A Cinderella Moment

Could the glass slipper have been flat?

As any well-seasoned high-heel enthusiast will know, there comes a time when a girl needs to step down from her perch and set her feet on solid ground to take a breather. It does wonders for the soul, not to mention gives you a break from all that fabulousness. But just as veg’ing out on the couch does not necessarily mean you have to wear grease-stained sweats and Crocs (eww!), the more discerning of fashionista’s need not come down to earth in anything less than utterly gorgeous foot attire.

Up until now, my usual uniform of trusty south-of-the-ankles non-heel wear has been a combination of sandals and ballet flats. But by chance, something far more fabulous came to me in the form of Coast and Koi, much like fate leading the princess to the ball where her sole-mate awaits.

And my fairy-god-mother? The elegant and stylish Caryn Wilensky.

When I met Caryn, she whisked me off to her chandelier-lit treasure trove of a showroom with roof-to-floor, wall-to-wall racks of hand-stitched shoes. I tried on everything in my size. And I mean everything. I couldn’t not – each one was more alluring than the last!

Once on your feet, the look and feel of these gems are a testament to Caryn’s background in the fashion, and footwear, industries. Starting out as a buyer for Holtrenfrew overseas where her days revolved around top international fashion brands, her eye for design is evident in every pair of proudly South African shoes she now showcases. But the perfect fit and comfort comes from her time as the CEO of a ballet-shoe factory. Once she saw the need for well-designed flat foot wear in South Africa, her mission was clear, and Coast and Koi was born.

Each shoe is hand made locally and stitched together with the utmost care. They are unique, all designs being a once off and only in a few sizes, and there is something for everyone. They range from pointy to stripy, Mary-Jane to moccasin, sling-back to slip on, Henry the 8^th to the girl next door. From the sensible ballet pumps to the knee-high leopard print boots, to the cute cat-faced slippers, this range kept me occupied, entertained and trying on for ages.

I have never been so excited by flat-soled shoes before! Caryn invited me to the Cape Town Design Indaba where all her best was on display. One pair could only be described as ‘The Dorothy’, bringing visions of the Wizard of Oz skipping to the fore of my mind. Just down that yellow brick road, a pair of capped ankle booties that would go beautifully with a little floral-print dress revealed themselves. It was hard not to get distracted by the baroque inspired lace-ups or the baby-pink boots with satin bows, but my heart settled on the ones that, for me, were the belle of the ball: a pair of coral slipper-style beauties, as unique as they are comfortable.

As much as I am trying not to over-indulge in my materialistic nature right now, I am pretty sure a pair or two of Coast and Koi’s will find their way into my wardrobe over the next few months. After all, why wear plain black synthetic flats for a night out dancing when you could wear classically styled, genuine leather two-toned delights inspired by Coco Chanel? Am I right? Right.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

(go check it out at www.coastandkoi.com)

Valentines Day Lament

Can I please just get a little bit of love? Commercialised  disgrace to the human art of trueness, media hyped, shameless marketing ploy love?!

It's Valentines Day and I'm sitting in a bistro, working on my iPad and having a bite while I wait for schools to finish so I can fetch my niece. I am not single, but that doesn't mean that giant bunches of red roses, secret love notes and romantic treasure hunts on the beach are in my immediate future. My husband, like many men out there, doesn't believe in V-Day. He thinks it's all a ploy. A great big conspiracy to seperate him from his hard earned cash. He thinks V-Day'ers would have his true loving nature extracted from the widely expected acts of romance, and find him wanting. Basically, he's the hostage in this drama and doesn't enjoy the demands for Proof Of Love.

Don't get me wrong. I don't feel ill done by at all by his refusal to adhere to the social-herding of heart shaped chocolates and synthetic stuffed animals. I don't feel cheated out of romance, because he is a very sweet man and really does show his feelings for me all the time. He loves me very much, as much as I love him, and I have no reason to doubt it. I don't need anything more, I have him. Two peas in a pod.

So in the days leading up to this auspicious 14th day of February, we the peas sat around chuckling to ourselves when other couples faught over what they will do. We smiled knowingly at those poor fools booking fancy, overpriced resturants to eat fancy, overpriced dinners while they gaze nervously into eachothers eyes, hoping that 'this' gesture was enough. We felt sorry for those who's wallets will be ransacked by old cupid, brandishing his arrow aimed right at their hearts.

Our Valentines day dinner will be prepared together in our kitchen, and eaten outside in our own garden over a bottle of something chilled and perfect. I might throw in a candle or two and a cute little checkered picnic blanket to give it a tiny bit of flair, but at the end of the day, we do this kind of thing quite often. So Valentines Schmalentines.

But as they say, pride comes before a fall. And as I sit here, waiting in the bistro, having a bite to eat...I can't help feeling a little let down by my servers for not including a tiny heart-shaped chocolate on my plate, or a heart shaped milky-pattern in my coffee. I feel that an opportunity was missed. And damnit, like those silly little reindeer earrings at Christmas time and the baby gold lindt bunnies that make me happy at Easter, I want a tiny little bit of that V-Day love too!

Maybe next year...

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

The Closet Conundrum – Digital Hoarding and the lack of mental clarity in our modern lives.

“I’ve got nothing to wear!”

I have long since suspected that we have too much choice available in our modern lives. While individual needs are met, personalized tastes are catered for and not only does the shoe fit, but it comes in every colour under the sun, the dark side to all this freedom of choice is confusion causing clutter. You see, when I stand in front of my closet and say that I have nothing to wear, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Surely? I have so much in there I could clothe a small army of Amazonian-sized women. And don’t even get me started on the shoes.

The problem isn’t the lack of clothing – it’s that there are too many choices. When pressed for time and in a harried state, it’s almost impossible to settle on just one. My brain goes into information overload and shuts down.

But let’s face it – I’m not going to just throw it all out. I am a hoarder. Something I have been in a three-year rehabilitation program (otherwise know as ‘Marriage’) to try and combat. But even though I struggle to part with my possessions, never did I realize how deep the problem ran in not only me but many of my peers too, when I lost my laptop last week to a catastrophically placed glass of water.

It was one of those little old-school MacBooks in white, a gorgeous piece of vintage hardware that I fell instantly in love with the day I spied her (probably thanx to SATC) and never stopped loving. Except for the fact that she didn’t cater to my excessive storage needs: not enough megabytes for my music, movies and photo’s. I ended up clogging up my poor little computer and she had been dragging her heavy self around, taking ages to start, taking forever to shut down, taking naps in between downloading new pictures for my blog posts. Husband scolded that I had to clear out a little to make things work faster, and I knew he was right, but I never got round to it.

The most obvious answer would have been to back everything up on a hard drive or Cloud. It is what most normal people do, right? Of course! So I don’t have a problem after all. I don’t need to delete anything, and when I get a new laptop I will eventually get around to saving things in iCloud. Problem solved, and the giddy hoarder in me is restored to her former glory.

So maybe that isn’t the answer. Maybe, the answer is in keeping less, not more. Stop hoarding

Then again, is digital storing just another form of hoarding? As flash drives get bigger and Cloud accounts get larger, what’s the problem? Is there even an issue here? You have the space at the click-and-drag of your fingertips, so why even worry about it? It’s not like it’s taking up any actual space, physically.

I watched an inspiring documentary about people who live in tiny houses which, though it had nothing to do with shoes or cyber-hoarding, answered some of my questions about all of this. The people portrayed in this documentary speak about how they choose to live in a tiny home, sometimes as small as a renovated chicken coup, or a 7 square meter apartment. Their lives are simplified by these tiny spaces in that they have to really think about what to keep, what is necessary to live, and what they want around them to make them happy. 

Some comments that resonated with me were:

“I like having everything for a purpose. Not just a matter of bringing things in because I can have it – I get overwhelmed by too much.”

“The smaller space you have the more critical it is to be efficient with how you use it and especially how you furnish it.”

“I believe that the skill of this century is editing. Cutting back on space, cutting back on possessions, on media, on friends. I think you’ve got to refine because it gives you a lot of mental clarity, a lot of space, a lot more flexibility.”

That last quote was by Graham Hill (you have GOT to watch his Transformer Apartment video on YouTube), and I think he hit the nail on the head. Perhaps the beauty of minimizing and simplifying our possessions (including digital possessions) is that we create space in our minds to be free. The cage often built up in our own heads is indicative of a cluttered lifestyle that leaves no breathing room for our brain.

I have seen many people struggle with this lack of mental clarity. They have so much choice at their disposal, they are often confused and simply do not know what to do. From not knowing what to do with their lives to not knowing where to take their annual holiday to not knowing which restaurant to go to, to not being able to choose which friend to spend an afternoon with. And often, the choice they end up making comes at a cost, as they don’t enjoy themselves fully, wondering if they made the right decision, worried they might have missed out on something else. Why? Because they know they could have had it. They had the choice. And so choosing what they do leaves the rest of their choices cut off with raw, unhappy edges, flailing in the ‘what if?’

Funny, that a documentary on extremely small spaces could lead me to realize the need for less in order to have more. Perhaps the answer for many of us is to have less. To look for less, gather less, hoard less, want less. While I am not about to toss out every pair of shoes I own, perhaps four pairs of black knee-high boots is a bit excessive? As Graham suggested, I need to edit my life, and then maybe I will have something to wear next time I stand in front of my open closet.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

Confessions of a Lady Angler

"I got you an early birthday gift," he said, standing in the kitchen with the look of a small-time gambler who has just bet his house, car and kids on a hunch. I knew Husband had been to the fishing shop that afternoon, and so as he went to fetch said gift, I rolled my eyes at my sister, "He can't give me fishing stuff for my birthday? Surely not!"

My husband taught me to fly fish when I first met him. I joke that it was a pre-requisite to being proposed to, but none was more surprised than I to find that not only did I enjoy this new sport, but I wasn't too bad at it either. Call it my Scottish heritage, call it beginners luck - whatever forces were at play those 5 years ago, I picked up that fly rod and something magical happened in me. I became a fly fisher. Only I did not realize it till now.

A little slow on the uptake, perhaps, as I have found myself un-able to pass any body of water without looking into its blue, reflective depths wondering what fish swim beneath that surface: The first sign of a fisherman, they say. My father's many jokes about me having become a 'fishwife' have somehow floated over me, not quite the right twitch, the right colour, the right bug for me to have a go. Ha, ha, yes Dad. A fishwife. The significance gone undetected. After all, I have just been playing at fly fishing, haven’t I? I have happily gone along with Husband on many a fishing expedition, armed with my girly distractions: Pink fishing jacket, pink fishing hat. Even went scouting shoe stores for the perfect pink Hunter fishing wellingtons. 

I have followed Husband, fumbling with my line, learning to choose and tie on my own flies, slowly but surely getting more and more decked out so as not to need as much of his help - fly jacket, zinger, clippers, fly release tool for easy handling. (I always catch-and-relelase - letting them go, un-hurt, a little fitter for the next fight next season. I call it 'gym for fish'.)

I have been river fishing, still water fishing, even tried a day at estuary salt-water fishing with him and the other fishermen. I have fished in Dulstroom, in Gouritz, on Eilandspad, Holsloot, up in the Wittedrift mountains, on the chalk streams in England and in the Highlands of Scotland. I have fished enough to be able to say, with my own personal ichthyology, that fresh water salmonids (specifically trout and grayling) and South African Yellows are my favorite. I have frequented many a fishing shop and bought many a fishing thing, and can hold my own when chatting to enthusiasts about float tubes, spey casting, 2 weights and wooly buggers. But that didn’t make me a fisherman, I thought. Merely the wife of one. The journey has always been one I have attested to Husband, his passion, me just tagging along for the ride - albeit an incredibly enjoyable ride - in my pink gear. I never really thought of myself as an actual fisher women, just one who fishes with her partner.

"Here it is," he said, hopefully, pulling the mystery gift out from under his jacket. Pink. Tube. SAGE! I could not contain my excitement! I had to swallow my words to my sister as the rush for what was in that tube forced me forward, all fumbling and disbelieving and a smile so big it hurt my face. The rod inside was even more gorgeous that I could have imagined! A beautiful pearly pink Sage 5 weight called the 'Grace'. 

I pulled her out of her sheath and knew in that moment: Not only was this the absolute perfect gift for me, not only was I the luckiest woman in the world...but...

It hit me like a beaded fly, bulleted into the back of my head on a gusty day. I am a fly fisherwoman. I am an angler!

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

A River Runs Through

'The Lady of Shalott' - John William Waterhouse

2014, or the start of it at least, is going to be a year of acceptance - I can tell already. Sometimes the universe throws things at you and you can never fully understand why. It's in the asking Why where we drive ourselves mad. I have been reminded of that fact time and time again, but somehow it's a need that we as humans forget how to deal with very easily. Loss is the most awful thing we face on this earth because it feels so un-natural. Like some greater force lied to us. You worked for it, you deserved it. But then it is stolen. Un-fair, right? You love someone, they are taken away. Why? You desperately desire something, and it is held back from you. No rhyme or reason. After trying to blame yourself, your friends, your family, your community, the wind - all you feel is the injustice of it all. 

Blame is never a satisfying game because it isn't the answer. It seems there isn't an answer at all. But we do always have the choice of how we deal with our loss. The thing/person/love we wanted so badly is taken from us. Gone. It's time to accept that and realize that the world still has more to offer.

I see my life as a journey on a small riverboat. I started out on a river that was so great and fast and peaceful and lush and beautiful that my reality was wrapped up in it. I understood the ebbs and flows of it. It was all I knew, and all I ever wanted to know. But then, suddenly, I was taken off the river onto an offshoot. A stream that led in a different direction to the one I was watching, expecting, enjoying. The currents swirled and the boat was bumped around and as I stared back desperately at my precious river, I could not understand why it had been taken away from me. I fought and rowed, was thrown around, exhausted, suffered and bled. It was cold and dark and terrible. But hard as I tried, I could never get back up to the main river. 

After a long time, days and nights, ups and downs, the offshoot meandered through enough dense vegetation that I could not see the greater river anymore. Every glimpse was gone, even in the remnants of my dreams. I gave up. It was devastating. A kind of bitter sadness I can't even explain. My gut was hollow. My ears numb. I mourned that river because it was meant to be mine, right? So much happened on that river. Everything was so perfect and calm. I thought all my happiness had been stolen from me in that one, irreversible moment. But after a while, I realized that if I looked left and right, there were these beautiful flowers all alongside the new river I had joined up to. And butterflies - massive, bright butterflies. I had never seen such things before. Such beauty and diversity. It was all new to me, and I realized that I was facing the wrong way in the boat, staring backwards into the past, searching an ever-fading horizon for the lost river, and missing what was around me. 

I turned around and looked ahead, only to find that the new river was just as glorious, just as bright and full of amazing things as the old one, even having a few new things for me to enjoy that I had never seen before. I decided to accept it. After all, I was still here. I had time on my hands, and I still had my oars. I still had my boat, and my boat was here, so I may as well join it. I thought about my old river still, but only some times and only because the human mind loves to wonder about things. Perhaps there had been a waterfall at the end of that river? Perhaps I was better off on the new one.

Whatever the reason, I accepted and set up camp, as it were, in my boat. Settled in and made myself comfortable again. Rowing to keep on course and to miss the few protruding rocks that popped up every now and then, enjoying the new until it became the normal. I was happily flowing along for a long long time, and then it happened again. 

Just when my sights were set on the future, a swirl I didn't see coming threw me off course into another unknown. Rapids and turbid water. But as the wild sting of the unforgiving torrents thrash at my face, I know it will be OK. I have been in a place like this before. I know that this time, I will not face the wrong way. I will try not to glance back too much, but rather look forward. My river has changed paths again, and it's not my fault or anyone's around me. There is no Why. Why is a stupid question for an experienced off-course boat-person like myself, after all. Asking 'Why' is only looking backwards, facing the wrong way, trying to find answers I am not going to get while on this earth. All I have is faith, hope, trust, and my little boat. And my oars. I know that if I paddle myself smoothly down this uncomfortable stream, it will once again lead me to a new river, and I know that it will be OK. It is my new path and I accept it.

Acceptance can be a beautiful thing, though not easy. It is like learning a new piece of music on the piano - one that is harder than before, and the learning curve causes all kinds of frustration. But when I get past that uncomfortable part, the new learned song is so rewarding, not only for me, but also for those around me who get to enjoy the beauty of the song too as I play it.

Bring on 2014. I am stronger than before and am ready for my new beautiful river, whatever it may have in store for me. I can do this.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

The Science of Shoes

It's no secret that I love shoes. From childhood dreams of ruby slippers to my most recent purchase of Steve Madden boots, shoes have been a constant source of excitement and pure idolatrous happiness in my life. But not all shoes are equal.

When standing there in the Steve Madden store, purse in hand, contemplating buying this latest pair, I wondered to myself: Why these boots? Not that anyone should ever need a reason to buy something as fabulous as these tasseled beauties, of course, but I couldn’t help stop and go: Wait a moment. You always said you would never wear such high heels. So why these? They are 15cm's high! Is it the fact that they are Steve Maddens? (A brand I was introduced to by one of my favorite New York bloggers, Gala Darling, and who's picture of a particularly gorgeous pink pair has been the screen saver on my lap top for the past 3 years) Or is it because they are genuine suede, dove-soft, and have tassels? (I have a weakness for tassels - starting with a pair of boots bought a decade ago where I spent my rent money on them.) Is it simply that when presented with an image for long enough, even the abnormally insane can become acceptable and normal to the one perceiving it? 

(Jellies, anyone?) Or is it just a simple little bit of self-medication on a sad day?

 Let's backtrack shall we? Heels have never been a problem for me. Even in all my 6 feet of glory, I have loved the elevation and lift a pair of heels can give a girl’s physique. I feel that this boost has the ability to move beyond the physical, and acts as a sort of mood enhancer on any given occasion. But being 6 feet tall does add some complications to the wearing of extremely high heels. Doorways pose a problem. Even though making an entrance is always important, doorways are only generally so high, and I sometimes walk with a natural little bounce in my step. Bounce at the wrong moment with the 'wrong'/higher pair of heels on my feet and that is one entrance I don't want to make.

I saw these boots on a display with a lot of others. There were others that also had perfect arches, elegant compass worthy curves, decedent finishes. There were others a little lower with amazing scoops at the ankle line with the very best ankle to arch ratio, lovely stitching, sweet smelling leathers and colours. There were even others with tassels. But these particular boots spoke to me - almost reached out with invisible tentacles and drew me to them, as though casting a haunting mermaid song. 

This doesn't always happen. Sure it probably happens to me more often than most, but it doesn't happen with all shoes I ever come into contact with. And that is what got me thinking. Here is a pair of boots I don’t know that I will ever be able to wear out in public (for fear of concussions/breaking an ankle/intimidating Husband to the point of marital detriment) but I simply have to have them. I tried them on and they fit like a glove. Snug all the way up to the tip of the very last tassel! They were mine even before the gold card had a chance to swipe.

Some people say that angels speak to them or they hear voices in their heads? I hear shoes. There is an undeniable, underlying, otherworldly pheromonal attraction that happens with particular pairs of shoes that simply does not happen with others. 

That is when I realized it. Shoes must have an aura, something magnetic on a chemical level. It must be science. So not quite like gravity, but more specific – like the pheromones of a woman attracting a partner. Chemistry attracts us to people at all levels, makes us more comfortable with some and less with others. We choose friends based on this. We choose lovers. Doctors. We even choose teachers, when given the privilege to do so. It’s an invisible world of chemical attraction out there, and we are almost helpless to its currents and tides.

And so when presented with an invisible galactic wave, call it electrons and protons or what-have-you, of glorious tasseled suede Steve Madden's, I grabbed onto those babies and rode for all I was worth.

I am sure there is a scientist out there who can very eloquently disprove everything I have just said, but for now, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom