Gone too soon: Michael Jackson on your 60th birthday.

I grew up with Micheal Jackson. I remember with such clarity the day he died.  Was in Paris in 2009, beginning a lovely trip through the continent and heard the news, and something in me died too that day.

Not sure what it was, but it haunted me. Despite the tabloids and drama that became his life, I suddenly felt bereft that some of the music that measured my life here on earth, was going to be silent.  Another case of a sad death in my time. From the Jackson Five, the ‘Puppy love’ to ‘Thriller’ it was the background to, well me. The loss seemed a wasted life of another icon at the time.

Tend to measure my life in music.  Songs that take me back, take me high, strutting to, songs to be sad to.  The personification of the 70″s, 80’s and so on.  From the LP days to the streaming that is now, I cannot imagine my life without music, the theme song to my own small existence. And he would have turned 60 today, a milestone birthday that looms before me.

Just wanted to say, miss him.  Heartfelt him and thank you, up there, wherever you are, safe I guess from it all – you were a teacher to me.

Gone too soon.

We are the world
We are the children
We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving
There’s a choice we’re making
We’re saving our own lives
It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me.

Gone too soon and Happy Birthday.

Image Evening Standard

 

To childhood friends. Bless them and keep them.

And Fox is saying hello this evening. ‘Hello’ I whisper.

I have written before about my true blessing of having childhood friends still with me at this time. For over fifty years of life, a pocket full of friends who shared the early times, the grazed knees and bicycle jaunts, still remain, and it is to them I return for validation when life gets just a little too much.

To find more are spilling into my life. Thank you Facebook for today, whilst planning my trip home, a message from a friend I grew up with, wanting to say ‘hi’ again. The swimming forever friend who, and I did not know, has been through much, and meeting up with her again when I go ‘home’.

What was interesting was her message.  She is happy, fulfilled, and yet longs too for the connections of those who knew, not only her, but her family.  Parents passed. I have not seen her for nearly thirty years and the connection is as strong as ever.  And I am keen to hear it all … the journey.  Like mine.  Those days of whispering about who we will marry (had to be dreamy) , how many children we will have, how successful we shall be – and now, bless us, how much we just want to return to the roots.

Believe me, it is not about missing.  Not about being disappointed in how things turned out, how life has handed us love and lemons.  About the halcyon days of wonder is what we reach for.  The clean slate days. We want to connect for we remember the parents, the childhood homes, schooldays and all that.  We want to be close to purity. Our purity in childhood. And talk about life in-between. Be proud of what we have become, the children we have raised, relationships we had, the paths followed, to in a sense, bring us together again to say ‘ we did ok’ and have someone else say ‘wow’ you did ALL that and good on you.

To talk of our parents.  Of Sunday afternoons in a small town. Of sports days and how terrible we were at hurdles. First crushes and surfboard necklaces that meant we were going steady. Of nuns on bicycles and those awful matric dance dresses. We want to remember stealing peaches from the neighbours, swimming in rivers and Gatsy themed birthday parties. Television crush idols. When just breathing was enough. Just being was enough.

I did not know she had lost a sister. One I remember and life let me forget.

Did the ballet lessons pay off?

Did the education pay off?

Did love happen?

Did we become the people we thought we would?

Doesn’t matter.  We lived.  We loved. We are still the same, deep down and we want to know.  We want to connect.  We are blessed if we can.

Growing up in a small town does this.  We had nothing else but each other and when life and times move us into different places, into other avenues, it is really good to go back and just say ‘you knew me’ and perhaps, just perhaps, those are the friends we have to be with at this stage. Friends who sang the songs, danced in the living room, wrote in the diaries and went to the drive in. To dream of better.

And perhaps we did get ‘the better’.  We did live the dream.  And old friends, childhood friends are the validation that we came from that to this, and make us proud.

Childhood friends have a bond that transcends to lifetime friends.  And I am so blessed to still be able to say .. you knew me well, and you are still here.

Images: smartgirlsgroup, relationsmatters

Mama Mia, here we go again …

‘I don’t know how, but I suddenly lose control, there’s a fire within my soul.’

 

To the island of Vis. The film location of ‘Mama Mia, here we go again‘ want to go and live there, Vis. Third time watching the movie that has, all of us, and I mean all of us, wanting. Happy, sad, on the edge, by the sea-side, all about love wanting to live there. It is one fantastic, piece of entertainment.  I found myself singing, crying uncontrollably (it’s the mother thing) and determined to move to such a place, so much so that I came home and googled Vis. Croatia tourism board in supreme delight. I wonder how many are googling properties in Vis with the hope of being Donna?

Dare I say, escapism is good. Grand in fact for the soul.  Should be more than that. Removes us from the daily grind and should the tempest of escapism lay there, it may ignite some soul searching, with the music of course, into the doing.  For there are times we lament our lives, and circumstances and just wish for beach and gorgeous decor, complete with friends and love in the deal.

Sitting in the cinema with our popcorn, we are transported.  We don’t think about the reality of child care, school bullies, tax accountants and those months of winter when these idyllic places are empty. We only think of vistas and decor, sublime meals and evenings with passion. And then we leave to the gum lined streets and the tube. Okay by me, because in that moment, in that one and a half hours of going somewhere else, we were back in the seventies, with the fashion and careless wanderings. I am crazy about the fashion!

Is it so bad to just let go? To stop worrying about the house, the material things, the heaviness of life and pack a little suitcase and just go … no matter where, but just go?  Would I do it, would you do it? I wonder.

This ‘Dancing Queen’ was my era!  I do believe I need to dance to this song and skip down towards a beach rather soon …

So what am I trying to say here?  Everyone is embracing the movie – the flash back to the seventies and getting all inspired by it. Should I find the dungarees and do the same?  Should I be inspired enough to take the gist of the whole thing and go … there is a world out there for me, one I know but never really had the confidence to explore? Can we, in Silver Street, still take a chance?

Got to get me some dungarees …

 

Thank you for the music.

Mama Mia, here I go again … my, my I could never let you go.

Never …

Images: The bbc and daily mail.

The Summer of 2018. You know how we like to talk of the …

The foxes are loving this hot summer. The nights in particular.  They crash into my sleep with voices unabated.  Are these sounds of passion I wonder, or loneliness, calling for a mate, I don’t know but sounds rather like the former so I shall resolve to think they are very happy little foxes.

Sleeping in the hottest summer in London since … is another story.  Sans air-conditioning, the double glazing does little to help.  Let’s just say I am capable of a cold shower at four in the morning, when the sun comes up. Despite the ever complaining about the weather humans, I am loving it, glow intermittently and make sure optimism is ever at the fore when climbing onto the tube.  All sorts of happiness surrounds me in the summer, even my herbs are flourishing on the balcony.  The rose tries valiantly to bud with singed leaves.

I reckon its all in the attitude.  And preparation to cope with the hottest summer since … and as write from my little balcony, golfers are pinging away across the road. I can hear the shank shots a mile away and instinctively duck for fear of instant death by golf ball, a little sorry that I never really took up golf back in the day – who knows what joys have escaped me? Still, about to go into the city, delighted that my little crossbody bag from Guess is all I need. Purse, lipstick, diary and pencil – cool – what a difference from the winter collection.

Best little summer dress from Cotton Hill in Cape Town.

Two other favourites to get me in the summer mood and must haves are:

Avéne Thermal Spring Water – you have no idea how refreshing a spritz every now and then, like a cool lover’s breath on my face and neck.

My staple summer fragrance,

Bobby Brown’s ‘Beach’.  This reminds me so much of my holidays on the beach as a child, an electric mix of sand, saltwater and sunscreen in a bottle.  Sadly, the fragrance has been, it seems, discontinued as Bobbi has left the company I am told, and taken her favourite fragrances with her.  Needless to say I am scouring the city for what will be a stock pile of this loveliness.

I like anywhere with a beach. A beach and warm weather is all I really need. Rob Gronkowski

If I cannot be on a beach, I shall wear the ‘Beach.’

London in August is quiet, in the suburbs, that is.  The tourists flock and feint around the tourist destinations, but most Londoners are away during the school holidays.  We notice this at the café and in truth, I don’t mind the calm. Having to not wear a suit and be in corporate London is something else I am grateful for.  My ‘too in my space’ neighbours upstairs have moved out and I wait to see who will lie above me in the future (such a horrible thought actually and why flat living is something I wonder if I will ever get used to!)

At last a decent a stylish coffee shop en route to the Tube.  DeRosier Chocolates and Coffee Shop is going to be a favourite ‘getmycoffeefix’ even though it may be hard to resist the free chocolate tastings on the top of the counter.

So, left the water for the bees on the garden table. Not the sugar water which it seems has been a bit of a fake entry, but I have had a number of bees attempting to sip from my wine glass in the evening, so leaving them some water instead.  Great big bumbles here in the UK, still find them fascinating though I could have done without the lonesome buzzer and foxes last night thank you very much!

No doubt in years to come we shall still be talking of the Summer of 2018, the hottest summer since …

 

Bigger dreams in small spaces.

Mmmm,  sweet, sweet baby – for baby you are.  Small and tender, but you shall grow into a beauty before long.

In this new existence, well not so new, but perhaps new in understanding, I live small.  Very tiny life in fact.  In a big city.  What was once a life in a big private space, is now a small private space in a big surrounding.  Fought it for too long and complained like the troll on the bridge, but no more.

Have been fixated on a TV series featuring Monty Don, called ‘Big dreams, small spaces.’ My reality, though stubbornness and past gardens had me doing nothing with my space.  Confined space was what I saw rather than something which could be amazing if I just got up from the sorrow chair and actually did something about it.

Here these folks, like me (some have a little more space, you know those narrow long back gardens so typical of terraced houses) and grim in the neglect, with Monty’s help, transformed what was rubble and concrete into a living space.  So what what I thinking?  Wasn’t it turns out.

Ok, think even smaller, but that is not the point.  I have a park across the road, complete with lake and background music of wildlife. My ‘Litchfield Angel‘ from David Austen has severe sunburn and my herbs are blown to seed, most of it on the floor. Matters not, I have inspiration to create a balcony garden in London.

Any suggestions?  How would you transform a single, narrow space into a garden? Would welcome any ideas x

It goes further than this.  Transcends to bigger dreams in small spaces i.e. my two bedroomed flat.  Looking at it now it cries beige but I shall say taupe for a better sounding term.  Pretty, we restored the entire apartment, but been like this through the tsunami of the last few years.  So bigger dreams on the way.  And taking my love for beautiful gardens as inspiration.

More on the flat later.  With garden centres such as Kew, Petersham and all the gorgeous parks and letter stamp London greens, I am actually going to build a mood board to create my balcony garden.  It may be bigger than my balcony, the mood board that is, but purpose, purpose my dear is what it is all about!

Big dream, small space – what a cocktail.

Images Gardenista, pintrest, David Austen

 

 

Come back little diary, come back …

And she was dreaming, and in that dreaming, the diary got lost today …

It is a disaster!  A malady of note.  And such a day of all days.

Truth is, today was one of those, will get the life sorted today, days. Empowered with all sorts of ideas and plans in the making.  Such a big sigh escapes me now, for in the planning in a cafe, I returned home to find my diary is missing.  It is a tragedy.

My ‘other’ child is out there somewhere.  Too late to call.  Not sure about you, but a visual diary, is my life.  Seriously, my life in a book with weeks and years and collecting.  I am lost without her.   Since I can remember I have kept a diary.  None of the google calendar stuff for me, but a tangible little life book that has my appointments, my daily notes, my life.  Everyone knew that and it was to the diaries for immigration information, birthday reminders, work shifts … basically everything that is my life, is in those books.  As far back as twenty odd years ago, and this year is somewhere tonight and I pray I can find it, for like my arm, missing it will be missing a limb.

The crazy thing is that I had all out in front of me – for the empowering day. I was going to invest in transport today, she thought, my choice of transport … so my mind began to wander to those lovely Pashley bicycles, the ones in Duck egg blue with a little basket in the front.  Or maybe a Vespa, to imagine me putting through Tuscany, or the South of France, or just London (the quieter streets where the buses could not take me out sort of thing.)  And a car, I dreamed of a little but cute car – maybe a Fiat 500 that would make me think of Italian towns and pretty colours.  Told you I was being practical in my thinking, but others may disagree. Truth be told, I don’t do practical very well – aesthetically speaking, I want pretty in my life right now.  But to dreaming I succumbed.

And in that, oh my word, in my age of putting everything in the right place in my handbag (cause we do tend to misplace at times) I frigging must have left the diary behind at the cafe!

She is not a happy bunny tonight and will search for the missing child with the hope of finding her soon.  It happened once before, I left my diary in my hotel in Paris, only to have Christene post her back to me, with great relief.  My diaries are stacked in a drawer for reference and a map of my life, so I do hope this one, 2018. will return to join her sisters.

Do you have a diary like me?  A tangible life voice with all the messy, lovely, interesting stuff that is sort of your entire life in a book? Then you know how I feel tonight – lost a little. Being positive though,  come back little diary I pray.  I need you more than ever … you are the practical in my dreamy world.

Images Pashley, eagle diaries

Creative dreaming on a rainy afternoon.

Creativity is nothing but a mind set free.’

Torrie T. Asai

In all the years I have been an inhabitant of the soft, yet gentle rains upon this island, I can count less than five times I have heard thunder.  This week it happened twice – thunder, lightning and torrential rain.  Waking up in the middle of the night kind of rainstorm.  We had a real topic of weather conversation at hand and it did not go amiss.

For many, the highly priced homes, were flooded.  Years of building basements below the water and sewerage pipes, below the water table led to overworked flooding pumps in basements and the need for coffee and conversation with fellow basement flooded friends was essential.  Yesterday evening, sun blazing and having dinner along the river, darling daughter barely had time to say ‘look’ before a sheet of angry rain crossed the river and diners headed indoors, perplexed at the freak of nature at hand, only to return minutes later to blazing sun and soaked tables, in order to continue dinner. Such is the weather here, unpredictable, and all.  There is a reason the British discuss the weather more than their health and families – it remains the very factor our lives and happiness is based on. I do miss those South African thunder storms.

This morning the rain continued unabated, but I was to another call from the Estate agent.  You may remember that my little flat is now firmly on the market and I am subjected to random visits by scrutinising potentials – remember this from long ago.  A flurry of cleaning ensued, by moi, between working.  So I decided to give myself the afternoon off – I needed sanctuary, beauty and of late as has been my habit, it is to the V & A I took myself, with the proverbial brolly. Long gone are those days I worried about the hair – I live in England for goodness sake!

At it turned out, most of the world thought it a good idea too.  My eldest detests crowds but me, I stride in London as a Londoner does, tut tutting at the loungers, the stop and look at the mappers, the buggies and screaming children.  I nudge the bewildered, nod at the buskers (cannot give money to everyone, please) and as for the tour groups, let’s just say, London bootcamp with dealing with those, is paying off.

At last I am saturated in genius. To Constable, to Degas, to Morris, to ancient mastery in Silver and Gold. The Ocean Liner exhibition is still on, Winnie the Pooh over.  Frida and ‘Making Her Self Up’ coming soon. I succumb to the Pistachio and Carrot cake slice and a hot coffee before venturing as I have done so many times, and yes, there is always another passage, another room to discover.  This afternoon, the quietest of these was the tapestries.  The telling of stories in woven beauty of pastoral scenes, battles and mythological creatures.  Must have spent a long time in front of the three fates today – the giver of life, the decider of the length of it and the snipper of that thread – death, all women in Umbrian tones, laced with gold and silver thread.  For me, looking at something I could never, ever hope to achieve, is my education and belief in the essence of talent. Of creative genius.

And I leave inspired, like you cannot believe. No matter how small our lives, how insignificant we sometimes feel, if we put yourselves in a place of inspiration, it will permeate our own lives.  It will awaken our too long forgotten talents and urge us to take action. It could be in a garden, a gallery, in our own homes, the truth is we sometimes need to look outside our little realms to find our talents ignited.

 

Degas.  A passion of mine. But am I also in love with these heavily embellished frames?  I am. Wish I had a hundred of these, around mirrors, around art in my own home.  Maybe bringing back these frames could be a vocation? 

Leaving in the busy end of day life in London, walking to the bus, the rain had lifted.  All around me flowers were drenched and glowing.  Flower sellers were creating bouquets for ordinary people to take home, peonies, tulips, delphiniums and roses on every corner.  In my bag, a bunch of flowers, a baguette and a bottle of wine (of course) but in my heart, so many ideas of what I could do if I put my mind to it.

What inspires you?  Do you push to see things in a different way.  Do you have talents lying latent in your storage of genius?

Bet you do.

 

There there said Bear …

I have a confession, said I …

I have bear.  Bear is one year older than me.  Bear was my first ever present from my parents. 

At the time, bear was bigger than me and lived in my cot. When I found my first bed, bear was there. Bear, for never having been named, but bear, lives with me still.

Is bear a he or a she, I do not know.  Never asked. Never named. But bear.

Cannot say I loved bear all that much growing up, have no memory of holding onto bear, any photographs, or letters to such, but given the years and all the moves over the world, bear came with.

Times bear was nowhere.  I do not remember so I suppose bear lived in a cupboard, or a box. I do remember finding bear and putting said in my children’s cots, before they were given their own bears, a long time ago.  Bear was there, like a teapot that travels with you, or a photograph album that you hang onto for looking at once in a while.  Bear never seemed to be gone, or present sometimes, but bear was there.

All I can say, is with the years of adolescence, of growing and changing, as life took the pathways we do, I forgot about bear.  Bear I think, never forgot about me, because bear showed up, in my new country, in my new home, as if bear had always been there. I wonder how bear came back to me, I really do for I have no recollection of every having the conversation of ‘here is bear … take bear.’  Strange I thought to find bear in a box of all when I found myself here.  Wish I knew.  But it does not matter. Bear made the journey.  And now bear and I have a new relationship.  Bear is back in the cot, in the bed, in the reality of my life.

Guess bear has always been part of my journey.  When my mother had to leave her home, go to a retirement home after the death of my father, we tried to settle her into that place where she had lost all she knew, given away all she had collected and left with her new reality, and she mentioned one day, she had never had a bear of her own.  

 

For some this may seem insignificant. For me, now living so far from her, an inspiration to find and deliver every bear I could to take the place of me.  Every time I flew to her, at the airport, it was with a new bear – Harrods bear, Paddington bear, Eton bear, you name it, I was the bear supplier and bless her, each and everyone became her friend, to be put, ever so carefully on the chair, in order, for her to coo over in her last years. Bear friends. Huggable friends. I was compensating my not being there for her, with bears.  We both knew it, but we both accepted it.  Now they are all with me.

The thing is, life was very difficult when mom was no longer there to talk to about the bears.  And when others left, I sort of , and I don’t know how, found my bear again. Nights of total lostness, at my age, I would climb into bed (I have a bed I would say to myself, at least I have a bed) and bear would be there, stiff, worn, arm chewed by puppies, still both eyes though, and tuck myself in saying, night bear, (at my age) and wake to find bear there.

There, there.’ bear seemed to say. Stiff as ever.

There, there.’ I replied. You are still there.

I have a bear – almost sixty years old and most likely a vintage celebrity. But this bear is mine, and now with all the others (which I do not have on my bed I may add) but close.  Did I know that a bear would be with me longer than others? No.  Did I know that bear would find me, like now, and I can enjoy just having it around? Who knew?

Turns out I have been so fortunate.  To have a bear for as long as I have lived, a gift from my parents I can still cherish.

Mum, you got your teddy bears ( rather a few) and I always had mine.  Didn’t always know it. but thank you.

Do you have a bear like bear? We all need teddy bears, in whatever form, to be there when it gets tough – and when I go to sleep, at my age, I still say ‘night bear.’

And bear says…’there, there.’

Images Vectis auctions, totally teddy bears.

He loves her, she loves him … a Royal Wedding and love.

Ahhh … isn’t it romantic!

The boy is a Prince.  The lady is going to be a Princess.  Fairytale … some may disagree.

Stories have been written.  Family members rising from the swamp of wanting to get in on  the action.  Opinions made, shared and the tabloids have been in a frenzy for the couple getting married tomorrow.

And I say … hip, hip, hooray.

For a long time, the Prince was sad.  He had lost his mother, trying to find his place in the world.  Now he is happy and in love. Is that so wrong?  Who are we to judge? He is happy.

For a long time, a young woman tried to rise above and follow her dream.  She has.  Unbeknown to her, a prince would enter her life, offering love, not the easy life, but another realm.  Another country, far from what she knows, having to adjust but willing to do so for the one she loves.

I think it makes for a wonderful love affair.  Against all odds kind of love affair.

Some purists may argue that the conditions are not right.  For sure the gremlins are going to jump right in and carve the cracks, bring up the odds, shudder at the thought of what will come to the Monarchy.  But somehow I think this couple have thought of just the same things, nestled and chatted and imagined the pitfalls.  This last week has not been easy for either of them, but still, love will conquer and love will win.

Tomorrow with banting and cucumber sandwiches, we will revel in the victory of love. Fairytale dress, flowers to brighten the world.  Flower girls and pageboys, bands and marching troops – seriously, in this messy world with silly trumps and ugly wars, is this not what we need right now?  Pomp and ceremony, traditions and the Queen. If love brings change, than we are not only celebrating a Royal wedding, we are celebrating tolerance, culture, erasing of boundaries and passion.

We are, at least I am, celebrating love.

Given that there will always be the gremlins wanting to cash in, to offer opinions and stories of yore, bores that they are … it does not matter.  I am going to embrace the changed monarchy, the new era and most of all, I am going to root for my Prince who has found happiness with his beautiful lady.

This eternal romantic is happy too.

Images pintrest, the guardian.

From now on. Why I write.

I write for me, and I write for you …

In the darkest of times, and I have been there … hell on earth and all that, someone said that to find some balance, some thread to hold onto, one should go back to the time you were at your most free.  Usually between the ages of ten and puberty.  So true, in the searching, those years were ones of running without fear of falling, dreaming without wondering if it were realistic.  Of loving and belonging to a family that would catch you.  Of homework in the belief of better to come, engaging with nature, friends, hobbies and the safety of your private space.  Even if it was just in your head. Even those teachers who thought you a dreamer, were peripheral to your path.

Then life comes with the bumps and disappointments and we lose track of simply being.  Like you were back then.  Then relationships become complicated, jobs as bland as cardboard and losing at everything is a reality – you are not the super heroine, the challenger, the saviour or all.  You were simply, well, human. This time of our lives, when some say goodbye, children leave, the body slumps and dreams seem to do the same, it kind of becomes a scary prospect that, in your fifties, you have to face more of the losing for the next twenty years … or you have to gather, go back to the freedom feeling and get those dreams and little you back on track. 

I am getting back on track.  With some regrets, with no regrets, pulling back the veil of disappointment and loss, and wondering how to make the rest of my life count … for me.

If starting again is scary.  It is.  I have cried oceans. Been frightened, paralysed with rejection and loss. Someone not loving you anymore is the worst thing ever and we have all been there in some form or another.  It does not stop you loving them.  Over the decades you have let others go, without blinking, changed direction and maybe it was good … maybe it was not so good but then, here we are, and I did not get the memo on the messy, the uncertain times so go figure.  I aim to figure it out.

To make the new chapter meaningful, one has to assume responsibility for all. Being honest is not always easy, but to say ‘I am here now’ in the ‘mature’ years of my life, I have to be honest.  As do you.  And in this honesty, comes clarity, and growth.

Had the perfect life.  Ain’t so perfect anymore. I stand, yes still stand, growing grey hairs which I loathe and resist to accept, not the super fit anymore, divorced, my parents are gone and in a country not of my birth.  Never been a strictly career orientated gal, financially dependant in some ways, and alone.  Not strictly alone as I have the best children in the world (you think yours are too), travelled and experienced so much and count myself blessed in so many ways.  But there is more to be had of this ballerina.

I wonder where home is sometimes.

The reason I write, or began writing My Silver Street, was for two reasons:

I need to remind myself that life is times without the picket fence ending and I need to write about the good stuff, the bad stuff and all the blessings in-between. All the amazing living about to happen.

I need others who may be in the same situation, at this time of our lives, to know they are not alone. Never alone. Others are going through the same things, the same regrets, doubts, dreams and hoping to make the rest of our time on earth worthwhile, for ourselves. To grow, to discover and if need be, change for the better.  To create new chapters where we can start a new business, travel, nest and take the beautiful we had and harness that to grow to be the empowered women we were meant to be.

I write to tell you, life is worth it, dreams do matter and you can empower yourself to be the best person you are important – from that little girl to the greatness you hold within you.  I write to remind myself, I am here for a reason – as are you. Not just to exist and look backwards, but to use your past to create the most amazing, beautiful, romantic future.

There was a moment when I thought of stopping all this – to discover that other women were reading, sharing and going through the same.  There are many bloggers out there, writing about loss, divorce, starting again, fashion in your mature years, what products to use, how to do this … and do that.  I love them all.  I am writing for the times we fail, doubt ourselves and wonder what the point is sometimes.  Sometimes … till we pick ourselves up and think … I am worth it. That is the reason I write, we are worth it. We have lived and continue to embrace life … faux and fabulous.

I write because I want to understand.  I write because I want you to know, you are not alone. Ever.

You are amazing.  You are going to be even more fabulous.  You are me and I am you.  Women who refuse to live anything but an empowered and romantic life. I write for the future, with all the love of what the past made me what I am. To thank all those who made me what I am.  And to say, love is all.

No more fear. Honesty and running into the future.

Let’s go for it.