaps naïvely, is the number of people who are no longer on the Gwyneth platform, but have taken the train and are living in one or other avenue of the Gwyneth parallels - The next train lifeline that has taken them on a diversion or found a new destination, or searching their pockets for the lost ticket that lets them on the regular train that might be less exciting but reliable.

Personally, I shall stick to cabs - my rules and my journey. But the next time you wait by the platform, think before you catch the train, about where and what you really want to get reach...

‘Til next time, Pandora

Licence to Thrill…..or Mission Impossible?

Like every girl, I am a coveted collector of corsetry. A proud owner of a top drawer filled with frill overspill. So it was passion-perfect that this evening I had the pleasure of exploring the lacy intimacy of what is deemed to be the Aristocracy of naughty but nice (with an emphasis on the naughty), at the launch of London’s newest Agent Provocateur.

An event at Provocateur is exactly that, designed to arouse as you browse. So, as an accolade to all lovers of the under-cover, I am inspired by the underwired and ask the eternal question, Does Size Really Matter?

If good things come in small packages, then great things come wrapped in tissue and tied with a large satin ribbon. But controversially, for a gift that is designed to hit the g-spot, just how is it that the female fancy comes ready to wear, whereas the male attempt to choose his filly's frillies unreservedly requires a returns receipt?

One would assume that with such attention to detail on the female form, our men’s anatomical alphabet would fully understand A to Double D. Unfortunately for as long as he continues to measure cup size by the handful he is destined for illiteracy and, when it comes to lingerie, our boys seem to have very large hands!

Furthermore, the said ‘browsing’ habits of our gift-giving males further digress as the 'browse' moves from basque to burlesque. Subconsciously romantic turns to erotic and the result is a gift box of body dysmorphia, most commonly unwrapping the smallest of smalls and a top that even Pamela Anderson would struggle to fill. This woman is not in your bed, she is in your head!

By comparison, if (heaven forbid) we followed the same thought process the simple boxer shorts would probably need to come with a prescription of Viagra…but then again, size doesn't matter....does it?

What leaves me most perplexed by the opposite sex, however, is the speed at which male titillation can turn timid when it comes to buying lingerie. The simple buying of a bra can become the enactment of a secret mission – Objective: find-pay-leave as quickly as possible. Challenge: no human intervention, categorically no questions. Success: dignity intact, shame averted, embarrassment nil.

Somehow however 007 charm is overtaken by panic, licence to thrill turns to spill, mission impossible is now most definitely the art of the possible. 

To be so keen to undress to impress, I remain uncertain - What is it that causes our men’s boudoir bravado to be shaken and not stirred when faced with the licence to buy lingerie?

‘Til next time, Pandora

A man walks into a bar....

Human Nature, by default, drives us all to make a first impression about people, regardless of whether we intend to do it and regardless as to whether it is fair reflection of the person involved. Let's face it, how many of our close encounters are really of the third kind, or if we're honest, how many are very much of the carefully selected and deselected first kind? That ‘walk in the bar’ moment. The first handshake of a job interview moment. The clothes, hair, smile and scent moment. All or any of the superficial decision moments that categorise the X-factor from the definitely Not U-factor.

In a world that is increasingly overloaded with consumerism are we increasingly more conditioned to buy brand and to love the label more than the contents? First impressions count – our merchandising and promotion is vital if don’t want to reach our sell-by date.

Economists and socialists are calling it Erotic Capital – investing in our appearance as a success factor for success itself. Women have been doing it for years. A Saturday night out starts from Saturday morning between salons and shops, cultivating the perfect specimen venus-fly-trap. The importance of appearance in the workplace determines professionalism and drive - effort in self reflects effort in the job. But there is no denying that if we feel good about ourselves our confidence, and often our ability, improves as a direct result.

By comparison, the stereo-typical Triple-S male routine is no longer enough (the fact is, it wasn’t really ever enough…). We expect our boys to do more than a quick Febreze shower. Grooming is not a chink in the male ego-armour, it is a medal of honour. The scent of a man can decide whether or not we wish to invest in his erotic capital at all.

It is a known fact that good lenses can be irreversibly damaged by bad frames - the truth is we judge, and we are judged. What’s inside may count, but it only really counts if you can be bothered to take off the wrapper...  

So, as we join the battle of the super-brands, is it our packaging that determines the length of our shelf life, or whether we will be simply left on the shelf?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Because We’re Worth It....

Saturday morning 'me-time', effortless fleeting between coffee stops and retail treats but somehow always results in some form of unnecessary expenditure, the kind that always seems like such a good idea at the time. I have no doubt that there is a likely correlation between my appetite for ‘stuff' and my appetite for caffeine, but looking down on this week's me-time acquisitions it is a hype of a euphoric state, rather than hysteric. 

I am a Marketeer’s dream. But I am not unique. I am just one of a very large underground secret club. In fact, I am sure I have seen some of you before….?

Its kind of like Fight Club, same rules apply. To talk about it would suggest we don’t actually need the things we buy, which of course is ridiculous. Forget subliminal messaging. For members of  Swipe Club, our Achilles heel has a direct link to our brain, which is directly linked to our credit card. It’s that simple.

There is no secret handshake or sorority ring to this underworld, indeed the behaviour of the must-have impulse shopper is worthy of MI5 membership. There are a few tell-tale signs - typically a Dyson, the obligatory Elizabeth Arden 8-hour cream and categorically a set of GHDs (there is no other). Men tend to be slightly more elusive but are equally as die-hard – look out for battery powered disposable razors, or let's face it anything in the overpriced gadget category, but hidden deep there is a usually a secret tanning lotion and/or anti-wrinkle man-cream. (Oh, and GHDs….ssshhhh). 

But where does marketing genius end and real ‘need’ begin?

Nappies are now so paradoxically flexible and water-tight that you could probably keep your goldfish in them. Breakfast cereals offer a dress size reduction in a matter of days. Mascara now plumps, thickens, lengthens, shines, curls all with one sweep of a magic mascara wand. The scent and softness of our washing powder-come-liquid-come-gel is as important as our cologne, even our living rooms have become a perfumed apothecary. 

So as I set off to 'shampoo my swish', I will see you all at our next secret ……oops, first rule, nobody talks about swipe club….

‘Til next time, Pandora

Sugar and Spice and All Things High-Priced....

This week I have been somewhat nostalgic, in a good way, but my retro-vision has led me to reflect on how quickly time can pass and how people’s lives evolve in so many different directions. By no means is it a critique - my life path may have taken me to the skies, indeed quite possibly left my head in the clouds, but in parallel I have realised that when on terra firma my life less-conventional means I have become ‘that’ friend…

….Manolos have been boxed up for baby-grows, 3 inch stilettos have been abandoned for 3 wheeler buggies, my dancing-queens have slowly become the yummy mummies. Moi, au contraire, my late nights remain committed to bottles of Moet rather than hot milk, but as much as I have avoided the baby hangover I do admit there is nothing more rewarding than stepping off the dance floor to spend time with said Baby Ga-Ga. (Terms and Conditons apply - a pre-determined curfew, is fully return to sender, no proprietary connections. Even an over-night is probably still too much to expect).

But as I observe from the side lines, I am amazed at the incredible capital expenditure needed to sustain the x-factor lifestyle of our next generation. Nurture has well and truly won over nature, and comes with a hefty $ and £ price tag.

Quicker than the new millennium mites can say American Express they are all carrying the latest DS, networking on laptops, a mobile is a must-have cool for school accessory and our weekend mini-diaries are just choca with ballet, piano, tennis and soccer practice.

The world of kidulthood has gone designer, right down to your first set of wheels (buggy and bike). But a gadget filled trunky is often not enough - cute quickly turns diva, please becomes a foot stomp and the naughty step is a game-play. 

For the Slinky/Dinky onlooker, whose noise pollution is easily controlled by a volume dial, I hold a somewhat perplexed admiration for the Stepford Wife Stroll that can zone out of the chaos and still put the cherry on the home-made cup-cake without the aid of prosaic.

I’m told it’s all worth it, ‘best feeling ever’. No doubt. For me, I can’t quite get beyond the 9 month purgatory or nappies - some things quite frankly are never designer. For now my bedtime story shall be a one-off, not nightly, and tell of the not-so-old woman who lived with her shoes, not in her shoe.

'Til next time, Pandora

Lex-orexia - The Alphabet Diet of the New Decade

Following a recent trip across the pond, a very close friend called British attention to the apparent non-use of the Z (ok, Zed). Ironic I know, given that perhaps there has had to be some lever of compensation on the Queen’s English for where our American friends are zed-zealous, much to the detriment of the suffering S…? We say pot-ay-to, you say tom-ay-to and all that…who really knows?

Zed-Gate, however, has opened a hornet's nest on the deeper question of the alphabetical dilemma - In today’s text-tastic nation, are we at risk of losing an entire suite of vowels and speaking in a language that will soon require a full re-write of a new Xfrd Dictionary?

With email, text, tweet and all-round speech-free communication on-the-go I am as guilty as the next lethargic letter-writer of taking scriptorial short-cuts, and I openly campaign for the knight-hood of whoever invented Spell Check (now THAT is genius). But the truth is, the faster we run, the more lazy we become with our lexicon.

My personal vendetta is the smiley face – firstly, and stating the obvious, it’s not even a word! A symbol that for decades has represented amphetamines, rebranded from giving peace a chance in the the 60’s to raving in the 80’s, it seems to pop up on every email and sms, as annoyingly as those who put hearts and circles above their handwriting.

We don’t even need to fully converse to get engaged any more - a ‘poke’ and a ‘nudge' will trigger an LOL-abbreviated soliloquy. Call me old-fashioned, but emoticons cannot speak and should not be used to replace conversation, regardless of the media. A smiley face is not GR8 and it certainly does not make me smile never mind  LOL, and least of all LMAO.

Looking back, the signs were there for some time. I recall a visit last year to a top-end 5^th Avenue men’s store in New York, where I found myself  uncharacteristically speechless (pardon the pun), for even amidst designer-finery of an immaculately tailored Tom Ford look-a-like, he promptly informed me he would 'BRB' as he popped to the store room….words failed me, as they obviously did Mr Ford. I left…and I didn’t BRB L8R.

What would Confucius say if he were alive today? Or would he be too busy checking out his MP3 over a DVD on his HD LCD TV?

OMG, are we a mere nation of robots in the making? What’s next – counting in binary code? Or is lexorexia giving us all dyslexia?

‘Til next time (TTYL8R), Pandora

The Useful Diary of Lady Topiary

This afternoon I found myself sitting amongst a group of beauticians, all perfectly plucked, polished and pampered and sipping camomile tea like a table of mannequins, de-toxing after a conference on the latest age-reversing innovations that will soon promise us all eternal youth. (Mental note to self: subscribe to beta testing...)

The temptation to eavesdrop was unavoidable as the beauty pageant shared their insights on the hot topic of the day - the latest laser hair removal technology they had been trained on and how it would be life-changing for their some of their prickliest cacti clientele to be proud owners of a permanently manicured lawn, come rain or shine.

Speaking as someone who has shunned my primal heritage and the closest I get to Chubaka is a Star Wars DVD, I could probably run for office as Ambassador of such horticultural science, hence my interest in their quite literal wax lyrical.

During the summer months it is a beauty salon race to stay smooth, shiny and beach ready, but every good and qualified landscaper (and man-scaper) will advise against the urge to let your garden-go during the winter months. Ask any man and he will agree that there is no task more arduous than the heavy-duty trimming back of the bushes in the spring. It may be summer all year round for those who beat the cold and head to Brazil or Hollywood during winter months but, for everyone else braving the elements, the best way to avoid folly with your follicles is to tend to your garden on a regular basis and await the flowering of spring for the first good cut of the season.

Unless of course you visit the Mannequins and entrust your rockery to the hands of science. After all, in the words of the great Alicia Keyes, concrete jungles are apparently a place where dreams are made of…..?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Secret to Skinny (Men Only)

Blogaholics beware - male or female, before you read on I have categorically not joined the dark side and become the Ambassador of Carbs, at least not until Dr Atkins or Heston Blumenthal can discover the recipe for fully loaded protein-based banoffee pie. No, I have temporarily diverted my obsession with Skinny to the denim variety – the spray-on, skin-tight, bum-hugging drain-pipe that has been rapidly filling the pages of our fashion magazines, shop windows and streets.

As a self-confessed fashion victim I have been held hostage for many years on the eternal search for the elusive pair of perfect jeans, an expedition that many have embarked on and that makes Frodo look like a mere hill walker by comparison. My latest ‘Precious’ comes wrapped in Balenciaga (highly recommended), but my fickle loyalties are as short-lived as the seasons, and as I observe the effects of the latest evolution of our staple wardrobe diet I wonder: Where should the battle-lines of Jeans vs Genes be drawn for our men in denim uniform?

Just as hotpants should be left for the posterity (and posterior) of Kylie and Wonder Woman, there is a ballpark <1% of the male population that can confidently pull off the Skinny jean. Unless you’re Italian. For some reason that just works, even when said skinnies go multi-colori. Italians are exempt from all advice in this blog, grazie.

For the rest, I know the choice is limited – there is a fine line between Sid Vicious and John Travolta, unless of course you are actually trying to be a T-Bird. Skater-baggy and Gangsta low-hangers do not need to reveal your nether regions, so please invest in a belt, and if you decide to diversify to the world of chino be sure it is reserved to the golf course and not the dance floor.

The Jeans Doth Maketh the Man, choose wisely, your street cred can depend on it.
For the <1%, you are the Chosen Few. Work it.

‘Til next time, Pandora

Mental Intercourse – Blogomy or Infidelity?

When 75% of your time is spent in the hustle and bustle of airports, crowds and strangers, there is nothing more consoling than the solace of your own company and your personal space. So precious is this Zen, you fail to notice the construction workers that are rapidly building invisible walls that fortify entrance to this members-only club. Few have the privilege of a VIP pass beyond these walls, but they are allocated only following those special and often random encounters you have along life’s journey that for some reason tick the boxes, bond and get to know the real you. I had that this week, with some of the best ticket holders of the pack, fleeting reunions, yes, but nevertheless more valuable than a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Each of you know who you are.

Outside of members-only, it has been said that I don’t suffer fools gladly, or lightly. Indeed I might even suggest that quite frankly I don’t suffer them at all.

For the female butterfly of the social scene there is no worse company than the assuming bar-fly, the opportunity-seeking breed that, once they land, you simply need to swat away. I mean, is it really so rare to be content with the art of interesting dialogue and not feel obliged to enter a quick fire round of speed dating?

If mental intercourse is blogomist promiscuity, then infidelity is one sin to which I shall have to confess. For the swatted rest, feel free to continue to throw the car keys (or room keys) in the fish bowl. Thanks, but no thanks - take it as fact that the Garden of Eden can survive just fine with Eve. And every apple can stay on the tree!

‘Til next time, Pandora