One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap Back in Time for Mankind...

With the amount of city hopping I have packed in during the last few weeks, I would normally have a host of random thoughts and sightings to ponder over but, as it goes, there isn't typically a lot to catch your eye when caught in the middle of paranormal summer weather that feels like windy autumn. Except the pavement.

Controversially, however, despite my line of sight being tunnel-visioned to the sidewalk to avoid the wind and rain of May, I have been inadvertently immersed in a Boot-camp that has left me mesmerised about the misguided steps of the feet on our streets, wondering….when it comes to putting on their shoes, where do our men get so lost between fashion forward and stepping back in time?

I do confess to focussing on a good outer presentation, a standard no-one should apologise for and, indeed, I go as far as to suggest that our men may have an easier battle in looking good – a good suit, good jeans, tailored clothing (even for casual dressing), in general, will excuse many an imperfect physique and really showcase those fortunate to be less than imperfect. But this week, as I console myself at the state of passing soles, I wonder ...do men just get bored by the time they get to the shoes and socks, or do they really believe that one style fits all? What is it that makes men think they can go through life with a single pair of shoes?

Now, we are not talking sub 25 year olds today (indeed there is a certain male stylista of any age that can rock sneakers casual or formal). No, this is the grown up shoe problem…

The unexplained je ne sais quoi in the male Adult-shoed brain that thinks that ye-old-faithful pair of black elongated pointy shoes they relentlessly wear for work are inter changeable with jeans and suits. The misguided belief that having a fall-back pair of brown antiquated leather (probably more pointed for the weekend and unlikely to be real leather) at the back of the wardrobe keeps them ready for every fashion. And the Zoolander of foot-fashion faux-pas - the flash of an overtly exuberant (aka pass me my sunglasses) brass buckle, sometimes two and painfully often three.

By this stage I am at the verge of a fashion intervention or a scream for the style gods of Sweeney and Smith to descend from the rooftops!  For once glad of the winds and rain, I remained eyes-down for fear that an elevated line of sight may lead me to the crimes of denim that would undoubtedly be hoisted high with a belt as garishly buckled as the clown shoes and, as I continue on my path of shoe sin I wonder ….just where did the penchant for pointy start and end?

Do our boys not realise that having a buckle is admitting adult velcro and, if your shoes are so pointed they start to curl up like a jester, they are indeed the joke...?  Indeed, at what point does man fashion DNA turn DOA?

‘Til next time, Pandora

‘Half plus Seven’ – The Calculus Cure for Cougarville?

A ubiquitous lifestyle means I spend frequent down-time in hotel bars and lobbies, strictly (of course) to break the cabin fever of hotel living. With the right locale, and I admit to being stylishly picky, there is no better company than a fresh mojito in the ambiance of low-key loungerino Café del Mar-esque tunes and the muted shades of mocha décor to put you in the perfect people watching mood. This voyeur approach to social networking, however, doesn’t always go unaccompanied, albeit it is mostly unsolicited, but this weekend as I settled back in my locale du choix, I wondered….do the boundaries of dating get blurred after dark or, has anthropology infact taken over mythology when it comes to ‘Half, plus seven"…..

If "Half, plus Seven" is  considered the age-old dating rule for men, designed to justify the socially acceptable age threshold for dating of younger women, I wonder …just how much of a malculus is behind the logic of this anthropological genius and if it was so suitably ‘scientifically’ calculated by a male mathematician?  

I mean, observing this theory, a buff 30-year old can comfortably continue to ‘go-Dutch’ with a 22 yr old at the Student’s Union. Equally the maturing 40-year old can, in theory, legitimately beauty-parade a fresh 27 year old in his mid life crisis yellow sports car. Ergo, if the math follows male logic, then I wonder... is this why, even at the north end of the dating ladder, the worst category that the dating man can reach is the Platinum Sugar Daddy Club, itself a kudos of supreme levels at the 19th hole and Saturday full-time whistle?

Conversely, however, is it a case that the dating female counterpart has the freedom of dating only in her early years? The femathematician can round down at just a fraction of her male predators - a 30 year old female dating under-30 is critiqued for cradle-snatching yet promptly, from the ripe old age of 35 she becomes a cougar cub and the short years that follow to 40 are clearly spent marking her territory for full cougar adulthood. Ridiculous as this may sound there is a large, indeed growing, population of females who wish to savour the assortment of soft centres, caramels and rich pralines before the taste buds are restricted to the abandoned sugar-daddied jellies and Turkish Delight but I wonder…..has society already established a pre-conception of acceptance that means the sugar-free reality for the untamed cougar park quite simply has fewer choices from the candy box and a much shorter ladder than the ‘Half-plus-Seven’ Men’s Club?

So, as we continue to break shackles of conformity and feel empowered to self-preserve by defying gravity and shorten the hemline with every birthday, I wonder...is there really an escape from the birth certificate or are we destined to enter the cougar reserve park and await the retirement of the Manther?

‘Til next time, Pandora

To know me is to fly with me….

This famous opening monologue of Ryan Bingham in ‘Up in the Air’ is one that has been a regular reference point as I share my travel-blogging tales however, this holiday weekend, as I sit amidst the laundry of a southern hemisphere suitcase and plan the contents of an uncertain weathered northern hemisphere suitcase, I have stopped to consider if my cinematic counterpart is, in fact, more of a nemesis than an alter-ego.

My accrued April airtime, so far, has crossed 3 continents in 15 days and has resulted in a climate control and sleep navigation system urgently requiring re-engineering. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing as rewarding than the great fortune to travel the globe and see so many far flung places but, as I unpack and repack I wonder perhaps…is the real redemption for frequent flyer air miles a catalogue choice of multiple personalities every time we cross multiple time-zones?

When the novelty of life in a suitcase becomes commonplace it is hard to recall the glamour of the jet set that is so commonly perceived by the average land lubber. We may no longer have to face the early morning daily commute at the wheel, but I wonder …does the jet-set rush-hour road-rage simply check-in as a new OCD in the sky-high human bird cage, or is the trauma of travel a dilemma that evolves with age?

I never feel too great after a flight, regardless of travel ticket class. Thinking back I recall days of the girls summer trek to the Costa, where tightly packed on an economy flight with a paid-for piña-colada was a dream come true. Now, by comparison, even with silver service meals, a personalised protein menu, cashmere flight socks and sound proof earphones ...how is it that the only thing I really want to do when I reach my destination is to get on a plane for a vacation?

A flat bed is a must, unreservedly. But, regardless of 8 hours DVT preventative sleep, there are certain lines of latitude and longitude where travelling elegantly seems to take a leap from the plane in parachute silk, only to be replaced with the prospect of excess baggage charges on arrival rather than at departure and, despite checking in for top-deck jumbo, I am sure to check out as ground-level blimp...

On-board, my gold membership of the frequent flyer club boasts an obsession with cleanliness that would be the envy of any terra firma home-maker. My roll-on bag, forever electronically equipped for a full shift of onboard business, is now as chemically ready for a total blitz of airborne germs and illness and, as I stock-check what were once dedicated pockets for sockets with new wipes and antiseptics I wonder .....at what stage will my in-flight oddities qualify as an on-board paramedic?

So, as I fast forward airport CCTV to complete my latest travelling photo album I wonder ....does the essence of being a frequent flyer simply mean the airplane cabin is now my castle or, just how many miles remain before I claim squatters rights?

'Til next time, Pandora

Aussie Rules - Who Dares Wins...

As strange as it sounded to many, during my recent Asian travels I took a weekend break to Australia. Admittedly not the typical place for a few days away but, already located south of the Equator and with acute synchronisation of the red-eye travel I normally try to avoid, I was able to engineer close to a full 72 hours for a refresher visit with family and still make it in time for the office on Monday.

There are many myths about life Down Under and whilst I can dispel those that people, animals, cars, trains and buses do not in fact operate upside down, that the only people alluding to a Crocodile Dundee cork trimmed hat are the tourists (usually drunk) and that water does not flow in the opposite direction, as I embarked on my 72 hour whistle stop tour of WA I did have to contemplate….is the slow pace of life down-under as simple as the effects of  the laws of reversed gravity or, is it simply the sunshine that slows down life the further south you move from the Equator?

Akin to their northerly neighbours, the Australian pace of life is as aligned to the equatorial equilibrium that is found from Europe to the Americas, where days get hotter then life gets slower.

However, as I moved around my western slice of Australia, I wondered…does the mañana theory really transcend to every sun filled city between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn or just how much of Aussie rules is actually less about laissez-faire and more about self-service?

With coffee shops and bars lining every street, harbour, beach and mall it is clear that tea- breaks and pit-stops play a priority time-out in the the Australian every day game and, if Aussie Rules is the game of ultimate invasion, then surviving a trip down under needs first division tactics. Stand in queue and you may very well wait to mañana - in the Aussie rule book ‘queue’ is spelled ‘me’ and there is no such thing as first come first served. Shout and be served, follow etiquette and fall to the back of the non-line.

So, as I dispel another myth of sunshine hospitality, I search to re-unite with my city blinkers and wonder …is there a speed limit for life in the fast lane down under that should be introduced to colder climes or do we all, in fact, play by the Aussie Rules?

'Til next time, Pandora

It’s the Inside that Counts…

We are indoctrinated to believe that it’s what's inside that counts, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I don’t necessarily disagree with the mantra, but I do prefer to be a little more practical – always aim to please the beholder but most certainly endeavour to maintain an inner chi. I mean, let’s face it, is anybody perfect?

Before we get too caught up in a debacle over the importance of the inner you versus the outer you, however, my blog this week reflects on the importance of interiors of a different sort – our handbags. Not medically proven to be totally the root cause of my current consultation for back pain, this week as I listened to the advice of my lesser fashion-conscious physiotherapist I wondered ....could it really be down to my relationship with LV that my big bag trend is impacting my ability to properly bend?

Just as mobile phones threatened our brains and a life of texting and gaming risks a population with preposterously large thumbs, I wonder…is the ailment of the fashion victim to be health hindered dependent on the size of his / her handbag/manbag?

I’m often bemused at the constant magazine articles that tell us the 6 things in the A-lister designer bag that they just cannot live without . As I think of my own day to day changing needs in a routine that that morphs day to night without the A-list demands, I wonder if perhaps it is the advertising endorsement of the 6 essentials that is so life critical, espeically when there is an entourage to lug the rest on their behalf? Indeed, for the average ‘NeverFull’ Handbag Joe, isn’t it more realistic that what we really want and need is a never empty?

Wallet, lipstick, mobile, camera, flat shoes (heels to change), mints, boarding passes, passports, bottled water, keys, sunglasses, mini umbrella, ipad, ipod and the travelling plastic bag of liquids and cosmetics – not one of the more than 6 essentials could realistically be removed from daily life and, as I satisfyingly return the contents of my latest possession carrying obsession, I wonder ...is the reason we buy big not really because a life 'on the go' doesn’t mean that we can go without?

So, before you rush out to purchase a padded neoprene rucksack to carry life’s little essentials, stay true to your fashion judgement and 'Go Large'. That, or find yourself a different fashion accessory who is happy to carry your keys, phone and high heels on your behalf…

'Til next time, Pandora

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