The Best Slow Dancer

Under the sagging clotheslines of crepe paper

By the second string of teachers and wallflowers

In the school gym across the key through the glitter

Of mirrored light three-second rule forever

Suspended you danced with her the best slow dancer

Who stood on tiptoe who almost wasn’t there

In your arms like music she knew just how to answer

The question mark of your spine your hand in hers

The other touching that place between her shoulders

Trembling your countless feet lightfooted sure

To move as they wished wherever you might stagger

Without her she turned in time she knew where you were

In time she turned her body into yours

As you moved from thigh to secrets to breast yet never

Where you would be for all time never closer

Than your cheek against her temple her ear just under

Your lips that tried all evening long to tell her

You weren’t the worst one not the boy whose mother

Had taught him to count to murmur over and over

One slide two slide three slide now no longer

The one in the hallway after class the scuffler

The double clubfoot gawker the mouth breather

With the wrong haircut who would never kiss her

But see her dancing off with someone or other

Older more clever smoother dreamier

Not waving a sister somebody else’s partner

Lover while you went floating home through the air

To lie down lighter than air in a moonlit shimmer

Alone to whisper yourself to sleep remember.

David Wagoner

January Blues

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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

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The First Day Of Christmas

I love Christmas, and in an earnest bid to make the most of the season this year, I had planned to do something festive each day from the 1st of December until the 25th. I blew it... in one sensational spree yesterday. I blame my god-daughter: she's six years-old and ripe for spoiling. 

It began with a lazy brunch in Lancaster Gate (croissants and orange juice for her, fresh air and vitamin drinks for me and my hangover), a game of chase around the Italian Fountains, a meeting with Peter Pan, and a gorgeous winter sun-drenched walk across the park. We spent a blissful hour ice-skating in the shadow of the Natural History Museum where she was completely fearless, I was completely proud, and we didn't even  need the penguin stabilisers. (She even requested that our Victorian carousel horses go faster, but that power was out of my hands and their wooden hooves). We sipped tea at Cocomaya in an enchanted forest of exotic birds and paper flowers, and giggled at the glitter-dipped chocolate pigs locked in antique glass cabinets. I even took her for her first rose macaron at Laduree, and we ended our day together with a waltz around the Disney-themed Harrods Christmas windows. 

She had a ball, but I doubt she knows how much joy she gave me in return. Christmas is at its most magical when children are involved, and her presence was a sparkly gift all of its own.

Now, what's left to do for the next 24 days?

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Nine Ladies Dancing

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Christmas Jumper

With just one month to go till the big day, it's time to get your Christmas jumper out. Everyone's got one, no excuses. The camper the better so don't hold back. Mine is a natty Norwegian number with a wintry rainbow pattern and a brass buckle. I'm proud to say that I've worn it more times in shopping centres than ski chalets - it's good to keep people guessing how sane you are. Anyway, if you're looking to spruce up (oh, there's an excellent Christmas pun) your collection of woolly wonders, you won't do better than this: a bedecked and bejewelled masterpiece by Meadham Kirchoff that's glamorous and gaudy in equal measure.

The First Snow

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The Bauble Ball

Things I hate about Christmas decorating? Matching ornaments, artificial trees and silver themes. (While we're on the subject, what's up with people who refuse to wear the paper crowns in their crackers?) Things I love? Kitschy baubles. It comes from years of spending messy - but very happy - Christmases with a zoo of exotic characters, and naturally, the tree has to compliment the chaos. From the last surviving glass ornaments that my parents bought for their first Christmas together, to crumbling salt dough kindergarten creations and souvenirs from adventures around the world, our Christmas tree has the kitchen sink thrown at it. The end result is an explosion of joy, and like the orange rubber panda in the manger of my grandparents' nativity scene, I wouldn't have it any other way. I have a tradition of buying my mother a new one each year, and these are the little beauties that I'm failing to choose between this Christmas.

1. Carousel horses, £12 from Habitat

2. Champagne bottle, £3.99 from Butlers

3. Pink poodle, £4.99 from Butlers

4. Cream tea, £55.00 from Fortnum & Mason

5. Pink nutcracker, £4.99 from Butlers

6. Mummies & antiquities, £50.00 from The British Museum

And saving the best till last...

7. Brussels sprout, £1.99 from The Contemporary Home

Kate Moss by Ryan McGinley

Ryan McGinley shot Kate Moss for W magazine back in 2007. The oily blue tones of these photographs are making me excited to see the winter night skies, and impatient for the arrival of the first snow.

La Belle Epoque

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23.10.

Did you ever meet someone this special? I doubt it. 

This is Amy.

She's the kind of friend that most people dream of: loyal, generous, smart as hell, kind, wickedly funny (with a  laugh that should be canned and sold) and just constant fun; she's been my friend for twenty years, which makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. We also share a birthday which she used to count down to every year, but now that we're getting older she's not so keen.

The only thing that disappoints me about Amy is that she won't watch the final episode of Sex and the City, because when Big describes the girls as the loves of Carrie's life, he's describing her: my old mate, one of the loves of my life, and a partner in crime for always.

Happy Birthday darling.

Saturday Girl

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Spice Up Your Scones

You can't go wrong with a scone, especially not in Autumn. I'm of the firm belief that they're best enjoyed hot from the oven, tossed into a basket, and dressed up in red gingham like Mrs Mop. And even though it's controversial and may rattle a few "clotted cream and jam" cages, I think flavoured scones sometimes do it better than the originals (I like to look at them as The Bootleg Beatles of the baking world). So, staring down the barrels of Dorset & Devon natives and Beatles fans alike, here are a few adventurous takes on a classic that I hope will spice things up a bit.

1. Strawberry & almond scones by The Curvy Carrot

2. Ginger, lime & coconut scones by Hungry Rabbit

3. White cheddar & black pepper scones by Spoon Fork Bacon

P.S. Make them gluten & wheat-free with this basic recipe from The Gluten-Free Gourmand

Phosphorescence

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Love In The Asylum

A stranger has come

To share my room in the house not right in the head,

A girl as mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.

Strait in the mazed bed

She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,

At large as the dead,

Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed

Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,

Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust

Yet raves at her will

On the madhouse boards worn thin by my waking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last

I may without fail

Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

Dylan Thomas

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Come Outside

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Cicadas, Wild Flowers & Shooting Stars

Few days go by when I don't find myself wishing that I had my brother's talent for photography, but this summer in France I actually became a chameleon - so green with envy that I blended into my surroundings. From the moment the plane swept over Marseilles harbour, it became a holiday of firsts: the first time I've seen the sea truly sparkle, the first time I've walked with hundreds of butterflies floating around the wild flowers at my feet, the first time I've held a glow worm in my hand. The French mountains were playing to all of my senses and I was indulging them right back. I went canoeing down rivers lined with beaver dams, listened to screech owls and cicadas singing long after midnight, watched Bastille Day fireworks light up caverns in the cliffs, and witnessed the haunting sight of children dressed in medieval costume sailing paper lanterns through the gorge. There were adventures too: waiting with excitement for the Tour de France to pass by, measuring my hand against dinosaur footprints, creeping around grottos punctured with stalactites and stalagmites like ornate pillars of wax, spotting Mongolian horses on the hillside, and sitting on the terrace watching vultures circle in the expanse of unbroken blue sky. It wasn't just my eyes and ears that were feasting either as I was spoiled not only with exquisite cheese and wine, but with the most colourful and juicy fruit and vegetables, the sweetest honey, and a wonderful night of singing, laughter and playing games with the villagers as we baked pizza in the 800-year old bread oven at Castelbouc, and ate together on the steps of the church.

But of all the gloriously magical moments of this summer, one will stay crystal clear, always. Taking blankets, sweets, and a (malfunctioning) telescope out onto the terrace, we lay down on the floor and opened our eyes to the heavens. Stars. Thousands of them, burning absolutely snow white in the darkness above the mountain peaks. I've seen stars before but not like this - the cruel smoke of London has hidden them from me my whole life. Without so much as a wisp of cloud in sight, we could even see the Milky Way. I was starstruck. When a shooting star passed by with such clarity and brilliance that I felt I could catch on to its silver tail and hitch a ride, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion and feeling utterly privileged to be present at this: nature's most spectacular show. I remember remarking that the word for 'star' is gorgeous in every language that I know - etoile, estrella, stella, but when I asked what the French word for 'stargazing' was, this bountiful country became suddenly dry. It would seem that if the most beautiful words are reserved for the most beautiful things and the most beautiful things are the most precious and rare, our English skies have cloistered and not spoiled us with purpose: when the day comes where we are lucky enough to understand the true meaning of 'stargazing' and 'starstruck', we are armed with a powerful vocabulary to match the moment in all its beauty. 

As I flew back into London on the very last flight of the night, the city was a string of lights bouncing against the warm wind. It was like a brush stroke of liquid gold as far as the eye could see. In all my life, I have never seen it look so good. Was it glittering for the Olympics? Was it the clear summer night? Was it the joy-inducing aeroplane cocktail of caffeine and chocolate that I wolfed down at the charmed hour of midnight? 

I think it was my eyes, renewed by the beauty of a summer in France.

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Soft Sirens

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The Wild Heart

I fell in love with Stevie Nicks when I was 17, the age she was when she met Lindsey at high school. My own high school boyfriend (also a musician; not called Lindsey) drove me around in his car playing the only Fleetwood Mac album we owned on repeat for months. We found it disregarded and unloved at the bottom of a bargain bucket at a record store, and the rest was history. 

She's my imperfect hero; a 5'1" blonde contradiction. 

Her voice is gilt at the edges with innocent, feminine beauty, and yet it rattles like a skeleton and roars like she swallowed a lion whole. In some photographs she's my beautiful mother in the 70s - except my mother has unforgettable Arctic blue irises - but in others, she's a creature wailing out from another world,  hell-bent on retribution. She is a graceful ballerina and sometimes even prudish, and yet she has run feverishly through passionate affairs with more rock stars than Rolling Stone has had covers. A country girl who sings rock 'n' roll; a free spirit who got trapped in the net of two very nasty, spirit-sucking drugs; a poet who seeks truth yet tells more crazy and compelling stories than The Boy Who Cried Wolf. 

But she does it all with conviction, and she's sincere, or at least I think she is. Maybe she modelled herself on Holly Golightly: "She's a phony. But she's a real phony". Maybe she's the world's best method actress. Or maybe she's just such a character that her fairytale fictionalisation into witch and princess was inevitable. 

I think it's more simple than that. To be a poet, or at least a good one, you have to aim to represent truth and capture the essence of an abstract emotion in words that enlarge and enhance the idea without detracting or diverting from it. When you consider that truth is most often both light and dark, and that Stevie is primarily a poet, her rainbow of contradictions are as light and dark as a shadowy cave of Platonic forms. And I love her for it. She writes and sings what neither she nor we can explain, but what we can both feel. 

She is a wild, unbroken heart. She is brave. But most importantly, her spirit towards others is loving. 

She's certainly once-in-a-lifetime stuff. There is nobody even remotely like her and there never will be again. Stevie didn't have children, but she has said that her music is her child and her gift to the world. So in that way, we are all her children - everyone who loves her music. She was Jessie's girl twice over, I am Stevie's girl (twice over).   

Happy Birthday Stevie Nicks.

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The Morning After The Night Before

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