That fella with the fancy cardi and his hands up my dress? That’s Barry Magic. Somewhat legendary round these parts, Barry Magic is quite a gent. I’m pretty sure most of my friends think I made Barry up. Between tales of him bundling me up in cardboard boxes and his glamorous high jinx as a bonefide fashion high flyer (I shan’t even mention the luminous bikini episode), I’m pretty sure Barry Magic must sound like the ultimate imaginary pal. His name is Barry MAGIC for crying out loud. I guess it might make sense for me, a self-confessed catwalk dunce and style trend ignoramus, to conjure up Vogue savvy chum to make myself feel better about the state of my wardobe, but honest to goodness – he’s a real thing.
Aside from a virtual reunion via Faceboke, I hadn’t seen the wee tyke in flippin’ 10 years or more. Since our days working in high fashion as, um… shop assistants in French Connection *cough*, Barry Magic and I set off on different paths. He was already a top notch accountant when I was still phaffing around trying to complete a doomed PhD and by the time Made in the Shade came along and we’d opened our shop, Barry was working his socks off to nab is dream job in Fashion. Yes – with a capital ‘F’. We’re not talking any o’ yer wannabe he balderdash here.
Fast forward to May 2011. I’m in London. Clare and I had just completed our week long Busy Britain tour the day before and were gearing up to film the final scenes of the Nokia E7 tv ad. “Aaaaaw… Carrie Tragic! I remember when you were a wee goth!” In rocks Barry Magic like he owns the joint – glass of bubbly in one hand, canope in the other. Much screaming ensued. Needless to say, we attracted the attention of the entire crew. “Who’s this guy?” asked the Director. “This is Barry Magic!” I squealed - as though he ought to know. Barry just about makes it into the 3 minute Nokia short. Look! Catch him at 4 mins 18 secs!
Anyway. During my latest big city adventure, I agreed to meet Baz for a wee catch up.
Barry Magic & Carrie Tragic: September 2011
1. Barry jokes about me sitting on a bench like a wee old wummin – not realising that I actually am just like a wee old wummin. I need a wee sit down every now and again or I’ll get stuck.
2. I am embarrassed that I am meeting the CFO of Christopher Kane looking like a proper tink. I am relieved the words ‘Shoreditch House’ are not uttered.
3. Barry tells me about his hellish bus journey – and despite it being a pretty horrible story indeed, I think to myself that I’ve probably seen worth on the Bar-L Express on a Monday morning.
4. Having followed the instructions Barry gave me, I discovered a whole new area of London – one I’d been reading about for flippin’ ages but couldn’t figure out in real life.
5. I am slightly disappointed that London Fields aren’t really fields.
6. We drink ale. ALE!
7. Barry sings a little snippet from ‘Being A Dickhead’s Cool’ and strikes up a conversation with a pretty blonde girl sharing our bench. I think to myself how funny it is that we’re all talking about this on Broadway Market. I tell Barry that I don’t understand the hatred people have for hipsters. Barry tells me he knows some of the actual people featured in the Dickhead powerpoint vid. I feel better. And a little bit excited.
8. Baz tries out a margherita – and gives it top marks.
9. I am afraid of the man with the giant devil dog who’s stopping to chat to everyone/to ask for money. I feel bad for feeling good that later, a devil dog with only three legs comes my way and I don’t even flinch. What? It has a leg missing so it’s jaws don’t work? I’m a little blase on Broadway Market.
10. I get a little bit giddy when I think I spot Ocean Moon from Dirty Sexy Things on the pavement opposite. That was, until I realised the boy she was kissing was about 5′ 3″ and that she was shorter than him. This chick was no Perou modelle.
11. I freak out every time Barry leaves me in charge of the white paper bags full of… Merchandise.
12. We make friends with the couple sitting next to us. The boy is very pretty and we all agree he looks Australian.
12. I tell Barry that I don’t want to cross the canal to Fish Island in the dark and so need to leave. Barry doesn’t know where Fish Island is. I’m quite sure he thinks I’m a squatter. By the time Barry puts me on a bus home, it’s dark. Barry tells me that he feels a bit nervous and that he fears I might get snatched. I wonder if maybe he’s got a point. Barry makes me feel better by telling me that if he has to do a Crimewatch reconstruction, he promises to play himself and vows to make sure Blythe Duff plays me.
I’ve been back home in Glasgow for 4 days. In that time I’ve been drunk twice, have bawled and cried at a wedding, eaten the best chicken balmoral ever and scalded my ass. More about that later. First thing’s first. What with all my time in London being taken up with enjoying fun times, my blogging fizzled out in the final days as I tried to cram in as much as I could before heading home again. So. Here’s the first of my little catch up posts.
Disclaimer: This blog post was penned while Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry was (i) suffering a post-wedding hangover and (ii) was nursing a burned ass following a nasty incident with a burst hot water bottle. Go easy…
Rewind to Saturday 10th September. Although the ol’ gommy body was on it’s last legs following my traumatic totter along the Thames, I took the long tube line round in a circle from The Southbank to Bethnal Green – the plan being that I could have wee soft seat and a little rest before attempting to do a circuit of Judy’s Affordable Vintage Fair. The plan just about worked – though to be quite honest, due to wobbly legs and an out of shape spine, it was, admittedly a prrrrrretty quick circuit :/
Setting up home for the day at the fabulous York Hall, Judy’s vintage shopping shindig seemed to put every last nook and crannie of the space to great use. I’ve visited York Hall a few times for the BUST Craftacular and absolutely adore the venue. On this particular day though, the usual array of BUST-style indie craft delights were replaced by hoards and hoards of clothing, homewares, accessories, ephemera and vintage craft & sewing supplies.
I’ve been to one of Judy’s Affordable Vintage Fairs before (in Glasgow). I’m not sure if it was down to my not being able to cope with the frenzied crowds (I’m not very good at crowds) or maybe it was because I felt a little bit disorientated in the semi-dark venue (I’m not very good at darkness), but somehow, my vintage goat was not tickled. There is, of course, every chance I was just being a grumpy Gertie. The endless gaggles of excitable teenage girls scooping up armfuls of secondhand delights would certainly testify that the event was bonzer. For this 30-something gal though, I found the clothing offer in Glasgow to be pretty 80s heavy, and I suppose that’s not really my thing. Though, that said, what I’d give for my stupid sensitive skin to allow me to don an enormous, embellished angora sweater or a big rainbow coloured mohair number… Eeesh… I guess that’s the beauty (and the bugbear) of vintage and secondhand clothing shopping though, huh? There surely is something for everyone, but depending on the luck bestowed upon you by the goddesses of thrift and the mothers of secondhand – some days you’ll find gems galore and on others, the vintage vibes just aren’t working with you!
Anyway, all that said, Judy’s London Town set up made my eyes pop and my heart skipped a little beat or two as I limped around the lanes of traders. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of vintage clothing though, I kind of gave up on that aspect of the event and instead oohed and aaahed at other, non-wearable things instead…
It ain’t no secret that I have a button fetish. That little sewing supplies obsession I’ve developed over the years? That shows no sign of waning either. Had I had proper pocket money (and the means to ferry a decent haul home), then I’d have gone wild in the aisles! As it was though, I was happy just flipping through card after card of beautiful – not to mention really well priced – buttons, sewing notions and all sorts of crafty ephemera.
I’m not sure why, but vintage magazines seem to be weirdly rare in Glasgow. The last batch I managed to pick up came from a monthly antique fair, but there wasn’t too much choice and I just happened to be lucky in that titles I was interested in were the titles on display. See! Good vintage vibes. However… At Judy’s there were bundles of magazines, TABLES full of magazines – even the odd additional rack dotted around. Had I been able to bend properly (by this time I must have looked to the sellers and to my fellow vintage shoppers a bit like Quasi Modo), then I’d have spent much more time leafing through the masses and masses of vintage fashion booklets, women’s lifestyle mags and gentlemen’s journals!
Other favourite things included:
1. Upcycled cushion covers made from 50s Hawaiian flags/scarves
2. Loads and LOADS of beautiful bags. I’m still dreaming of the yellow knitting bag…
3. The stall specialising in vintage barware. This fella had it all – including several unusual Babycham pieces. Eep!
4. The £1 stall. I seriously wish I’d just bought the weird plastic doll I found. And – and this will sound a bit weird, but to those familiar with my liking for scabby old dolls (literal – not a euphemism), I wish I’d taken home a handful of miniature plastic babies (literal – not a euphemism).
5. A lady complimenting me on my Lucie Sheridan ‘Cock’ bag :)
Judy hosted her freshers’ edition of the Affordable Vintage Fair in Glasgow last week and her vintage roadshow is set to hit my home town again in October. I’m there!
You can find out more about Judy’s Affordable Vintage Fair here and you can keep up to date with event info and vintage chitter chatter on Facebook and on Twitter.
Oh – and P.S The following day, Judy was hosting The Affordable Vintage Furniture Fair. I resisted the urge to pop along – mainly since I have yet to secure a London flat to put furniture in. But as soon as I do, you can bet your boots I’ll be hot footing it to Bethnal Green!
During my two hour traipse along the Thames at the weekend, my eyes were a-boggle at the variety of food traders on offer at The Thames Festival. Had I had a purse full o’ cashola, I would have indulged myself in some van food, but alas, I had not a bean – so… I, um, had not a bean. I did take some quick snaps of some of the stands I got excited by – either because they had amazing names, amazing branding or because they were proper mobile food outlets. Decked out trucks, pimped up vans and prettified buses… Swoon. It’s Clare and I’s dream to have a business on wheels.
I’m not altogether sure what a funky salad might involve, but I’d give it a whirl!
Look! London has its own ACTUAL Meatwagon :)
Decked out with beautiful signage, super cool logos and pretty handmade bunting, this pink Mexican food van was one of my favourites :)
Oh – and I found these guys hanging out on London Bridge.
Part of the reason I picked this particular weekend to take a solo trip to London was that, timed correctly, I’d be able to pop along to The Thames Festival and follow the all-new Craft Trail feature of the weekend-long London city shindig. Featuring creative collectives Of Cabbages & Kings, Crafty Fox, Craft Guerilla and We Make London, I was keen to follow the trail and pick up some new crafty pals en route. Not only that, but festival organisers and Craft Trail co-ordinators Barny & Sanna are a pair o’ good eggs and I wanted show support for their new festival venture. Having discussed the underlying ethos of the Craft Trail with Barny at length in my Made in the Shade guise, it’s pretty clear he’s super passionate about supporting budding creative businesses. In fact, the original plan for this weekend was for Made in the Shade to come to London and for us to set up a marquee extravaganza as part of the Craft Trail. Sadly, the piggy bank and stupid logistical nightmares put an end to those plans – but I was looking forward to seeing what treats Sanna and her merry band of crafty collectives had in store!
Glitch number one started at the tube station. Having established that I needed to be get to London Bridge, I was informed that the line on which I’d intended to travel was closed. Instead, I plumped to get to Waterloo and decided that a little wander along the Southbank might be the perfect way to spend a Saturday alone in London Town. I always feel happy inside when I see the Royal Festival Hall. I was pleased to discover that despite the glitzy development of the area since my days as a teenage southbanker, the old blue signage still adorns the side of the building proudly.
I’d fully expected the festival to attract a heap of people, naturally, but I wasn’t quite prepared for the dense, dense, dense crowds of tottering, shuffling visitors and tourists. There was nothing much else I could but to shuffle along with them. I broke from the herd a moment to visit the information tent and pick up my Craft Trail map. Glitch number two being that the girl manning the stand didn’t have any. When I asked if she could at least point me in the direction of the start of the trail, she looked at me blankly, handed me the festival brochure and told me I’d find details of all event features in there. I thanked her (though not very enthusiastically, I must admit) and squished myself on the end of a riverside bench beside some old people. Flicking through the guide, a few attractions caught my eye – a funny cinema project, a photography masterclass and an old time music & dance tent - but I was at a loss to find any info about my beloved Craft Trail. Working on the basis that if I just headed in the right direction, I’d surely happen upon it all in good time, I took up my place in the herd and set off. Surely the trailing was part of the fun!
After a short (distance) but long (time) walk, I happened upon this art installation. I liked it a lot. It made me smile. Sadly, this picture doesn’t really do it justice. I’d love to see it at night time. I’ll no doubt have mentioned here before that I suffer from what’s known as ‘gommy body’. If you are unfamiliar with ‘gommy body, consult any good medical book and it’ll be right there. Gommy. Body. Under ‘G’. The gomminess manifests itself in a number of ways – mainly by rendering the lower half of my body pretty useless. Not to mention painful. Shakira is so, so right. The hips really don’t lie – and when mine tell me that I need to stop walking or I’ll collapse in a heap/get stuck gripping on to a railing like a rubber legged drunk, they’re usually bang on the money. Under normal circumstances, I try my best to listen to my honest, trustworthy hips. However, when I’m half way along the Thames on the hunt for a bunch of people I really want to see and whom I’ve promised I’ll visit, I foolishly decided to persevere with the shuffling.
As I neared what appeared to be the end of the main festival route, I was pretty close to weeping. The cherry flavoured cigarettes I’d bought as a treat turned out to be horrible. The churros from the Spanish food stall were too expensive for my purse and my feet felt like they might be about to burst into flames. All this, and I still hadn’t found any evidence of the Craft Trail or spotted any of the friendly faces I’d come to smile at. I considered handing myself in to the Lost Children gazebo. I hoped that some kind eyed grown-up might liked the look of me and take me home (via an osteopathy clinic and/or a foot spa).
But! But! Low and behold… Having followed the crowd like the little London lamb I am, off the riverbank and all round the houses, up stairs and down stairs and through funny little windy paths, I rejoined the riverside hubbub and soon came across THIS! Huzzah!
After I’d popped my head into the Crafty Fox origami workshop, I walked round the the rear of the tent. I found this talented lady, Rebekah McMullan, selling her wares under a tree. Rebekah works under the ‘Forgotten Stitches’ moniker and I was truly excited to have found her beautiful textile designs. I think for one reason and another, I’ve become a little weary of the craft world – a little uninspired, maybe. However, my heart took little leaps as I browsed Rebekah’s stall. I adored her little cheery cherry wearables, her beautiful felt necklaces and – these guys! If I have my way, these will be appearing at a Maisonette near you sometime soon :) For now though, you can find Forgotten Stitches online here.
This dame took pride of place on the Forgotten Stitches stall. Not one to get excited by handcrafted dolls as a rule, for this vintage styled gal, I made an exception. Look at her victory rolls! And her pretty green shoes!
I browsed a handful of stalls close to Rebekah’s and felt from their general ‘vibe’ that they must be part of the Craft Trail though couldn’t find a proper ‘abse for Crafty Fox and couldn’t figure out where I ought to go to pick up my ‘I’ve been here’ token. From the choice of indie sellers I did find, I picked up a little selection of business cards. Alongside Forgotten Stitches, my favourites included artist Adam Hemuss, illustrator Clare Shields and some of the designer makers working under the ‘Our Workshop’ umbrella. Confident I was finally on the right path, I continued along the Thames, following the crowd and browsing stalls and food tents as I went. However, when I reached London Bridge, having still not joined up my Craft Trail route, I gave up and admitted defeat. I took me almost 2 hours to shuffle from one end of the riverbank to the other, and unable to ignore what my hips were telling me (or, indeed, walk any more), I crossed the bridge and hobbled toward the nearest underground station.
My sincerest apologies to Sanna and pals for not making it along (or rather, making it along far enough, evidently) to say hallo. I’m sure the Craft Trail was big hit and I hope y’all had a fabulous time (and I hope you made a million!).
Yesterday, I awoke at dawn. I hopped gently out of bed at 6am sharp, being careful not to wake the pair of rock’n'roll cats I’d been snuggled up with in the night. It’s probably worth clarifying for Beardy’s benefit that, of course, I am referring to a pair of actual felines called Joey & Dee Dee - and not a couple o’ stray indie boys. Unusually, I was bathed, clothed and ready to greet the day wearing a full face of make-up by 7.30am. London is doing something funny to me. It’s not unheard of for London to make my feet swell up, to turn my boogers black, to give me spots or to make my arms come out in a weird itch – but until now, I’ve never known it to turn me into a super-productive early riser! Great! Thanks London.
Since I’d jumped ahead of myself by a fair few hours, I spent the earliest part of the morning infront of the computer. I typed some notes, I played on Facebook, I wrote the majority of a blog post and I spent some quality time staring out of the window. Eventually, the gurgling of my tummy drowned out my thoughts and I decided to go outside in search of breakfast.
I say ‘in search of’ breakfast. That’s a porky pie. I was looking to buy some food, yes, but I didn’t have to search for it. I knew exactly where to find breakfast in this neck of the woods. Excited, I practically skipped the stones throw from my gate to Stour Space. Stour Space is a multi-functional, community arts & creative space in Hackney Wick. Not only is that pretty swell, but Stour Space is also now home to one of the best flippin’ cafes around! I arrived there in mere seconds. I bounced into the Counter Cafe area and was greeted by a smiley faced girl with reddish hair. She might have been Australian – but I’m not really sure. From behind her makeshift bar, she asked what I’d like. I knew without even looking at the blackboard menu thing. “I’ll have the Big Veggie Breakfast, please”… “And I’d like a Bundaberg ginger beer too”. Easy. I asked the redheaded girl if I could have my Big Veggie Breakfast without mushrooms. She didn’t seem to think that taking the mushrooms off my order would pose much of a problem for anyone concerned and I was relieved. Relieved because a) I really dislike the taste and texture of mushrooms and b) I have convinced myself (thanks to some added scaremongering by my father) that I have a hernia and that it’s aggravated by mushrooms. Then, like twinkly, plinky, fairy music to my ears, the girl asked, “Would you like me to replace the mushrooms with more of something else? More tomatoes and spinach, maybe? Or some more butter beans?” I was thrilled that I was allowed to replace my mushrooms and I was excited that I might end up with more of either of these delicious breakfast components, but then, THEN she says, “Or, I could give you an avocado?” at which point I whooped aloud, hopped a little bit and then (as if she hadn’t already fathomed by my whooping and hopping that I thought avocado a suitable substitute and a jolly good idea), said, “Oooo! Yes please!” like some kid on a shitty US advertisement for syrup. I paid my way and the girl handed my obligatory plank of wood with my table number painted on it. I carried it upstairs, all the while hoping there might be a seat for me by the window looking out over onto the canal. I hoped that maybe those lovely old teal leather cinema/lecture hall seats might be free. That would be especially cool – for me to spend my first Fish Island morning in Stour Space, eating Counter Cafe brekkie AND sitting on cool vintage furniture, gazing over the canal to the Olympic park.
I reached the top of the stairs and scanned around the room. There weren’t any seats free next to the window. And a blonde family with screaming children and kind of annoying/kind of sweet foreign sing-songy accents had seemingly taken root on the old lecture hall benches. Nevermind. You can’t win ‘em all (mum).
I took a seat at the opposite side of the space – away from the barefooted children and the weird looking dog. I pulled out my book (still reading The Queen of Crafts), my camera and my phone. I sent my mother a text to tell her how happy I was and to tell her that the weather in London was warm and sunny-ish. Her reply? “Enjoy it while you can” – which I thought sounded vaguely threatening – as if she knew something I didn’t. A big tall man came with my breakfast plate. I thanked him – then promptly dismissed my concerns that my mother might be trying to have me killed and tucked into the meal I’d been dreaming of since I got on the train in Glasgow last Wednesday…
I’m sure I’ve said this before, but I must, must, must try my hand at making my own version of the Counter Cafe Big Brekkie when I get home.
THE COUNTER CAFE BIG BREKKIE =
£8.50 well spent. I am on holiday – and I will spend the leccie bill money on eggs if I like.
1. Scrambled egg and toast: The toast is always brown and grainy – and just the right amount of buttery. The right amount of buttery is crucially important. I remember one time, years ago, a boy I really liked made me tea and toast. He handed me a plate of unevenly cooked bread with lumps of unmelted butter on. I knew he was NOT the fella for me. I’m supposing the bread in my Big Brekkie has been baked nearby. I’m not sure why, but the scrambled eggs are always very orange in colour. Would an organic egg be any more orange than a normal free-range one for some reason? I do not know. What I do know is that the chef makes the eggs turn soft – not soggy, orange – not yellow – and they taste a lot like egg-in-a-cup. There’s a sweetness to the scrambled eggs that I can’t explain. I wish I could.
2. Potato cake: Having discussed with Ian Schnapps, just the other day, how difficult it is to successfully fry mashed potato then dish up the perfect potato cake without it disintegrating into one big potatoey mess between pan and plate, I paid particular attention to my Counter Cafe potato cake. I was looking for tips. It was herby. And fluffy. And whole. I ate every bite with a dollop of homemade tomato relish.
3. Beans: In the Big Brekkie, boring old baked beans are replaced with a light but super tasty mixture of butter beans and fresh tomato sauce. This is fast becoming my favourite part of the dish – and the bit I am absolutely sure I could convincingly rustle up at home.
4. Fresh tomatoes and baby spinach leaves: I was a little uncertain how I felt about the spinach in my breakfast at first. I’ve never been a fan of fancy Eggs Benedict dishes (or eggs whatever it is that has spinach in it). I’m not uncertain now – ’tis a genius (not to mention super healthy) little addition to the Big Brekkie. For some reason though I always end up eating it last – and I end up with big forkfuls of green. Really I ought to combine it with other stuff.
5. Avocado: Just like it sounds, really. As a last minute substitute for mushrooms, my avocado arrived on the plate in cute, thinly sliced avocado shaped pieces. I’m not really sure how they did that now I think it through. It hadn’t been phaffed with. It was just a rerr, tasty bunch of avocado, hanging out on my plate – minding it’s own business. Until I ate it.
So. Beardy left London early Friday morning to bus back to Glasgow in time to photograph a friend’s mehndi celebrations. I reluctantly crawled from the comfy sofabed around 9am and after giving Jones the cat a pat on the head, ventured to the bathroom to get myself spruced up for my first solo day in the big city - and for my trip to Fish Island.
I took a bath. As is customary when bathing, I was naked. I was rinsing the last of the ‘I’m-on-holiday’ Charles Worthington conditioner (I know it’s probably a false economy but I only allow myself to buy ‘designer’ hair products in travel sized bottles to trick myself into thinking I’ve gotten a £2 bargain!) out of my hair when I heard a noise. I’d heard several noises already during the course of the morning and even when I was quite, quite sure I was being burgled, it turned out the fridge was just making an unusual tapping sound. Nerves & The City-a-go-go. My ears were underwater this time so, unlike before, I couldn’t be absolutely sure I’d heard what I thought I’d heard. I slid my body up the base of the metal tub and peeped my head over the lip. Before I even had time to confirm with myself that, indeed, I was not imagining a stranger turning the key in the lock and walking on in through the front door, I was face to face with a wee lady – her: armed with cleaning products and a big grin. Me: howling and flailing around in the bath water like a disorientated baby elephant As soon as the lady opened the door, Jones the cat made a dart for it out into the hallway. (I’d left the bathroom door open to keep an on him you see). Limited as to how much I could do right there on the spot without baring all, I curled my knees and cupped my boobs a la Carry On Dalston Lane and shouted, “Get Jones! Get Jones!’. The wee lady with the mop and the grin shouted, “Sorry! Sorry!’ over and over, slammed the door shut again then ran out into the hall in pursuit of the runaway moggy.
Great start. London alone is a right lark.
Anyway, since the unexpected arrival of the housekeeper meant I was now in no real rush to leave Swanksville, I got myself dressed and settled into some work in the mezzanine office (that’s right, dahling, the mezzanine office) while the grinning lady hoovered up and cleaned the bathroom. I resisted the temptation to critique her work (though I did conduct a mini inspection after she’d gone and I can’t say I was overly impressed with her effort at toilet bowl cleaning). I also managed to bite my tongue and keep my advice to add some Zoflora to her cleaning kit in future – though the urge was crazily strong. I wondered if maybe I could be a housekeeper in London.
Even after the grinning lady had gone, it became apparent that poor Jones wasn’t ready to make his return. I suspect he suffered a bit of a fright what with all the shouting and all the nakedness. Stuck inside the apartment while I waited for Jones to show up, I couldn’t help but daydream about what life might be like if I lived in the converted school building on Dalston Lane. Hmmm… What if this were my mezzanine office… and that bare brick wall with the huge windows? What if that was mine to do with what I wished? I probably spent about an hour of the morning just mentally rearranging the furniture and deciding on hypothetical homes for my very favourite things. Where might I display my new pastel keyboard? Where might my big green ceramic squirrel live? Luckily, Jones rocked up to the kitchen window just as I contemplated calling a locksmith and declaring myself a squatter.
With the kitty cat fed, watered and safely indoors, I packed up my things and headed for the train station. It wasn’t long at all before I was toddling down the ramp at Hackney Wick but my stupid holdall was heavy so didn’t enjoy the walk as much as I oughta. En route, I passed a film crew shooting in one of the Fish Island galleries, a lady with a whippet and a greyhound, a couple of skateboarders and a workman carrying too many cans of fizzy pop.
I said hello to the cats, got rid of the stupid holdall (I honestly do not understand why the damn thing is so heavy! Maybe I shouldn’t have brought half my magazine collection with me, huh?) and headed out again. I flipped through the London A-Z and tried to suss out areas of East London I’d never been to before – streets I’d missed or neglected to explore. It occurred to me that aside from a stroll along a teensy bit of Shoreditch High Street, I hadn’t really sunk myself into a proper Hoxton/Shoreditch exploration. Last time my friend Jolene was in London Town she recommended a few fabulous places to seek out so I thought I might make that my day’s task.
I failed.
How-eeeever… All was not lost. I may not have uncovered any sneaky pete treasures down a back lane or claimed a secret cafe or bar as my own ‘lil find, but I did hang out in The Love Shake!
This is the The Love Shake.
In other news, I do not know why all the photos I took on Friday turned out to be a bit jaunty!
Not to be confused with ‘The Love SHACK’ (the B52s favourite saucy holiday hotspot!), The Love Shake is a 50s inspired diner nestled by the bridge on Shoreditch High Street. I was on the skoom for lunch – and for a comfy spot to read another little chunk of my Jazz Domino Holly book. The promise of an affordable burger and a retro shake was enough for me step on inside and the red leatherette booths, old time ad plaques, vintage wireless and retro soundtrack was enough to make me stay and settle in for a fair portion of the afternoon.
Come on in, sit right down and make yourself at home!
Unlike some other retro ‘themed’ (for want of a better description) venues I’ve visited, there’s a definite cosiness to The Love Shake. It’s warm and it’s friendly. The owner gives his customers just the right amount of time and attention ensuring every last visitor feels welcome. There ain’t no ‘too cool for school’ vibe here – no pouting, no sulky faces, no disinterested grunting. No siree. Not only was the service great, but my burger was delicious, my Oreo shake was divine and I surely enjoyed listening to old time r’n'b on the hi-fi. And, yes, it really was a hi-fi.
That big metal beaker on the left? That’s full of Oreo shake. And – and, I gotta say, Carter’s root beer is taaaasty!
Sorry about the camera fuzz. I was too excited to hold still.
As I stopped at the counter to settle my bill, I got chatting to the owner. Poor fella… He probably wasn’t expecting me to launch into my, “I’ve just had my first book published” story. He probably wasn’t expecting me to tell him all about Made in the Shade either – or about my Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry blog. Anyway, I did tell him about all of those things. Told him about the adventures of The A-Maisonettes too. Chatterbox. This is what happens when you visit London alone!
After I’d finished giving Mr Love Shake my life story, he mentioned that although he had a specific vision for his diner, he didn’t particularly consider himself a vintage buff or a retro lifestyle enthusiast. He took his visual cues from popular cinema (70s classic Grease was referenced – ain’t it flippin’ always!) and from 50s alt. icons like Bettie Page. The Love Shake has gotten in tow with the Vintage Mafia gals now and they seem to be settling into their 50s-esque surroundings juuuust fine. London’s very own timewarp wives and bullet-bra toting vintage stylistas host regular pop-up fashion events at the venue – and it would seem this new collaboration is offering Mr Love Shake quite the educational experience!
A giant bottle of French’s Mustard. I squirted so much onto my burger bun that it dribbled all down my top when I took the first bite of my bun… They don’t call me Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry for nothing.
Mr Love Shake likes what he likes – and he likes lots of different things across a variety of eras. Like me, he seems a little baffled when we talk about the most recent reinvention of ‘vintage’ and the current boom that’s occuring across, well… almost everything! Clothing, homestyle, giftware, beauty, food, drink, music, clubbing, dancing, art, film, lifestyle, branding, language, publishing, philosophy. “Vintage” is infiltrating and informing it all. That said, regardless of fads and fashions, bandwagons and scenesters, The Love Shake somehow manages to sidestep the dreaded territory of ‘novelty’. Jeez Louise… If there’s one thing that really makes my toes bunch when it comes to vintage chat, then it’s the tendency for some people/companies/whoever to reduce ‘retro’ to ‘novelty’ – to fancy dress or to bad taste or comedy. I remember once, a customer said to me, “Aaaaw… Your shop’s lovely. It’s like stepping back in time – y’know, with the furniture and everything. And the old-fashioned music’s funny. And you – you’re all dressed up in your costume! You fit perfectly”. Of course, this ‘lil soul was being kind and intended her comments to be complimentary – I got that. I’m not a total jackass. I appreciated that she liked what we’d done with the place and was flattered that she’d taken the time to say so outloud. I did explain though that we’d styled our shop (and everything else about our business) simply according to beautiful things we loved and felt inspired by. Our shopping soundtrack was chosen from our vast collection of favourites according to mood or occasion or even weather. And as for my ‘costume’, well… My costume was just, um…, my clothes.
I suppose, the flip side of that though are those instances when vintage snobbery gets waaaaay out of control. You know, when a gal can’t hang out in her favourite shop or enjoy a Sloppy Joe in her favourite America Graffiti-esque rock’n'roll joint without first pinkie swearing never to use a microwave? Or without first producing a certificate verifying the authenticity of her handbag/stockings/aurora borealis earrings? Or without first passing a quick fire test on the musical back catalogue of Wynonie Harris? Yeah… Ye can away ‘n’ raffle with that. Anyway, I digress. (I apologise. I truly hate that phrase. It reminds of a girl I went to school with. She seemed to say it a lot. It reminds me of her. And of tossers.)
Mr Love Shake has taken a general, common notion of what a midcentury diner might have looked like – and perhaps more importantly, what it might have felt like - then spent years collecting all the bits and pieces to incorporate into The Love Shake interior. It’s a mish-mashy kind of approach. My favourite kind of approach. Genuine vintage pieces and found objects sit happily alongside reproduction items (like the phone box) and where he feels like it, Mr Love Shake adds iconography and design features that break with the 50s theme altogether. As a unit though, the whole shebang work all works like a dream.
Brrrng-brrrrng! Hello? 1956? It’s Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry here. What’s shakin’?
As I walked toward the door – tummy full o’ ice-cream and beef (yum), I promised Mr Love Shake I’d keep in touch. I wished him well with his venture and told him I hoped the mainstreaminess (now there’s a made up word for y’all! I like it), of vintage would somehow work in his favour. I’ve decided that when I finally relocate from Glasgow to London Town, one of the very first things I’ll do is ask Mr Love Shake if he might like The A-Maisonettes to come play some music for his customers sometime. Or I might ask him if I can host a party there. Or some such little fun event… I’m on it.
You can find out more about The Love Shake here. You can find out about The Vintage Mafia here.
Now officially craving a Love Shake burger. Rumbley in the tumbley.
Day 1 of my London adventure was pretty manic. No sooner had I been reunited with Beardy at Euston Station, but we were hot footing it out east to Dalston Lane. As Beardy veered left off the pavement and skipped up some stairs to the entrance of a beautiful old school building (complete with pretty blue paintwork and gorgeous polished tiling), I wondered if maybe he was playing some cruel trick. He put the key in the lock of the big, heavy double door and guided me inside the foyer. With shiny wooden floors in the echoey hallways and the original blackboards still hanging on the walls, the My Fair Lady syndrome from the train experience returned – this time rendering me speechless and wide eyed like one of those weird meercat toys you see in tat shops. I hate that those things are both kinda cute and kinda shit all at the same time – but that is neither here nor there. I suppose some of the very best things are – cute AND shit, I mean. Not neither here nor there. That would be crazy.
We made our way up through the building until we reached the door of the apartment. Once inside, the My Fair Lady symptoms worsened as I explored our temporary home. I shan’t go into too much detail at the minute since I’d like to share some of my favourite features in a separate post but – needless to say, much gasping ensued.
With no time to waste, we found a hidey hole home for my luggage so as not to disrupt the casual yet considered, artsy yet homey displays of beautiful things around the space – then headed straight back outside in search of Mexican food – and the other three quarters of Schnapps.
The previous night, Schnapps played a show in Islington to a reassuringly responsive (and well sized) London crowd and had been celebrating their success (and bass player, Glenn’s birthday) since. We found the rest of the band out west, a few jugs of margherita and a tray of tequila down, in fairly swank but comfily unpretentious Mexican hangout, Wahaca. Still satisfied by my 3 course breakfast aboard the train, I plumped for some small dishes – delicious slow cooked pork nestled in soft taco rounds and a black bean quesadilla.
I loved these newspaper-style menu mags at Wahaca
We left the cantina with handfuls (eyefuls?) of chilli seeds
Look at these cute tin can lanterns!
Having stuffed our heads and insides full of tortilla chips and guacamole, we bid Schnapps guitarist Leo a fond farewell and headed east again in the direction of Bethnal Green.
Jazz Domino Holly, founder of the country’s hippest W.I branch, craft columnist for Company magazine and daughter of rock’n'roll legend Joe Strummer – has only gone and trumped her already super-cool self and published a new crafty guide to doing it yourself. She’ll now be addressed as Queen of Crafts – don’t you know? ;) That’s what her book’s called you see – she hasn’t just decided to make her friends call her that for a lark. Though she oughta insist they do! I was thrilled to learn that my trip coincided with Jazz’s book launch party and was even MORE thrilled when London pal Leona Thriftola announced she’d be hosting a One Stop Vintage Haberdashery Shoppe at the event! Add to that a gripping live performance from all-girl choir Gaggle, delicious cake and sweet treats by Viva Cake AND live crafting from The Shoreditch Sisters and I do believe you’ve got yourself the recipe for the most rock’n'roll book party you ever did see. And by lord, we saw it. We saw it, we shopped it, we drank it, we ate it, we laughed it, we danced it and we lapped it right on up until the disgruntled door steward turned the music off and showed us the door :) However, we didn’t leave until Jazz signed copies of her book for us. I stopped at that (I’d already made quite the fool of myself stomping around to Woolly Bully on the dancefloor) but Jazz, the poor lamb, proceeded to meet requests to sign the chests of Schnappers Ian & Glenn. The perfect hostess! (I tried to find a suitable link for y’all to get acquainted with Jazz but I can’t really find one. You can ‘like’ Jazz’s Facebook page here. Find out about the Shoreditch Sisters here and buy The Queen of Crafts here.)
Disco sewing? Yes please!
The Thriftola Haberdashery Shoppe was CRAMMED full of flippin’ amazing things – but, alas, I had no pocket money! :(
Lovely, then – that our bonefide crafty Cockney gal, Mira, gifted me the vintage weaving kit I’d had my eye on all night! Thank you Ms Boutiquette!
Gaggle.
Schnapps. Signed.
Now, wasn’t that a book party?!
The party’s cool cat contingent was high, but we soon lowered the tone with our group rendition of this 90s gem… Sung with such passion, too. It was an emotional sort of day!
Many new friends were made at Bethnal Green Social Club thanks to a shared appreciation of ‘perform the actions’ dancing.
One more tune! And this was it. Belter.
To top off a fabulous night at a fabulous party, turns out, Schnapper Glenn and Leona Thriftola only share the same birthday! I trust they each had a whale of a time. Happy birthday pals! :)
So I packed up my troubles in my green vintage suitcase and smile-smile-smiled my way to the train station. I was headed for London Town. Again.
I woke up at 7am sharp on Wednesday morning. My eyes hadn’t been open that early in quite some time. Despite a looming, stomach churning anxiety, I enjoyed the morning. Since my love of sleeping often overrides…well, my love of most other things, I forget that the morning is a nice time. A nice quiet time. Anyway, on this particular Wednesday morning I had no time for dilly dallying or morning time pottering. I said a teary farewell to my beautiful cat with guilt knots in my heart and hopped into the cab I’d called 10 minutes earlier. Since this was the first proper holiday I’d taken in about 3 years, I ought to have been hopping with excitement, but I felt a bit sick. Sweaty. Nervous. Clammy hands. Hardly the Some Like It Hot vibe I was going for. As excited as I was to see Beardy and as excited as I was to travel solo on the train - shaking off that pesky impending sense of doom proved difficult.
Once I’d successfully picked up my train tickets from the man at the station desk, I felt a little bit calmer. You see, in my head, the scenario was destined to go a little something like this: I approach the ticket window. I pass the man my booking information through the little window doodah. He’d look down at my travel code and say, “I’m sorry, love. You’ve been had. Since you are a moron that doesn’t understand the first thing about train travel, you’ve made your booking via a fraudulent website and this reservation doesn’t exist. To travel to London today, you’ll need to pay £300″. I was quite, quite certain this would happen. It didn’t. The man looked down at my travel code, typed something into his little tippety tappity machine thing and handed me four cards. Two tickets. Two seat reservations.
Like a proper idiot, I decided oh-so-foolishly to forfeit the convenience and practicality of my (albeit ugly) suitcase on wheels in favour of my super-cool, fancy, green vintage suitcase. By the time I’d lugged it – and my inexplicably heavy holdall to the front of the train, my arms were burning red and my gommy back wasn’t at all appreciative of the early morning muscle shock. However, when I finally reached coach J, I hobbled onto the train and quickly found my seat. Like something out of My Fair Lady, I gawped at the carriage – at the pretty place settings on the table, at the little table lamps and individual plugpoints. There was real crockery and proper cutlery laid out. Like in a resaurant. With napkins and – and, and everything! After some shuffling around, I settled into my (comfy) seat and tried awfully hard to stifle a big stupid grin – but couldn’t. I thought, since there was currently no one else sitting at my table, I could grin all I liked. So I did.
A smiley bald man poured me a cup of tea. A pretty blonde lady gave me grapefruit juice and brown toast. The smiley bald man came back and asked what I wanted for breakfast. I thought the tea and the juice and the brown toast WAS breakfast. It was certainly more than I was used to. I ordered the grill. Almost as soon as I had, I regretted it. “What did you do that for, you stupid bitch?” I thought. “You know you’re weird about sausages and you probably won’t like the bacon. And if the egg has crispy stuff on the bottom you’ll cry. You should just have asked the smiley bald man for some fruit. You can’t go wrong with fruit.” Since it would seem that life really is better in First Class, I needn’t have worried about my grill. ‘Twas super tasty and there were no egg induced (nor sausage induced, or indeed bacon induced) tears.
The pretty blonde lady came to clear away the dirty breakfast dishes. I tidied up the table a little bit (I didn’t want to spoil it) and opened my laptop. I had planned to blog every step of my journey, but I quickly realised that enjoying myself was taking up a surprising amount of time and some how I couldn’t manage to simultaneously enjoy myself and document everything. While I was on the train, I did take note of some new topic ideas (to add to the ridiculously long list of topic ideas I’ve already logged in my notepad) and I did start off a musical post about my train travellin’ soundtrack. We’ll get to that. Instead of trying to write a full length blog, I rather enjoyed updating the all new Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry Faceache page approximately every 20 minutes.
Two Funny Things That Happened in Coach J…
1. Makin’ Your Mind Up
This is probably not the first time I have posted Making Your Mind Up on my blog. I’m not ashamed of doubling up. And I’m not ashamed of my deep, deep love of this song. No siree! So – that said, I never, ever travel without Bucks Fizz sneaked onto my playlist. It’s always a highlight of the journey when that little shooka-chooka intro comes shooka-chooka-ing through my headphones. There I am. In Coach J. Grinning like a goon at the relative splendour of the First Class carriage when ol’ Making Your Mind Up comes on. I’d already spent a fair portion of my time on the train trying not to overtly chair dance (I can chair dance easier on the bus you see – more privacy somehow). I’d pretty much managed to hold it together but Bucks Fizz toppled me over the table shoogling edge and my body jerked an exaggerated shoulder jiggle and a sort of side-to-side bottom wiggle – almost involuntarily. I was quite certain that the man in the grey jumper, now sitting opposite me (he joined the fun at a station called Oxenden – I have no idea where that is) had definitely noticed my inadvertent boogie burst out but by this time, I could care not a jot. I was having far too much fun. As I wobbled around to the time of the music in my window seat, the train began to bend and sway too, matching the Making Your Mind Up rhythm almost to the very beat. There was a fabulous, fabulous moment, somewhere near the end of the first verse, when I was being pushed and pulled in time to the music by the train – and I caught a glimpse of all the other passengers in the carriage (including, of course, my table mate) being pushed and pulled along too. I let out a little snort of delight when, in my head, I imagined my long time wish that life were one big piece of musical theatre coming true right there and then on a Virgin train. Everyone was swaying now – but pretty soon? They’d be finger clicking and toe-tapping their way up the aisles and pulling lengths of shiny fabric off from velcro fastened stagewear. As tight as I tried to tense my tummy muscles and despite holding my breath so hard my face must surely have gone a rather peculiar colour – there wasn’t heckish much I could do other than let the choked up giggling escape. As if things couldn’t get any more surreal (in my brain) – or any more embarrassing (in real life), the first verse hopped into that funny little modulation bit (the best bit) and just at the perfect moment, the man in the grey jumper gave the table a little tap with his hand – in very precise ‘Making Your Mind Up’ time! I spent the next ten minutes sitting in my seat at a 90 degree angle laughing into the window – my own reflection making me laugh harder. I am quite the classy chica.
2. Sweetie?
Toward the end of journey – having already enjoyed two more cups of tea and two teensy cans of lemonade, the smiley baldy man made his way down the aisle once more, this time laden with a giant wicker basket choc-full of mini packs of Love Hearts and Fruit Salads. I saw him coming but had my headphones in and had happily tuned out of the train journey burr and into a timely blast of Abba, ‘That’s Me’. “Would you like a sweetie?’ mouthed the smiley baldy man, leaning over the table and shoving the big basket in my direction. “Aaaaaw! Wow!” I exclaimed as I dug around in the basket and pulled out a sweetie (one for each hand) only to notice that the smiley baldy man was laughing quite hard. The man in the grey jumper was laughing quite hard too. At me. Forgetting just how loud my London playlist was blaring in my headphones, I guess my response wasn’t just a touch overly enthusiastic but it was much, much louder than I’d planned. I blushed.
I arrived at Euston right on time to find Beardy waiting for me on the platform. He smelled like a brewery but it was nice to squeeze him.
Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry is a big, fat, lazy heap of sleepyhead this evening. After a looooong day stomping around town in search of some bargainatious winter wardrobe staples followed by a looooong evening Made in the Shade-ing, I am officially pooped. So pooped infact that the filling I made this morning for my long awaited beetroot tart is still in the fridge. I was very nearly a good housewife there - just for a split second. But I’ve gone and ruined it now. The beetroot tart will need to wait until tomorrow. As will the post about my shopping trip I had planned. All you need to know for now are these salient facts:
1. I now officially own a pair of leggings.
2. I can think of at least hundred reasons why I no longer want to live in Glasgow – and, turns out? Most of ‘em can be found hanging out in McDonald’s on Argyle Street.
3. Today I became a charity shop champion. Made up ‘bargainatious’ simply is not the word. Well, it’s not A word, but… Whatever.
Talking of fabulous bargains – a great big box arrived at my house this morning. I wasn’t going to answer the buzzer at first (I very rarely do. Heck – it might be debt collectors. Or door to door charity muggers. Or worse still, the Irish Catholic missionaries that seem to enjoy holding my hand or, OR the stupid electricty meter reader guy who refuses to understand that I need at least two days notice to be able to guarantee him access to the Giant Cupboard of Crap where said meter is installed). Anyway, I did answer the door. And I’m glad I did. I am a big brave girl. The postman brought me a tonne of ‘desperately-trying-to-cheer-myself-up’ gifts I’d purchased from Leona Thriftola’s surprise £1 sale :)
Here’s just some of the treasure I bagged… (Let’s do pictures tonight, huh? Too much talky talky tires a gal out!)
I spotted this on Leona Thriftola’s shelf the very first time I visited her studio.
The Japanese rainbow keyboard lives in my house now – though it’s currently on display with it’s pretty red case closed. I’ve decided that it won’t flash it’s cute pastel keys until it’s sitting pride of place in our new flat in London.
I know what I’m doing with the rest of my evening! You’ll find me crimpin’ it up, baby. Crimpin’ it up – and not in a Mighty Boosh kind of way neither. Pretty soon, my barnet will be as bumpy as the ride to town on the 38 bus.
Rather ironically, I bought this beautiful vintage kitty bank to inspire Beardy and I to save, save, save. Hmm.
This is my new Holiday Book. I’ve decided that it will document next week’s Carrie Not The Kind of Girl You’d Marry solo trip to London Town. It is blue. And beautiful. And look! It even has handy phrases in French and Spanish and German and Italian in it!
I’m not going to say too much about this just yet since I can feel a full blown post coming on. What I will say though is, “Wow”. I think we know each other well enough now for you to guess how flippin’ excited I am.
Yes. I think you understand.
Tiny food! Everybody loves tiny food. When we finally get to move south to our new city life, Beardy and I will each use one of these to keep our new house keys safe. And cute.
Visit Leona’s shoppe at: www.thrift-ola.com – but I swear, if you buy the Elvis rug, I will take you down.
Months and months and months ago I signed up for an online subscription to a new magazine called Vintage Life. Sounds like something I would do. Vintage? Life? Magazine? Yes. I’ll have one of those please! I’d never seen the magazine in real life and having never actually cast my eye over any proper content – only short bursts of chatter on Facebook and Twitter, I was investing cashola (albeit a teeny amount of cashola) blindly. I made my decision to purchase based purely on the ‘Vintage Life’ title, really. Since I am such the techno dullard, I never did suss out how to access the publication online and in the end the stupid transaction was a complete waste of time. Nice one, me. You goon.
Cut to last weekend and I’m in the Inverness branch of WH Smith with Beardy and his parents. I can confirm that WH Smith Inverness does not currently stock my book. However, it does stock real life copies of Vintage Life.
Even though I found the cover somewhat off-putting, I asked Beardy to nab a copy for me to look at up close. The shelf was too high for me to reach, you see. I tried the ol’ tippy toe technique but couldn’t quite catch hold and instead toppled face first, arms straight up in the air, into a stack of ‘Sock Darning Weekly’. To whoever* bought the next copy of that particular gem, I apologise for the make-up imprint of my face on the front. Anyway, despite iffy cover design and questionable sub-headings such as ‘Billie Piper: Vintage fashion, celebrity style’ and the super lame – but, seemingly eternally punchy, ‘Fab Fashion’, making my toes bunch hard inside my smelly green boat shoes (my golly – they don’t half whiff), I handed the lady behind the cash register £3.70 and popped my copy of Vintage Life into my cock bag. (Yep – you heard). I decided that should Vintage Life turn out not to be my thing, which based on first impressions seemed fairly likely, then I’d write a little something about it just to feel like I’d gotten my money’s worth somehow.
I probably won’t be rushing out to buy (another) Vintage Life subscription – but you know what? I will be looking to learn more about stand-out magazine contributor, Betty Bee!
Luckily for me, it turns out that Betty Bee manages her own rather lovely vintage lifestyle blog and, AND, all the content she publishes via Vintage Life is on there. Huzzah! From crafty how-tos to homestyle, fashion and lifestyle commentary, Betty Bee blogs it all. Her fuss-free writing is warm and funny. Her photographs are pretty. And oh boy, the dame’s got style… I recommend you take a peep here. After some googley woogling, I discovered Betty Bee also runs an online vintage boutique. Yum. I particularly enjoyed browsing Betty’s range of vintage homeware and kitchenalia. I think I might have a ‘Fabulous Fanny’ cushion some time soon. Betty Bee – you alone were worth my £3.70.
So. For me, Vintage Life wasn’t nearly ‘vintage’ enough – ’twas more like a rejigged copy of Glamour magazine written by budding fashion journos with a slight bias toward retro style. I expect the magazine will go on to be a roaring success in the current climate (vintage sells, dahling – it’s the new sex don’t you know?) but I need my niche publications to be just that. I’m talking hard/core. (Has anyone else noticed that my magazine chat tends to have weird erotic undertones these days? I honestly do not do that on purpose).
I wonder if maybe I ought to offer to write for Vintage Life? I would surely be the ideal shopping editor. Or maybe I ought to pitch an idea for a vintage music feature? Or maybe I could be that gal who shows up at vintage fairs and retro craft events and writes about ‘em? You know – maybe my relationship with Vintage Life isn’t over juuuuuust yet…
*Whoever/whomever. I to-ed and fro-ed. I to-ed and fro-ed. Still not sure, I looked up some online grammar help but yet STILL couldn’t understand the rule! Apparently he + he = whoever / he + him = whomever. I do not know what that means. So. I’m sorry if that ‘whoever’ ought to have been a ‘whomever’. I thought ‘whomever’ definitely sounded better but I chickened out at the last minute and deleted the ‘m’. I’m regretting it already.
