Tweeting with the Frenemy – The Chicken and Egg Conundrum of your Social Network and your Social Life

Growing up I had a very merry band of friends – some best friends, some acquaintances, new and old friends and friends of friends. Conversely, along this journey and indeed regardless of age, there were many departed friends from the ‘inner circle’ as a result of the usual playground tiffs, schoolgirl rivalry (often adult rivalry), births, moves, travels and marriages. Despite how wide the friend network grew or depleted, however, there was always an unspoken clarity. The friend-gagement - the most special relationships stayed strong, many still remain in place, the less special became memories of people you met along the way and, when a split happened, it was definitive, no ties, life goes on.

This week, however, as I set about familiarising myself with my expanding private and personal social networks I have reflected on how the rules of friendship have changed and I wonder….in a world commodotised by real time updates, has the BFF been replaced by a BFNetwork?

We are lulled into a false sense of security that the ability to grow friends en masse from one Saturday night to another indicates popularity, but is this race to add faces the sign of the utlimate 'in' crowd or can real friend loyalty really be generated from 4 'likes' and a poke. If forced to meet as friends every week, could I really afford to call my new top 20 every other day to make plans, treat them to drinks at the weekend, or would I recognise them if I did? Indeed....at what point does the facebook friend tally tip from Best to Rest…?

The same consideration applies for the relationships we decide are not worth the investment. Before the days of electronically tagging our friends with the hot iron of facebook branding, friend territory was managed on the simple rules of trust.

Simply we parted company with those that didn’t work out, avoid going where they go, study the cracks in the footpath if they passed by, removed their number from our phone. If the art of making friends the facebook way is speed dating, then the art of defriending is like a messy divorce – public viewing of the breakup, sides taken on why you have made the cull, gossip, tweets, posts and a incredibly stark revoke from pokes. In today’s open-call of who’s who and who knows who knows you, wonder, have we lost the ability to quietly slip out the back and ease away?

So, as you rush to accept you next entourage of friend requests consider the chicken and egg situation of your social network within your social life and ask yourself do you really know which came first or has the desire to be popular leave us no choice but to keep our friends close and a multiplying group of frenemies closer?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Search for Design Intervention...

They say that a gentleman’s home is his castle. As is a lady’s, I would add, although the latter is possibly slightly better colour co-ordinated and, in the ideal world, surrounded with the aroma of freshly baked bread and home made apple pie.

For the jet set community (understandably I deflect from categorising a travelling community) that may sleep half of the week beyond the motte and bailey, however, home has a tendency to be more of a weekend retreat. Monday to Friday dwelling, therefore, demands an expectation to at least meet the same comfort and design as we are used to at home - room service and daily change of linens is, of course, a perk, but to be fair it is offset by the fact that any welcoming scent of roast dinner or morning toast is guaranteed to come with a 10% tray charge.

This very mecca for design intervention has been the inspiration for my blog this week, if not every week, but a long week that has been somewhat of a pilgrimage of personal down time and professional up time, moving from city to city. It may seem like a simple request that Home Sweet Home can be found away from home but, with a life as ubiquitous as a colony of ants, the reality is that it takes intricate research and forward planning to ensure each night’s remote sleep doesn’t result in an episode of 'Holidays from Hell' and, as I reflect on what lay behind many hotel doors this week I wonder ….does living a life on the road or in the skies have to come at design compromise?

The Holy Grail of chic sleep for me is easily met with cool décor, friendly service, working wi-fi and a good fish menu. Get this and designer bathroom cosmetics, well the sign of a real winning formula is one less plastic bag to trek through airport security…

Last minute hotel hopping is as dependable as camping at Glastonbury. I have gained some level of routine in that at least 75% of my time may frequent the same 6 cities in any given month, and with that am unashamedly particular on where I stay. The seasoned traveller will know that Holiday Inn and Best Western may not always truly represent the branding, and anything promising the sun, moon and less than 4 stars is a galaxy where no man, or woman, should honestly venture. Indeed, a simple rule of hotel thumb, if it comes with a wallet sized card to promote loyalty, chances are you are no more than an unknown six digit plus number in their database, not a preferred guest, and first come is usually still first served.

My personal penchant is the boutique hotel – an eagerly sourced menagerie of tried and tested intimate abodes that cater to the personal whims of any Mr or Mrs Smith (or Skies) and where repeat visits promise personal service with a smile and an upgrade, not a loyalty card. Monday to Friday décor is guaranteed to recreate a home away from home or, on occasion, ignites new concepts that have been known to spark a chez-moi remodel once the Friday evening key is turned in my own front door. 

So, as I flick through the pages of my coveted little black book for next weeks stays away, an A for Abode through to K for first Klass at K-West and D for divine at Du Vin, only one question really remains…Would you live in a place like this? (Oh, and when will my home phone dial 9 for room service!)

'Til next time, Pandora

Darwinding Down - The Origin of a New Spa-cies….

There should, quite possibly, be a new tag-name for people like me, and by me I mean a 'we', those of us who, whether for escapism or plain unadulterated pleasure, have developed an addiction to pre-scheduled relaxation.
Spa-sionista, perhaps? Noun: she who can ubiquitously pinpoint, on demand, the exact must-have treatment in the next must-visit spa, customised to every budget, needs or dream from a pre-defined stack-rank scoring system that rates pleasure to painful from her own personal experience.

This week my blog has been inspired 'in-spa' - fortuned by lady-luxe, my spa-venture upgraded to first class, I was blessed with sampling the pampering of the crème de la crème of beauty treatments with a 2-hour soaked and stroked spa-cation in Crème de la Mer.

Stepping out of the Harrod’s lift to the pent-house 5^th floor Urban Retreat was as decadent as a 5-minute Wonka elevator ride in the chocolate factory. I was immediately surprised, though, that even as early as the turn of the morning key there was no room to spare on the velveteen banquettes that decorated the waiting area. Recession was certainly not hindering relaxation, golden tickets were in plentiful supply and any more attention from the welcome reception would have demanded a paparazzi spread in Hello magazine.

My next 2 hours was a spa-volution time-lapse that was to take me and my spa expectations to a whole new level of unwind where whales and panpipes would, quite simply, no longer be enough and, as I mastered my new life in this pent-house spa-cial territory in the virtual sandy cove of ‘La Mer’, I started to consider …does the reality of a life in the fast lane mean we need our relaxation pit-stops to up their game? 

My visit to La Mer served not only to de-stress but to confirm the value of having high expectations and, as I allowed myself to embrace the Darwininan spa-vival of the fittest, I realised that scented candles, incense, fluffy robe and a bowl of fruit are no longer sufficient to dress up a glorified back rub or a toe polish that has been tinkered by a max-factored beauty.  No, with our time, money and tolerance tight, when we choose to invest we have a right to demand a guarantee of good rest. If and where the price is high, then the environment, products, treatments and service need to reflect real experience, not work experience...

So, as I left my penthouse pod with my head emptied from thoughts and my voice hoarse from silence, I accepted that where there is a trend there is always a spend but, in a world where our nine-to-five stretches to seven-eleven and where escapism for relaxation is rapidly becoming a weekly reminder on the fridge door, I wonder ....should we, in fact, value our ‘me-time’ as precious a commodity as the massage oil that unashamedly caresses our wallets with its boutique price-tag?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Power of Pie...

So it's National Pi Day. Yes, its own National day of hurrah. Not the cream or apple type, the multi decimal point mathematical type. I think everything has its day of celebration, these days - cupcakes, popcorn and pancakes...so, let's just make this more appealing to everyone and throw in the less academic pie to Pi Day, too.

There is, in fact, a rather uncanny correlation between the mathematical genius of PI and the alphabetical ingredients of PIE. Read on, grab a spoon, Its time to get somewhat pie-eyed over pie...

It's quite possible that my life-long dessert dilemma, 'To Eat or Not To Eat', has triggered this sudden revived obsession with pie possession. I mean, faced with a life of refute and abstinence, I wonder...have my taste buds subconsciously been on an eternal search for some form of scientific pie-thagarus theorem that might justify the calorific conundrum that challenges every post-dinner endorphinal rush?

Interestingly, by its own proven mathematical calculation, pi is an infinite decimal and as such is mathematically known as irrational, so I guess it is really no surprise that my recurring third-course mental dialogue always results in denial winning over longing...

However, this week, since unearthing this pictorial peace-maker I have found myself exploring my thoughts on the power of pi on pie itself and I wonder....have I finally discovered the secret to having my cake and actually eating it?

By definition, pi is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. Stay with me -  Pi is always the same number, no matter which circle you use to compute it, large or small.

If we consider, therefore, our circle to be our plate and our slice of perfect pie to extend the width (diameter) of this plate....then doesn't the logic follow that regardless of the size of the plate, your pie will always be the same? Genius. Where is that waiter...?

So, next time you ponder over pavlova or exchange banoffee for a boring coffee, ask yourself ....is the restrain worth the pain or if, in just 3.14 scientific seconds, you can truly enjoy your just desserts...?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Devolutionary Seven Deadly Man Sins

We have all made the unspoken 'promise' to our parents - the one to work hard and be a good person, settle down with someone with good prospects and who will treat us well. Keen words, but unspoken or not, it is the delivery of that promise which is the arduous task and, this week, as I checked off a busy list of social to-do's, i found myself unexpectedly submersed in a menagerie of social to-don'ts that made me wonder....have we somehow mastered the work-hard promise, only by over compensating on play-hard, to the point of being die hard?

Whilst there is no handbook to guide you in the fullflment of the aforementioned unspoken 'promise', my blog today acknowledges the changing behaviour of the local wild-life and the risk it places on its success. Is it a case that we are reverting to a nation of cavemen, suffering perhaps from the ecological impact of global warming or does the new neanderthal mean that social engagements have, in fact, become a social experiment?

As a self confessed social butterfly I have evolved the skill of  maintaining a flexible balanance of professional networking and crowd mingling (both dependent on the order of the day or night). This week, however, schdeuled in a week-long nocturnal tour of diary duty, I found my stamina challenged, willingly surrendering any interest or desire to flutter my eyelashes at even a fraction of the pace that I may have been fluttering my social butterfly wings and as I watched the beervolution of the male species I feared the survival of the social butterfly may be under attack from a Darwinian nemesis, and I wondered....is survival of the flirtiest at risk of extinction from a new male race for survival of the un-fittest?
In order to protect the female species and return our new millennium primal prowess, I reflected on the meanedering behaviours of our neanderthal bar-flies, and considered the guidance of the seven deadly sins as a solid mantra.

Gluttony - every pride of lions has at least one gluttonous male who takes on way more than he can chew, unable to say no to friends, but much more at ease ofsuch retort to his lioness. The best redress is to refocus energies on what really counts with a simple counter 'no' in all things carnivorous. Hunger will always win in the end.

Pride - It comes before a fall, so if there there are signs that your man holds higher concern on being the eye candy rather than reciprocating the flattery towards his arm candy, then that eye is definitely roving. Conversley, caution to a lack of pride, and if they can enter and leave the loo faster than they can say I forgot to wash my hands, this is a sure sign of long-term 'leave the eat up' syndrome.

Greed - any desire for material wealth can oftern lead to a non-desire to share the wealth and where you may need to specualte to accumulate, if this is anyway connected to horses, casinos or poker nights, you should probably get a pre-nup. Lust and excessive cravings lead to a lack of focus. Everything in moderation, and remember that absence can make the heart grow fonder. Unless the absence is addressing the excessive cravings, of course. Envy can come from the previous two, or standalone, but either way is usually related to insecurity whereas Wrath is a no brainer. Anger although not attractive, works both ways and, if honest, it is simply better to just never be the woman scorned, ergo manage expecations from the outset. Lastly, Sloth - an easy one where first impressions don't dress to impress, but my advice is to revisit this one a few weeks in. Frequent Friday night sickies, Saturday soccer sofa syndrome, or a general willingness to be lifted and laid by his mother - none of these, single nor combined, is a good sign.

So, as I stand aside and observe the devolution of the once crave-man turned cave-man, I wonder ...can to-day's dating game really ever become the mating game, or what is it you now need to to do to get engaged, if what you really want to do is, indeed, get engaged?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Early Bird catches the Worm..

This week I have had the opportune good fortune to add a little glamour to the daily humdrum of corporate plate spinning, A somewhat cheese puff to caviar experience, I swapped out the spinning of the corporate crockery of the boardroom by day, for a more refined and elegant fine bone china after dark, as I wined and dined with canapés and crudités at a number of oh so socialite London Fashion week private events.

Fashion Week season is one of frenzy. Well, weeks of frenzy really, as it catwalks from city to city on its global trend setting road-show that transforms the must-see into the must be seen in, the must-have to the must-wear. And so, duly accessorised with the must-have invite to the VIP 'IT' parade, I embarked on my champagne catwalk, let my Choos do the talking and socialised with the socialites…

Grounding me in my brush with the high-life, however, was the reality check that my real life is one of airport runways and not fashion runways and, I skilfully multi-tasked on blackberry as I sipped on elderberry, in the hope that at least my inbox wouldn’t suffer the morning after the night before. I was rather bemused to find a lack of schmooze, however, and to discover how other party revellers filled open hall ways and corridors to equally network with their handhelds. Fairly confident, though, that not everyone was harbouring the same secret life of pinstripe underneath the sparkle of Halston, Kane and Gucci, I wondered …in today’s socially connected real-world, just who has become the dedicated follower of fashion?

If a keen eye and a sharp mind can keep you top of your game in business and a step ahead on the corporate ladder ...to be really in the know (and known) on the fast pace of the social circuit, does it take a little more than a mean Manolo?

Several nano-second tweets and shrieks of excitment later, I became reliably educated that, to be really seen on social scene, you not only need to be the follower but the followed and, as fickle as I abandoned last seasons lace for leather, I discarded my satisfaction with next-day news and had my passport stamped for Twitterverse….

So, as the kind of person who most definitely likes to be on the front foot and well used to new journeys, the only question now remains….to tweet to who?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Stupidity of Cupidity…

I have felt somewhat of a moral obligation not to write this blog until this week, or at least not until the fragrant scent of eternal love has had a chance to truly blossom from is entwine with St Valentine. But, now that the novelty of romance has passed us all by, I feel I can comfortably rant without the risk of Cupid blasting me with his full quiver of arrows, for reasons not related to his search for unrequited love.

It may seem strange that I choose to relate the avarice of cupidity to the innocence of Cupid’s arrow. I mean how could there be a correlation between uncontrolled greed and chubby baby with angel wings that we associate with St. Valentine's Day? But, as unserendipitous as it may sound, this week as I have joined the drowning masses in a sea of love movies on TV, subliminally reminded to remember who I love and commercially encouraged to demonstrate my caring at a cash register, I have come to wonder….is there really such a thing as love at first sight, or is long-term love dependent on the price tag being right?

At the risk of bordering on hypocrisy with my anti-valentine advocacy, I will openly admit my own penchant for a posy. Indeed, had Valentine decided this year not to be mine, there quite possibly would have been a bigger price to pay than cupid’s stupidly over-priced bouquet of roses that were delivered anonymously to my door.

However, as I scrambled to duly return my obligation to bestow appreciation I wondered ... if love is really blind, then why are we so fixated in paying over the odds to be kind and what does love really say when delivered on Valentine’s Day?

Can the Cupid who covets extravagance really mean romance, or is it done because he needs a second chance? For the Cupid with a curfew, only able to be thine up to nine, is it because he has a significant other Valentine? And is the Cupid on a budget not worth it because he waits to the day after to show his love at half price, or is he the real true love, because he can in fact show his love twice for the same price?

So, before you see red for not being surrounded in red this Valentine’s, consider how the stupidity of cupidity might actually send a shiver through our real true-love Cupid’s quiver and think ….is being stalked by the SWALK really just all talk or what does it really mean to turn the act of love into the facts of love?

‘Til next time, Pandora

The Metamorphosis of the Bag Lady – Trolley to Oh Golly!

It is said that the shoe doth maketh the man. Ok, perhaps I have said that myself, but I add jeans to that refrain and a great suit, and most definitely the watch. Get these right and we are already at Clooney standards. For the lady, well we promiscuously fleet from the heels to bags, sunglasses to scent, according to the call of the season. The portfolio of ‘IT’ accessories is a rapidly growing one, where past seasons join the vintage wish-list and new trends are urgently the must-buys...

There are certain cities and countries, however, where people just get this right and style is in the DNA – they see the value in authentic and they know the mistake of going fake. Asia, without a doubt, leads the way and, on my recent travels, I found myself scrutinising the statement-item scream of style that adorned the arm, foot, wrist of anyone who was anyone in the coolest of bars, stores, malls and…..airports.

Yes, the 'IT' bag has grown up, had kids and sent them to college. The family shopping list has expanded to having cool luggage and, as I peered above my over-sized shades at the cool collection to walk the reclaim carousel catwalk, I could see the big names were all there…Rimowa, Tumi, Mandarina Duck and old favourite, Samsonite (spinner-full set-alu, of course), and I wondered….was the secret of suppressing the recession in any way related to the mass purchase of over-priced suitcases?

We have all had that moment - hop off the plane, wait in the faceless front row queue for the carousel to start, hoping your bag is the first out to make it through customs and step straight into a waiting cab. 

Hopefully, anyone reading this blog has NOT had the other moment….the one where the ‘What were you thinking?’ bag comes out of the carousel. The multi-coloured, neon bright, floral chintz bag that may have seemed as the best bargain of all time but has haunted you ever since. Or the makeshift, time to dig the grave and bury the antique bag, that comes out with its contents strewn behind it on view for the public giggle. And the 2 people that are waiting at the very end of the carousel, no rush whatsoever to start their holiday….they own those bags, happy to be at the end of the taxi queue, wishing they had thought ‘Accessorise’ and not ‘Bargain’

So, as I sign the mortgage papers for my next fashion victim addiction, I wonder...how much I will need to spend to stay on travel-trend or what is the cost not to be disgraced by your battered suitcase?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Home, James!

It’s a fair assumption to share that, for those of us who lead a life of travel, we would get accustomed to the highs and lows that this entails and get used to the distinctive public transport systems that keeps every city in motion – the fights for a New York yellow cab, the queue turned squeeze on a London double-decker bus, the faceless efficiency of the Tokyo bullet train, the mexican-wave payment up a Jeepney in Manila... Well...no. Not quite. Not I.

As with every proverbial pleasure in the world, there closely follows a proverbial pain and, just as I embrace life in the skies as my daily commute, my pain factor is administered in full dosage on the ground. This week has been a double dosage and, as I cringe yet again at the wave of perspiration that surrounds me in another train station, I wonder...is the pleasure of a sky-life-high-life doomed to be a go-slow-low-life when back commuting on terra firma?

Most of my friends will attest to the fact that I am not a great one for public transport. In fact, being frank, I rarely succumb to its economical charm at all.

I will happily share a plane with a few other hundred people (although I do much prefer to be up front where the purse strings permit it….who doesn’t?).

Rail makes me frail - trains I just can’t explain, bewildered from the moment I enter the station, worse when I am on a seat facing reverse to the direction I am physically travelling in.

Fuss over a bus? I won’t even waste words - buses just don’t happen and haven’t done since I passed my university entrance exams and left school...

Already this year I have been on 17 flights and, by the logic of my travel math, 17 flights in 41 calendar days equals at least 34 cab rides. Allow a ballpark 20% uplift for casual back and forths, and we can safely call it a round 40.

Yes, taxis are my guilty pleasure, maybe my innate need for speed, but today as I switch on my air-con I really do wonder….is there anything to warrant the bus chase with a suitcase, or isn't it just better to leave it to the experts to flap about maps and get stressed over GPS...?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Creatures of Habit...not Habitat

With the time demands of travel at the start of my New Year, it has been a few weeks since I have dipped into my electronic inkwell to share my thoughts and observations of my changing time zones. As such it is somewhat coincidental that my returning rhetoric has randomly progressed my thoughts from my last blog, which pondered the folly of abandoning our cultural heritage when we opt to place our roots in new territories, far away from where we are born...

Today, although somewhat related, my new random soliloquy ironically reflects on where our habitual actions may not in fact change from place to place…

Regardless of our intrinsic cultural identity (or transient, for that matter, if you have had the pleasure of reading the preceding blog of the Culture Vulture...), it is the whole-hearted consistency of our behaviours at the table that has repeatedly caught my attention in the last few weeks, as I crossed cities and continents. So this week, as I make yet another morning elevator ride, across the hotel lobby to yet another hotel breakfast buffet, I cannot help but constantly recall the scene from The Jungle Book where the animals rush to their watering hole to strategise on the bear-necessities of life...

For me, one of the true joys of travel is to embody the local customs and cuisine wherever I roam but once more, as I float past the queue-less breakfast noodle bar each day to squeeeeze through the pack of wolves that hunt by the bacon and egg factory line I have come to wonder…when it comes to feeding time at the zoo, how many of us who live ‘global’ actually do eat ‘local’…?

The feeding pattern for the local wilde-life is never-changing and, as I fast forward to another morning re-run of this Discovery Channel, it is perplexing to see how set we have become so set in our ways, perfectly developed creatures of habit, totally unaffected (or enriched) by our surrounding habitat...

...Early sitting (pre 6am) is busy with the eastern menu offering, just in time for piping hot noodles, rice and breakfast fish and sushi.

...Central Europe filters through, in pockets, unrushed for perfectly proportioned pickings from the fruit and charcuterie bar and slowly savoured over the morning paper with a sugar-rush Danish and very strong coffee.

...The smell of waffles and pancakes then rise and shines the Americans out of their pyjamas in time for juice, but the choice here is as varied as the lifestyle of the visitors – carbs and eggs for the busy business man, smoothies and fruit for the accompanying wife, coloured cereals and lots of half-eaten leftovers for the so clearly not waste-not-want-not kids.

And lastly, unsurprisingly and like a flashback to a summer holiday on the Costa del Sol, the British gentry appear, finely timed to glide past the carnivore's carvery for a 'one of each' hot breakfast build up, washed down quickly with filter coffee (whatever is brewed) and an indigestion pill, for a record breaking exit to showcase with the customary drop of ketchup on his tie.

So, armed with my chopsticks and ready to continue my battle to keep up international appearances, I consider what buffet menu might be purveyed along my next flight path or indeed….do I need to reset my alarm to ensure I’m not late for my next feeding time at the glocal zoo?

‘Til next time, Pandora