Stories Part II

Saturday, 21 February 2015

   In the parlour of Yew Tree Manor, Trinity Fallon sat sulking by the fire, which at this time of year, was of no use nor entertainment.  The unobstructed rays of sunshine from outside that were presently toasting the taffeta folds of her lilac dress had been giving far more warmth of late than a typical English summer season could ever hope for.

   The house was silent except for a bluejay resting on a nearby windowsill that overlooked the gardens.  He sang   cheerily to Trin, urging her out of her mood, but it was no use.

   Faye O’Hara was a no good goody two shoes; an imposter of the highest degree.  Trin had tried to befriend Faye when she and her father had first moved into town, but the bog-trotter’s daughter was like no other girl Trin had ever had to endure.  “It’s the Irish in her”, Trin’s father had said in the Spring after Faye tromped through the Fallon household for the first time.  “As rich as that family gets, they’ll never be able to brush the dirt from their bones.  Mind you, Trin, it’s best we not talk about them so roughly; we’re part Irish ourselves, we are.”

   “But Father, how can I possibly be expected to keep my composure around her?  There must be another tutor in Norwich to school her, mustn’t there?  Need we really study together?”
Tea had just been served but Trin had not been hungry.  Rather, she had snatched up her latest novel from the sideboard and flopped down onto the settee next to Lord Fallon, thoroughly exhausted from her first day’s worth of studying with Faye.

   “Mmmm,” Lord Fallon muttered in agreement, “I have no doubt that the O’Haras could afford a private tutor if one needed to be arranged, but my darling - Trin…” 
Trin’s gaze had slowly drifted away once she had realized where her father was headed.  She had glanced back at him glumly.

   “My darling,” he’d continued, “now that your sister is down in Cambridge half the year, you ought to spend more time socializing with other girls your age.”  Lord Fallon had offered a rueful smile.  “Miss O’Hara is only one year older than you and besides, are there any young women in this town you can think of who you would prefer to spend time with?”

   It was a rhetorical question, to which Trinity had known the answer in a split second; no contemplation required.  Her father was right.  With Quenby Fallon off at some progressive women’s college, Trinity Fallon and Faye O’Hara were the only young debutantes in Norwich who came from respectable families.  Although the exact notion of respectable families was debatable - particularly when it came to new money versus old money - Trinity understood that in eyes of Britain’s class system, she was not permitted to enjoy the company of anyone but the likes of Miss O’Hara.

   Some two months later, whilst taking tea in the parlour after a day of lessons, Trin’s feelings towards Faye had yet to change from that first encounter with the O’Hara girl, despite her best efforts.  And now, with her parents out of the house, all Trin could sit and sulk about was having spent the past five hours glaring at Faye’s falsely accentuated rump while listening to that Irish accent of hers putter on about ridiculous nonsense and gossip.  Today was the day that Quenby would be returning home from Cambridge for the season.  Trinity’s elder sister; her other half.  She had been anticipating this afternoon for all the weeks since Quenby’s letter had arrived with the exact date, even picking out her favourite dress a week in advance to have Clara press it and hang it nicely.  If not for her radiant sister’s return to the Manor, why else would Trin possibly have herself tied up into layer upon layer of taffeta and crinoline on the hottest day in June?

   But all her excitement for today had dissipated within minutes of reciting last night’s Latin homework alongside her classmate, who had been failing miserably to conceal her lack of the ancient language for the past eight weeks.  

   Sitting in the parlour alone, an earl grey in one hand, a madeleine in the other, Trinity shut her eyes, wishing, as she so often did, that she were more like Quenby; more free-spirited, hard-headed, and brave.  If Quenby had to share her tutor with Faye O’Hara, Trin reckoned Quenby would have put her in her place a long time ago.  Quenby, in addition to being intelligent, had a tongue as sharp as a pin that she often pricked people with whether intentionally or otherwise.  Yes, her rambunctious nature sometimes gets Quenby into tight spots, but at least she gets what she wants, Trinity reckoned.  
The bluejay outside gave a supportive chirp, startling Trin from her reverie.  She looked up at it and smiled for the first time since breakfast.  

   “Oh, how I wish Bee would just get here quick,” Trin said.

   The bird tweeted back his reassurance that she would before flitting off to a branch out of sight.  Then, like a freight train in the stillness, the front door clattered open.  Trin sloshed her tea in a mad attempt to jump into a presentable position.  

   “Hello?”  Trinity called.  No answer.  Mother and Father were in town for the day and the staff had taken the afternoon off before dinner preparations to enjoy the sun.  “Bee - is that you?”

   Setting the tea aside, Trin peered into the hall and tip-toed toward the foyer.  If Quenby had arrived home on an earlier train to surprise her little sister, she was about to be in for a surprise of her own.  A stream of light blasted the foyer into whiteness as the front door opened again.  Thunk, thud, thunk went the trunks as the were dropped onto the hardwood floor inside.  

   Trinity poised herself behind the grandfather clock, ready to pounce on her sister as she came around the corner, but suddenly, the front door shut and her eyes had to bring the contents of the now shady foyer back into focus.  When they had, the sight in front of her made her jump, and in her startled state she knocked accidentally against the cherry oak clock, giving away her hiding place.
“What on Earth were you doing behind there?” the young man asked, to which Trinity replied with silence.  She just stared at him like a mute idiot; dazed and confused.  

   He was tall, broad, and dark.  He looked like her mother, that’s for certain; the Casey eyes and the ashen locks spilling past his ears gave it away.  The freckles though, were entirely his own; one mark for each day of his life he had spent in the fields; in his father’s footsteps.  

   “What’er ya gunna do, Trin?” he asked jovially.  “Yer jus’gunna stare at me like that?”

Royal Gossip

Hermione might end up with Harry after all, despite how J.K. Rowling concluded her bestselling series.  This Harry, however; has no scars or geeky glasses.  

Unless you have been living under a rock, I hope you can rejoice with me in the potentially blessed relationship between social British royal and legitimate British royal, Emma Watson and Prince Harry.

Watch out Beyonce and Jay Z.  The power couple title is about to be snatched up.  

Even if the rumours aren't true, the public's response to this piece of gossip might just convince Emma and Harry to give it a go anyways.  The Twitterverse has exploded, news sites and frantically spitting out speculative articles, and girls all over the world are feeling some typa' way.

Love for Emma.
Love for Harry.

Love for the hope that a couple even more magnificent than Wills and Kate might be in the making.

But there's that feeling.  Ugh.  Harry - taken.  
Am I the only one who has been fuelled by the fact that Harry remains single?
Perhaps our dreams of being the next princess are over.  But at least we were trumped by none other that Emma Watson herself.  

Such a drama queen I am.  HA!     

xo B

Artistic Endeavours

Saturday, 14 February 2015

Hey Guys ~ Happy Valentine's Day

Valentine's shmalentines.  Boo hoo.

I'm usually a sap but oddly enough, I ain't no sucker for this holiday.  More interesting - in my opinion - is New York Fashion Week!  

Although I was already inspired by fashion before this week, I have taken to doing a few more Vogue-inspired paintings recently.  These are both vintage magazine covers and I hope to recreate many more this year.

1950's Vogue

April 19 1906 Vogue 

Love you and live good.

xo B

Galliano's Golden Age Revival

Thursday, 12 February 2015

     Runway shows from the archives are, without a doubt, equally as relevant today to the fashion industry and the whole of society as they were ten - even fifty - years ago.  

     Jazz, drinks, and dance: the markers of an obnoxiously roaring era when women wore their husbands’ wallets on their sleeves and ruled the city in the name of indulgence.  It seemed as though their wardrobes had died as well - until now.

     After nearly a century underground, the likes of Daisy Buchanan have resurfaced on Galliano’s Winter 03/04 runway.  From the staccato jazz music to the glamorous makeup to the retro silhouettes commanding the catwalk, Galliano’s new collection transports us to a speakeasy alternate universe.  

     The outfits ooze Gatsby-inspired opulence in sexy sets that are form-fitting yet conservative.  The hats and headpieces capture extravagance of the highest calibre; worthy of a royal appearance.  Minuscule hand bags swing with each strut in the true fashion of the accessory’s namesake.  


     These luxuries are simply not practical to the modern woman and it is for that reason precisely that they incite a nostalgia for years past when photographs could only be developed in varying shades of sepia and boys tacked pin-ups of Marilyn Monroe above their beds.

     Still, Galliano’s work of art does not stop there.  If you thought that the bright red lips, the myriad of colours, and the lavish accessories were enough of a statement, you underestimated the collection.

     A flourish of mid-length skirts, should pads, and accentuated d├ęcolletage embellishments take this runway to a whole new level of fun.  

     Galliano’s winter runway is femininity at its finest.  He celebrates all sorts of iconic retro styles with a new, outrageous spin that breathes life back into a once dormant era of fashion.  

xo B


Monday, 9 February 2015

Boys are wicked creatures.

If you have ever encountered one, you will understand.

playfully mischievous sounds about right.  That's a polite way of saying lures you in and then slaps you - metaphorically - across the face.

That's all I have to say.  

xo B

I Have a Future!

Hey there!

Hope you had a better than average Monday - mine was certainly top-notch.

I had an interview downtown this morning for the University of the Arts London and instead of driving in early with the commuters, my Mum and I decided to spend the night in the city at a super posh hotel!  Luckily for us, the interviews were being held right inside the hotel!  So much better than rushing to get ready at the break of dawn for the hectic drive.

Our girls only sleepover was so so special.  My Mum and I are practically sisters, we are that close.  Inseparable.  Except for bathrooms.  That's weird.  

Dinner at the hotel pub, drinks while watching the Grammy's on the couch, and a long night's sleep followed by room service and yes - COFFEE.  


Well - then there was the interview.  As excited as I was, the nerves finally kicked in as I got in the elevator.  The interview was only supposed to last until 10:30am so when I hadn't returned by 11, my Mum started freaking out slightly (she's a little paranoid).  

But hey - I got in!  I got offered a place to study at University of the Arts London (England, fyi)!  In my opinion, one of the best art schools in the world.  It's an honour to even be able to say I have a place there if I want it.

And now my best friend, Fee, has to get Instagram, because she refused to unless I got this.  So Fee - I know you're reading this - get on the app store and get posting girlfriend!  Julia and I are waiting to unite the three musketeers on social media.  xx muah <3

Have a lovely week!

Love you and live good.

xo B  

The Colour Competition

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

     The Colour Competition 

What Your Lipstick Says About You

     A sharply taloned hand reached into the darkness and shards of light illuminated my leather surroundings.

     “Is that the new Marc Jacobs?!” I heard another woman exclaim from somewhere nearby.

     Marc Jacobs.  Who is this Marc Jacobs anyway?  His name is plastered all over my humble abode, although I’ve never actually seen him.  I hear he is all the rage, though; always spotted at Bloomingdales and Nordstrom, yet still exclusive enough to remain just out of reach.  

     The owner of the talons that were fidgeting amongst various possessions around me picked up my Marc Jacobs dwelling and said, “Just going to freshen up; I’ll be back in a sec.”

     Then there were heels tick tacking down a marble hall and jostling of the Marc Jacobs, which I was thankfully saved from by still being stuck in the talons’ clutches.  Suddenly, I was jerked upwards and into a fluorescent-lit powder room.  She rummaged around some more before checking my label to ensure I was the colour she’d wanted.  Ruby Woo - that’s me!  Thank goodness she chose me today.  Usually she picks a more neutral shade like Spirit or Creme de Nude, or Brave Red if ever a red at all, which is not often to be honest.  

     I feel jittery and excited as she presses me to her lips in two smooth sweeps.  I am the missing piece of today’s identity.  Without me, her lips would be the same as yesterday and she would be the same woman she has always been.  Where’s the fun in that?

     With me, her new persona is electric.  A jolt of energy surges through her aura as she deposits me back into the Marc Jacobs, smacks her fiery cerise lips together in a final statement, and strides out to meet the concrete jungle beyond.  

xo B

Blogging tips