For Peat’s Sake

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It’s a source of great disappointment to me that I’ve never been described as ‘roguish’. The words ‘swashbuckling’ and ‘debonair’ have never preceded my name. ‘Maverick’ or ‘Modern day cowboy’? Nope, not synonymous with Elodie. More likely, if someone was asked to describe me in 3 words, they’d pick ‘twitchy’, ‘vanilla’ and ‘crumb-covered’.

So how to up my image ante and move from basic bitch to raffish gasser? Why, with whisky of course! Think about it…it’s the tipple of choice of such sharp-witted straight-shooters as Harvey Specter, Denny Crane, Humphrey Bogart and Don Draper. I bet if you handed a cactus a dram of the golden corn squeezins it’d immediately give off a distinguished air.

My plan to become a single malt gal was set in motion last night at a college whisky tasting.

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Curse of the LBD

So far this week I’ve had 3 formal events. On each occasion I agonised over what to wear, and on each occasion I begrudgingly opted for a black dress. Now, black is all well and good for daywear: it’s slimming, makes cheap fabric look more expensive, and means you can dole out authoritative makeup advice when you loiter in department stores and are inevitably mistaken for a salesperson (the number of metallic eyeshadow disasters I’ve prevented! You’re welcome, humanity). But black is the worst for evening events. You just end up blending into the crowd and looking like a sad dismembered ghost in photos.

So I should really break out of the habit. But not this weekend, because my college is putting on a banquet and the theme is… well, actually I’m not quite sure. The invitation was on faux-parchment, with masonic(?) watermark, newspeak(?) terminology and politburo(?)-y allusions… so it’s either Stalinism, 1984, Doomsday Cult, Revolution or something similar. It’s probably an Emperor’s New Clothes situation and I’m just one of the ovine townspeople too scared to clarify. But in any case, we’ve been instructed to wear black.

Here are a couple of the best of the black dresses I found online:

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Sticking out like a foreign sore thumb: I’ll always forget the second air-kiss

Four months into this Oxford adventure, I think I’ve acclimated pretty well. I’ve learnt to use a fish fork (poorly), have accepted the bracing cold (bedgrudingly), traded coffee for EBT (kicking and screaming) and no longer bat an eyelid when the choice of discussion at 3am after a night out is legal philosophy (I just make for The Hills. And I absolutely mean that in the LC, Heidi and Audrina sense of the words).

By now I’m used to ‘pudding’ meaning dessert. I get that ‘vest’ refers to a tanktop, and that ‘pants’ are in fact underwear (annoying, as I already had to get used to fashion magazines changing legwear to the singular ie. “pair this shirt with a crisp linen pant or satin trouser.” Ugh.)

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Thank you for that perspective Cher…

Clueless

The death stamp of the Oxford classroom…I got told by one of my classmates that my presentation was very “accessible”(!)

This is like your friend marketing you to potential dates as having “a great personality”.

It’s the butchers in Sydney whose slogan is “Meat you can eat”.

The soft drink L&P which is “World Famous in New Zealand”.

It’s the carnation of compliments. The comic sans of feedback. The back-handed, slug-in-the-mouth black jelly bean of scholarly praise.

(On an unrelated note, my Mum often tells me that I have a tendency to overdramatise…)

Happy Australia Day!

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In a couple of hours it’ll be Australia Day (AEDT). I usually spend January 26 at the Australia Day Live concert in Canberra; covered in Southern Cross temporary tatts and trying to avoid getting whipped in the face by mullets; listening to the Triple J Hottest 100 countdown in a blow-up kiddie pool with at least 2 people dressed as Corey Worthington, or sneakily palming off sausage-sizzle duty at a BBQ I’ve thrown. Ah, nostalgia.

Here are some of the things I miss about home:

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Statement Necklaces

So I realise that my last few posts have all been in the ‘What I’ve Bought’ vein. At the risk of falling into the cornfed Warholian territory of Haul Vloggers (although they must be doing something right. Apparently Zoella’s “Home ‘Stuff’ Haul” video, in which she fascinatingly reveals that she is “quite selective with drinking glasses” has over 1.6 million views and 20,000 comments…) here’s a necklace I recently bought from Anthropologie:

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Buying statement jewellery is my attempt to ameliorate my black clothes affliction. As an accursedly monochromatic dresser who is constantly offered condolences (apparently I look like I’m going to a funeral) or asked where to find nude pantyhose (apparently I look like a David Jones salesgirl), I’m always looking for ways to inject pops of colour into my outfits. Without like, actually wearing colour.

I was drawn to this décolletage duster because it looks like it’s made of candy gumdrops and teeth. It’s a dentist’s worst nightmare in jewellery form, which is pretty awesome.

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