Bedroom Advice for Young Ladies – Top Five Handy Hints for Better Bedroom Experiences.

Hint #5: Size Does Matter.

I wish somebody had given me this sage advice when I bought my first ‘grown up’ bed 7 years ago, but size does matter.

(What did you think I was going to be talking about in this post? Clearly, the title could be about nothing other than interior decorating. Minds out of gutters, people…)

You see, should you want to be sharing your bed with a Someone, a Someone who is potentially rather tall, you might want to consider splashing out and going for the queen size, as opposed to double, option. Or be totally extravagant and go for a king.

Either way, remember spooning all night is delightful in the realms of imagination, but, in reality, it’s pretty annoying. And nothing kills passion like waking up cranky.

My key problem with my bed is that it has a foot on it – see picture. Whilst my bed looks lovely, like something that a Scandinavian lady-of-the-manor would indulge in romantic trysts on, it means that my Someone, who is a rather tall fellow, cannot lie straight in my bed. Instead, he lies diagonally across it, leaving me with two triangles of mattress with which to rest my weary bones. Which makes for lots of squishing, and a cranky Peggy first thing in the morning.



So, the moral to the story is, if you are at all interested in sharing a bed with a Someone, be considerate of their size. Opt for the next size up, or at least, pick a double bed frame without a foot, so that the Someone’s feet can poke over their edge till their heart’s content.


Hint #4: A Restful Colour Palette for a Good Night’s Sleep.

Your bedroom is for sleeping. Sleeping is very important. Studies vary in their recommendations, but I’ll tell you this for free – a bad night’s sleep is sure to mess up your day.

Colour, lots of it, is fabulous, and the rest of my home, and indeed most spaces I inhabit, are a veritable rainbow. But, the one place I make an exception is the bedroom. Just as certain fast food restaurants (*cough* MacDonald’s *cough* *cough*) use bright and clashing colours to stimulate appetites and encourage you to EAT THEN LEAVE, choosing restful colors, preferably from the same colour family or an analogous grouping, is a simple way to make sure that your bedroom visually cues yourself into being calm, rested, and serene. Even if you’re the latte-chugging-hurry-sick-mobile-phone-irradiated self you are during your business hours (*cough* Me! *cough* *cough*), a room that’s got a monochromatic scheme, or a subtle range of colours, is going to have some sort of a calming effect. Think shades of blue with greens, a mix of creams and wood tones, or even the classic white on white. All are excellent bedroom choices for a young lady.



Total mastery of the bedroom colour scheme isn’t easy to do in a rental property, or in other situations where you can’t paint. But, all is not lost.

One way around this is to go with whatever colour your walls happen to be, and roll with that as the theme. Luckily, the last three rooms I’ve had have been white or off white, which has meant that I’ve built up a collection of bedroom furnishings and furniture around a neutrals/white/black/wood palette.

Also, don’t underestimate the power of soft furnishings – soft in texture, but strong on impact, if used correctly. A fugly chair can quickly be turned into something much more attractive by the artful draping of a throw or two in a chosen colour – and the textural interest a throw provides can break up the potential monotony of monochrome. You can also choose to match YOURSELF to the monochromatic scheme, but I think that’s crossing the border between restful/serene, and padded walls. But everybody’s line is different…


Hint #3: Be Flexible.

As mentioned above, I’m renting, and anticipate being a renter for quite some time. Which means, regrettably, moving quite a lot more than I would like.

Moving a lot necessitates a high degree of flexibility in the bedroom. When selecting bedroom furniture, it’s imperative that it’s flexible in two ways: firstly, it’s easy to transport – it comes apart, or is lightweight, or, at very least, has ample gripping points for the brothers, dads, and friends enlisted to the task of moving to grab onto.

Secondly, you want, as far as possible, any furniture you buy to be up to radical multi-tasking, as, in the process of changing house, your room size and layout is likely to change radically as well. One of the things I loathed about working in furniture stores as an undergrad was that the ranges were targeted very specifically towards certain rooms, and to having a single use. To me, this is a really inefficient way of thinking about placing furniture in a space

My bed, with all its faults as outlined above, is fantastically flexible – it comes apart and can be put back together in ten minutes, and none of its component parts weigh more than five kilos. It can be stored virtually flat (thanks IKEA!). Because it’s a frame and mattress, rather then an ensemble, it’s also a multi tasker, in that the under bed space can be used for storage. This almost, but not quite, makes up for its other shortcomings.



Another piece of flexible bedroom furniture is my great grandfather’s fold out desk. Aside from being a lovely thing to have, with its ink stains and faint smell of pipe tobacco, it’s a truly flexible marvel.




Point A: the desk can be lowered or raised as needed, opening up a compact space when the desk it not in use. Point B: It’s actually quite roomy – and lockable – and is thus a perfect repository for various important documents and other secret things. Finally, Point C: Although it now makes its home in my bedroom, it is not bedroom specific – it’s flexible enough to be used, in other future houses, as a telephone table in an entrance way, as a desk in a study, a funky book display in a lounge room, or even as a hutch to store kitchen palaver. With flexible pieces, you are only limited by your imagination (and there I go, lapsing back into furniture salesgirl mode…)

Hint # 2: Put That Thing Back Where it Came From.

There is nothing worse than trying to relax when you are surrounded by a sea of moving bedroom debris. Hence, my very simple piece of advice: put things back where they came from.


As my pics suggest, you don’t necessarily have to put the things back neatly – they just have to go back. In their place. Leaving the important surfaces (bed, desk, reading chair) sans clutter.



So, you get your favorite yellow cardigan out to wear with your new skirt. It doesn’t work.

What do you do?

You put it back where it came from, on the hanger, in the wardrobe.

Simple.

Hint #1: You’ve Got The Love.

All of this is sounding a little didactic, but, at the end of the day, this is your room, so it should be personal – it should reflect, probably more than any other space in your home, your loves and your passions. And not in the l’amore, l’amore sense, but in the sense of who and what really matters to you, the people and things you want with you when you are dreaming.

Reciepies That Keep On Giving – Part One: Stovetop Magic Brownies

One of the things I’m really excited about branching out into with this blog is recipes. I love to cook, and loved to do so before it was trendy. Ok, that was a hipster moment, but I’m willing to deal with that because this is 100% truthful. Watching Junior MasterChef with my housemate, Virginia Boots, I can’t help but be a little put out that cooking is now what all the cool kids are doing. Cooking is what I used to do all weekend, every weekend, when I was small, and it certainly wasn’t cool. Often, it was with Mama-K, but other times, it was by myself, mucking around with flour and sugar and butter. I guess that’s a point of difference between my childhood cooking and the childhood cooking depicted on Junior MasterChef – no expensive or flashy ingredients, but lots of good, honest, floury fun.

And in the spirit of good, honest, floury fun without expensive or flashy ingredients, here’s my first recipe in my series of Recipes That Keep On Giving – Stovetop Magic Brownies. My idea about posting the occasional Recipe That Keeps On Giving is a chance to showcase some of my favorite and most frequently cooked things. Not because they are the fanciest, but because they are the easiest, most economical, are always well received, adjust up and down to feed a crowd or just yourself, and, more often than not, freeze, defrost and transport beautifully. They’re kind of my kitchen’s best and fairest players.

This brownie recipe is fairly new to my regular rotation, but it certainly meets all the criteria for a Recipe That Keeps On Giving. Having played with other brownie recipes and not being particularly happy with the results, especially when the outlay on ingredients is taken into account, I was very pleased with the results this recipe yielded with minimal effort or expenditure. Originally, it came from ‘She’s Leaving Home’, lovely cookbook by Monica Tapapgia (AKA, Monica From Playschool, if you grew up in the 90s like I did…). However, I’ve simplified the methodology, and adjust a few ingredients – enough so that I feel justified in changing the recipe’s name. I call these Stovetop Magic Brownies because all the mixing is done in a single large saucepan, on the stovetop, and they are magical because…THEY DON’T CONTAIN ANY ACTUAL CHOCOLATE ! Although I’ve had arguments with The Dreamboat and his housemate, Jordan Hawthorne, about whether cocoa powder, a principal ingredient in this recipe, counts as ‘chocolate’ or not – I maintain it doesn’t, Jordan and Dreamboat maintain it does – what we can all agree on is that these brownies are amongst the richest, moistest, and chocolatiest we’ve ever tasted, semantics aside.




Stovetop Magic Brownies

Makes approximately 24 medium brownies, depending on how you slice it.

350g Salted Butter
140g Cocoa
675g (yep) White Sugar
6 Eggs
250g Plain Flour
3 Tablespoons (yep) Vanilla Extract
200g Chopped Nuts (Although I never really bother…)
1. Preheat oven to 150 degrees Celsius. Line a lamington tray, or other largish, deep sided, square or rectangular dish with baking paper, or grease generously with butter. This temp might seem quite low for brownies – it is indeed, and it’s one of the variations I made on the original recipe. I’ve found, at the suggestion of Sam from Amore Cakes’ cookbook (check out her brilliant chocolate almond cake next time you’re at the Epic farmer’s markets!) that all manner of things have a better taste and consistency when cooked at a lower temperature for a slightly longer time, these brownies being no exception.
2. In a large saucepan, begin melting the butter over medium heat. When your butter is about half melted, add in your cocoa powder, and stir occasionally with a wooden spoon, being careful not to let the cocoa/butter mixture burn, until almost all the butter is melted and the mixture is dark and glossy.
3. Turn off stove, but leave saucepan on the element to make good use of the radiant heat. Add in the sugar, and stir until thoroughly combined. I like to add the sugar whilst the mixture is quite warm, as it seems to help it integrate into the mixture more quickly.
4. Now, add in your eggs. At this point I like to switch to a balloon whisk, but I’ll leave the choice of weapon to you. Mix until smooth. Stir in the vanilla essence.
5. Finally, carefully add the flour (and nuts, if you are using them), bit by bit, so that you don’t have too many flour splashes to clean up.
6. When everything is incorporated, pour mixture into your prepared tray, and let it settle out. I never bother trying to make a groove in the middle with the back of a spoon to ensure even rising, but if you would like to do that, you can. I’ll just judge you from afar.
7. Bake for approximately 40 minutes, or, more importantly, until the middle of the brownie doesn’t smooch in when you touch it.
8. Slice brownie in the tin about ten minutes after cooling and dust with extra cocoa or icing sugar, if that takes your fancy. Leave the brownie in the tin until entirely cold, if at all possible, to get the best and moistest result.

And there you have it. Last week, I made a triplicate batch of these for my first years, to celebrate the last tutorial of semester. Needless to say, they soothed the pain of talking about exams no end. Ah, the devine power of a Stovetop Magic Brownie. I think this rather bad photo captures how I feel about them…

I smoked, but I didn’t inhale…

I smoked, but I didn’t inhale…

I have been thinking about this blog of mine lately.

Thinking, but not actively blogging, as some of you’ve astutely pointed out.

Which is sad, as there has been SO MUCH that’s happened lately about which I coulda, shoulda, woulda, blogged.

A New Place.

A New-To-Me Car.

A New Office.

A New Batch of First Years.

SPRING!

And lots of other Wonderful Life Events…

Which has prompted a bit of a mental re-working of this wee blog, and a pledge to do a little better.

You see, as the title of this post insinuates, I’d had a bit of a puff at blogging in this space. You know, cos all the cool kids on the playground were doing it. And it looked so cool a glamorous in the films...and I was curious to try it.

I liked that first little puff, but not quite enough to go out and buy a pack of my own, if that analogy makes sense (true story: I explained Foucault to first year using the solar system as an analogy…let’s see how many students write about asteroids, black holes, and moons in their assessment, instead of power/knowledge, discipline, and the embodied subject!). Overall, I was having fun with this blog, but I wasn’t willing to make the commitment.

Namely, I wasn’t willing to overcome years of not being able to take a decent photograph (in front of, or behind, the lens) in order to really enter into the blogging spirit. And, you know…there’s a limit to how much one can write about fashion and style. Even moi.

But, with a bit of rethinking, I have come to the conclusion that it’s time to stop puffing, and start inhaling. I’m going to light up this blog and smoke it.

Not without a few new developments, though. This is a heads up that, along with lots and lots of…erm…interesting (read: inexpert) photos, you can expect posts – a fresh one every Monday, on a widened range of topics, including, but not limited to...

Beauty Advice.

Handy Household Hints.

Musing on Interior Decoration.

Recipes.

Social Commentary.

Funny things that Happened to a Friend of a Friend of Mine.

Music, Movies, Books, Telly.

Foucauldian Social Theory…OK JUST KIDDING. I won’t do that to you, unless you are in first year.

So, dear readers, this is the beginning of what I hope will be a whole-hearted, long-term, hard-to-shake-even-with-patches addictive venture for myself and maybe for you too. Stay tuned next Monday for a freshly lit post, and until then, happy lifestyling.

A Very Angry Peggy

What greater weekend pleasure is there than the Saturday paper, a plunger of coffee, and some peace and quiet? I am religious about few things, but my weekend paper ritual is one to which I am a fanatical adherent. No matter how topsy turvy the preceding week has been, or how deep the shadows cast by the looming week, the forty five minute oasis of my Paper Ritual makes me feel calm and well equipped to deal with Life and whatever it may bring. The Saturday Paper Ritual has been in place since I was old enough to read. As a child, mama-k and papa-k would turn the house upside down looking for Good Weekend, only to discover that I’d squirreled it and myself away to the loo for a nice quiet read. In honour of this, my parent’s housewarming gift to me was a subscription to the Sydney Morning Herald and The Sun Herald, to continue my weekend ritual – and no other gift I received warmed my cold, uninsulated house more.

Sometimes, though, the perfection of my ritual is spoilt by something monumentally stupid and offensive being put into print. Take this morning, for instance.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by which particular columnist was the party pooper in question. OF COURSE it was Maggie Alderson. As mentioned above, my relationship with the SMH stretched back a long way, as does my relationship with Maggie. Over the years, it has gone from befuddlement, to admiration, to love-hate, and, over the last couple of years, to YAWN. Part of the reason this blog was born was to exeroscise the nagging feeling that I could do what Maggie did, only better. After all, I have more things to write about than My Adorable Child, Fashion When I Was A Gal, and The Agonies And Ecstasies Of Dieting – Maggies’ three principal column topics.

Occasionally, though, she pulls out something that shakes me out of my lethargy.

In today’s column, ‘Chewing the Fat’, she takes aim at nude plus size models. I would recommend that you get your hands on a copy of the column, if you can, to read and judge for yourself.

As I read this column, my emotions, if represented on a scale of YAWN to ASTRONOMICALLY HIGH BOOD PRESSURE COMPLETE WITH NOSTRIL FLARING, went from the former to the latter in the space of a few inches of newsprint.

It would appear that Ms Alderson has taken issue with nude plus size models, and their use in fashion spreads, in the most bizarre and backward of ways. Credit where credit’s due, however: I actually found myself nodding moderate agreement with her in the first part of her column, where she suggests that the usage of large naked ladies is tokenistic. Indeed, it is. Just as many other groups in society are treated tokenistically by the fashion industry. However, I think there has to be a start somewhere – and if there’s just a few images of a variety of beautiful bodies out there, then that’s enough to start people thinking and questioning the status quo. So, I agree with Maggies’ suggestion that it’s tokenistic, but, rather than see tokenism as an end point, I choose to see it as the beginning of something potentially quite radical. You know, longest journeys, smallest of steps and all that jazz.

Then, to use a Supernatural-ism, Maggie Jumps The Shark. It would appear that her issue isn’t just with the tokenistic use of larger models, it’s with the fact that they’re naked. Que? I thought, as I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise. What’s wrong with a naked plus size model? Well, according to Maggie, the only reason why they are naked it because, and I quote, ‘fat women often look better with no clothes on’. Well, yes. Four out of five ex lovers recently polled agree on this point. Maggie, however, seems to hold the view that naked ‘fat’ women, to use her more direct ‘n derogatory parlance, are less liberated than clothed ‘fat’ women.

Consider, for a moment, Maggie’s previous contention: that ‘fat’ models are used tokenistically. Implying that they are used in ways other than ‘normal’ models in magazines. Let’s have a think about how ‘normal’ models are portrayed in fashion shoots. Mostly, they are – shock, horror – naked, or nearly so, posed in all manner of outlandish scenarios. ‘Oh yes, of course I surround myself with designer leather luggage, sprawling about in a thong, whilst sipping espresso – don’t you?’ seems to be the concept behind many advertising shoots for high end labels. So, I would argue, the very nudity of many of the plus size models – indeed, as Maggie points out, showing themselves off at their best – counters the tokenism that Maggie accuses many plus size photo shoots of, because the ‘fat’ models are being treated like any other model – i.e. stripped bare, posed with bizarre objects, and with a photographer undoubtedly standing over them shouting things like “You’re a ferret, baby. No, a meerkat. No, a sea otter! Give me SEA OTTER! Make me FEEL it, baby, YEAH. And I’m spent.”.

(O.k., so my perception of photo shoots may be heavily coloured by the Austin Powers trilogy).

Maggie appears, also, to have missed the point about the inclusion of ‘fat’ women in fashion shoots. Rather than being used to sell clothes, the inclusion of ‘fat’ models, however cynically or tokenistically by editors, is about recognising the beauty of different bodies. It’s a celebration of flesh, rather than fabric. Hence, nudity – artistically posed, beautifully photographed – makes perfect sense in shoots that revel in the appreciation of abundant flesh.

An interesting aside: as I read in Good Weekend’s Number Crunch last weekend, men, on average, nominate a size fourteen as the most sexually desirable size. Perhaps the frequent exposure of ‘fat’ model’s rude bits is instead catering to the male gaze, starved as it is for beautiful images of larger female bodies. This is something Maggie appears to have forgotten – that men look at women, and men have opinions about how women look. And it would appear that men like the look of ‘fat’ models, which may go some way to explaining the dearth of clothing in many ‘fat’ shoots.

But back to Maggie’s column.

Please imagine, dear readers, the scene here. By this stage I’m midway though the column, huffing and puffing, steam pouring from the ears and from my second plunger of freshly brewed coffee. Thusly, so far so terrible, right? Couldn’t get any worse? Here’s the direct quote that resulted in metaphorical brain splatters from my head decorating the kitchen cabinets:

‘He’s (Karl Largerfeld) Living proof that in most cases – not all, but way most – the difference between being a size 10 and a size 18 comes down to two things: self control and giving a sh**. In other words, having “being slim” on the top of your priorities list…It has to be the main thing you think about, requiring constant planning and effort.’ (Alderson, March 27, 2010. Sorry, PhD student, can’t help but reference).

It has to be the main thing you think about, the top of your priorities list. Really, Maggie? REALLY?

Not only, Maggie, have you Jumped The Shark, you have Eloped To Vegas To Wed The Shark In The Little White Chapel With An Elvis Impersonator Officiating.

To begin with. My concerns. With the above statement. Are manifold. (Short. Sentences. Breathe. Peggy. Breathe.). What sort of world is Maggie living in when a modern woman can, and should, have ‘being slim’ at the top of her priorities list, the main thing she thinks about? Whatever happened to being a good person, love, kindness, family, friends, an education, good health, a career, as priorities and things to think about? On a more basic level, what about the stuff of life that we all have to give due diligence to every day of our lives – rego payments, essays to grade, washing machines to install, vacuuming to be done? What kind of a woman can place ‘being slim’ at the forefront of her mind and her life?

According to Naomi Wolf, in her famous epistle on this very subject (The Beauty Myth – READ IT), this is exactly the manifestation of patriarchal oppression that characterises the lives of modern Western women. Rather than discovering cures for cancer, painting masterpieces, and writing The Great Australian Novel, Wolf argues that women are taught to limit themselves and their opportunities by placing, as Maggie seems to suggest, ‘being slim’ at the top of our life priorities list. Because we devote so much time and energy to ‘being slim’, Wolf argues, we can’t possibly live as equals with men, because we’re just too darn tired and hungry from all that slimming and feeling bad about slimming. Essentially, we stop ourselves from being our best because we think we will never be good enough until we’re skinny. Although Wolf’s work is extreme, polemical, and impassioned, I’m inclined to agree with the gist of her argument. Especially, as we can see from Maggie’s latest offering, the Beauty Myth is alive and well.

As we’ve read from her numerous columns on My Adorable Child, Maggie has a little girl, who I can’t help but feel desperately sorry for. Surely as a mum of a little girl, Maggie should want a world where women’s priorities should be extended beyond ‘being slim’. A world in which a woman whose priority in life is ‘being slim’ is perceived as the great and tragic loss of human potential that it surely is. A world where plus size nudity is celebrated as the beautiful and sexually desirable thing. Indeed, a world where all female bodies – plus size, skinny, pregnant, post childbirth, post fifty, of all different shapes, sizes and quirks – are seen and celebrated.

This is a world that is a long way off. We can see, however, the beginnings of change, in the way that men relate (and, arguably, have always related) to women’s bodies, and in the way that some cynical and tokenistic, or possibly just socially minded, designers, photographers and editors are gradually shifting the goalposts on what sort of women’s bodies can be lauded as beautiful.

But while I’m waiting for this change…

I threw Maggie’s hateful column in the recycling, and went about my day, full of the miscellaneous stuff of a woman’s life. Being skinny didn’t enter into my thoughts or my priorities at all.

And everything was right with the world again.

Secrets and Lies

As it’s been almost a year since I started this wee blog, I thought it might be time to correct a few assumptions that you, readers, may have made about me. You could be forgiven for thinking, reading this blog, that I am impeccably stylish and pleased with what I wear most of the time, and that, being someone who blogs about style, I have no secrets.

How wrong you are, and how remiss of me not to tell you before now about my Top Ten Shameful Style Secrets and Lies…

Number Ten: I want to wear red lipstick every day, but don’t.

Number Nine: I wear track pants. Out of the house. Often out of the house. Often down to the shops to collect dinner ingredients. Often tracksuits with holes in dangerous places – the term crotchless being appropriate.

Number Eight: I stress out about wearing the same outfit to two tutorials in the same semester, least my students judge me as a poor postgraduate with no clothes.

Number Seven: I spend entire weeks wearing sarongs and pregnant-style tops in summer.

Number Six: I shop at target. Even when I have money.

Number Five: I envy girls who look amazing wearing jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails.

Number Four: I myself wear jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails, and do not look amazing.

Number Three: I don’t feel like myself without make up.

Number Two: I’m never happy with my hair. Ever.

And – drumroll please – the final, most hideous confession.

Number One: I wear crocs. ALL THE TIME.

P.S. you may have noticed some changes to the blog of late – I hope you like them as much as I do! Although it’s taken the best part of a year to work out the intricacies of Blogger, I think my inner luddite is suitably conquered. Love, Peg.

Breast Dressed

N.B: this blog is somewhat of a companion to my ‘Panty Problems: Just Say No’ post from about a year ago. If talk of lovely lady lumps and the like offends, please tune out. Now. Love, Peg.

Travel is a real eye opener. New sights, new sounds, new discoveries (square sausage, black pudding and haggis FOR THE WIN).

And, of course, new shops, trends, and dress norms to explore.

Discovery #1: Uggs cost 60 POUNDS in Scotland and thus are highly coveted sartorial status symbols.

Discovery #2: Scottish women are impervious to cold and will attend a February wedding (read: 2 degrees celcius, fog and light mist) in a summer cocktail frock.

Discovery #3: the boobs of the UK are the Best Dressed Breasts the world over.

Why, might you ask?

Well, there’s just so much CHOICE in terms of bras. Walking into a lingerie shop, or a lingerie department in a major department store, is like walking into a candy store of lace, silk, and general delectability. Everything – and I mean everything – is lovely – and, more importantly, available in all sizes. What could be more heavenly, I ask you?

It’s as if British manufacturers have taken a good look out the window, around the office, and at the nearest girl’s night out and stumbled upon a powerful truth that I wish they’d exported to the antipodes along with convicts, rabbits, noxious weeds like thistles.

That truth being that boobs come in all sizes and shapes, and so should bras.

Historically, my relationship with bras, and my breasts, has been long and somewhat tortured. I developed early – I can’t really remember what life was like B.B. (Before Boobs). My first bras, which MamaK sensibly insisted were fitted by a trained professional, were rather plain and boring, with no fancy embellishments or anything vaguely resembling prettiness. At the time, this made bra-wearing anything but fun (although I am actually thankful that I could save the discovery of sexy lingerie until I was old enough to appreciate it in its proper context – i.e. sixteen, and doing everything that girls of that age are supposed to…). Coupled with change room teasing through primary and high school – contrary to popular mythology, girls who develop well and early are not always placed on a lofty pedestal of developing womanliness by their young peers – this potent combination of ugly bras + ugly people meant that I drew the only conclusion I could at the time: breasts, specifically mine, were ugly.

I spent most of my teenage years wishing my breasts away, desperately envious of girls who could get away with nothing under their tee-shirts whilst I needed industrial strength scaffolding to stay afloat. I think, in the chronology of my relationship with my breasts, these were The Wilderness Years.

Then, something wonderful happened: I went to college. In the ACT system, college is where students go in years 11 and 12 – so you’re a YOUNG ADULT at a school with other YOUNG ADULTS where you’re treated like a YOUNG ADULT and you can talk about YOUNG ADULT stuff like SEX and DRUGS and ROCK AND ROLL. Or, more like, your aspirations towards those three lofty goals of YOUNG ADULThood. It was there, in that heady, sweaty mix of all of us working out who we were and who we wanted to be, that I realised two things: that boys like boobs, and that boys like boobs FULL STOP. No matter how big, how little, how round or high or wide, boys LIKE THEM, quite possibly more than they like anything else on God’s green earth.

Being perfectly honest, and at risk of being a Bad Feminist, this meant that I could finally begin to entertain the possibility that maybe I might like my breasts too, if I gave them half a chance. Giving my breasts half a chance meant setting them free from their functional scaffolding, and looking for other options that supported not only my breasts but my fledgling and fragile self esteem.

I can still remember the thrill of purchasing my first Really Sexy Bra and Knickers. As mentioned above, I was sixteen, and doing all those things that sixteen year olds do. As I’ve said many times before on this blog, we don’t always dress in a way that reflects who we are in the present moment, but who we are becoming, and who we want to be. And although I was confused and had a lot of growing up to do at that point, I wanted something that would make me feel strong, sexy, and powerful – and nothing was more a reflection of who I wanted to be than a chocolate brown French lace balconette bra and knickers set from Elle Macpherson Intimates. It cost me a weeks’ pay, but the boosts it gave were worth it.

Over the years, I’d estimate that my spending on lingerie would have been enough to have placed a down payment on a small apartment, but, no matter how poor I was, I always felt as though good – in both the practical and the aesthetic sense – lingerie was never a waste of money. Which is just as well because in Australia, you’d be hard pressed to find lingerie that fits both of those categories – practical and pleasing to the eye – without relaxing the purse strings considerably. This was something I was always happy to do, even if it meant having only one or two bras, and repairing them until it really was time to pension them off to the back paddock. This was fine whilst my breasts were in the ‘normal’ cup size range – from A to D – but, in my Honours year, whilst the rest of me stayed the same, my boobs jumped two cup sizes, into an E. Overnight. Literally. I went to bed with D’s and woke up with E’s.

Sometimes the universe burdens us in the strangest of ways.

Having breasts that were suddenly outside of Australian clothing’s ‘normal’ range meant that I was in for a rude shock. Whereas previously the lingerie world was my oyster, I was thrust into the barren wasteland of Full Figure Lingerie. My first ever foray into a specialist stockist of Full Figure Lingerie (a euphemism I grew to hate – why not call a spade a spade and just say Bras for Big Boobs?) involved tears in the change room. The sales girl did her best, but when I asked her for something sexy, all she could produce was a hackneyed red and black number so massive that it encroached into my décolletage and flattened my breasts into two squarish blobs. I bought the bra, in the two colour ways available, because it was the best of a bad lot. There were other, prettier bras available in E cups – but they were out of stock, on backorder with a two month wait list, and completely beyond my financial means.

The second period of Wilderness commenced. This was only slightly better than the last Wilderness, as I at least knew in my heart of hearts that my breasts were indeed lovely, but this knowledge made shopping for bras more frustrating – I felt as though all of my breast’s loveliness was literally being squished out of them. Some days I even went bra-less, because it was simply too depressing to contemplate putting on some of the horrors that now comprised my lingerie wardrobe. After much thought, I decided that the problem with the Full Figure Lingerie industry was that their Ideal Breast, for which they designed all their bras, was a completely different shape to mine, with completely different needs. My problem was that my breasts, due to my large bone structure and impressive set of pectoral muscles (if I do say so myself – it’s carrying all those textbooks under my arm, I tell you) were actually firmer and higher than the Ideal Full Figure Breast, meaning that the bras available in Australia in an E+ cup were far far too supportive and rigid, with way more scaffolding than was necessary for someone with my frame and muscle structure. Whilst a very supportive, ridged bra, with a wide central panel and full cup coverage, would be ideal on a woman with a small rib cage, little muscle tissue and lots of boob, it was absolutely hopeless for me, and, what’s more, made my breasts look dreadful and made me feel dreadful.

There was an end, however, in sight. Mama-K, on a trip to Mother England midway through my honours year, came back with stories of an oasis of beautiful lingerie – in all shapes, sizes and colours – at Marks and Spencers. Being unsure of my exact size, and understandably feeling a bit awkward about shopping for sexy lingerie for her daughter, she bought me home just two Marks and Spencer’s bras to try. Although E cups, they looked…just like a lovely, ordinary lacy bra, complete with a low front profile, delicate straps, and transparent lace. I wore those two bras until they were grey with over washing, desperately hoping that one day I would make it to the promised land of Marks and Spencers, to rejoice in the loveliness of sexy bras in 14 E-F.

One Day finally came a few weeks ago, in Scotland, and it was better than I ever imagined.

The greatest thing about M&S was that there was no specialist section for Fuller Figure Bras – rather, most of their ranges just ran up to a G cup as a matter of course. This means no scarily wide centre panels, no full coverage cups, and no scary thick straps. No opportunity for manufacturers to charge through the nose because they’ve cornered the Full Figure Lingerie market – because all boobs are already catered for as a matter of course. M&S, as the locals call it, even stocks a range of post-mastectomy bras – something which, in Australia, you would have to hunt around specialty stores to find. You can even get scary huge squashy bras if that’s what floats your boat – everyone’s a winner. Here’s the bottom line: to buy a nice, lacy bra and pants in Australia, the outlay would be close to $150 at RRP, and your choices would be black and porny, pink/red and porny, or cream and virginal – just try and tell me that the Madonna/Whore paradox is dead! In the UK, shopping at M&S, the MAXIMUM you’d be looking at would be 50 pounds RRP – that’s about $100 in our money – and you can choose from dozens of lovely bras, with many levels of subtle graduation between vampish seductress and daisy fresh innocent. I won’t tell you how many sets of lingerie accompanied me home – but, to give you a ballpark figure, it’ll be at least a week before The Dreamboat has seen the full gamut of my UK purchases.

And the best thing of all? You can shop M&S online, and stand alongside me in my boycott of ugly, expensive Full Figure Lingerie that is all that’s available in Australia, or just ugly, expensive lingerie in whatever size you wear, because all breasts are beautiful and deserve to be dressed accordingly. Let’s not settle for lingerie that only uplifts our busts – rather, let’s strive for lingerie that uplifts our sometimes flagging and fragile egos, and elevates us to a higher plane of bodily acceptance and love. At least, I know that’s now where my personal bra bar is set, and I think you’re all, dear readers, worth a similarly high standard of support.

A Juvenile Success

In honour of the 52nd Annual Grammy awards, Sammy Compton, sister of my special housemate Sookie, threw a lovely Grammys party, complete with many of my favourite things – tea, curry, and a dress-to-impress code. Of course, being a PhD student, which is just a nicer way of saying ‘I hide under a rock and eat a lot of lentils’, and having a rather strong attachment to the music of my childhood – they just don’t make songs like they did in the nineties – I wasn’t entirely au fait with all the celebrities strutting the carpet. I am, however, au fait with all things sparkly (again, as a result of that other 90s childhood staple – Baz Lurhman’s Strictly Ballroom), and felt thusly qualified to get my critiquing groove on.

And boy, was there plenty of sparkle and swagger. Some good (Katie Perry and Beyonce, USHER O.M.G. I LOVE RIGHT DOWN TO THE CREAM PIPING ON YOUR SUIT), some bad (Jennifer Hudson, YOU HOT, BUT NOT IN THAT DRESS), some ugly (Taylor Swift – NUFF SAID) and some just fracking weird (RHIANNNA. LOVE. HIRE A STYLIST).

But the show this year was really stolen by the under-four-foot crowd – and no, Rosie Bon Jovie, I’m not talking about the midgets – I’m talking about the kiddies. Of course, Beyonce and Jay Z’s nephew, who accepted the Grammy for Run This Town in the stead of Kanye (because if we learnt anything from the VMA’s, kids, it’s that Kanye, a mike and an award show do not mix) stole the show in his baby tux – but there were plenty of other kiddies, so much so that I wondered if Lady Gaga’s frock would be commandeered as some sort of playpen kiddycreche.

Perhaps this is the logical extension of our youth obsessed culture, but kids have become, suddenly, the new frontier of cool. The prevalence of beautiful celebrities with their beautiful babies is indicative of this. Whilst I think it’s great that we’re now moving towards a celebration of childhood, it also gives me the worries sometimes. Particularly when these celebabies (a celebrity baby – geddit???) are dressed as extensions of their mums and dads (Gewn Stefani, Brit Brit and Mr and Mrs Becks, report to my office immediately).

To betray my closet academic interest (and a terrible pun – closet meaning both SECRET and WARDROBE!), children’s clothing has, almost always, been a replica of the clothing of adults. It’s interesting to look at the way that children’s clothing through the ages denotes the way that they were related to by the rest of the community. In the not-too-distant past, for instance, babies and young children up to the age of about six were dressed all alike, irrespective of gender, in simple white frocks, and weren’t given proper ‘clothes’ until they started their schooling at about six or seven. Fashion theorists postulate that this is, in no small part, to do with shocking rates of infant mortality – that it didn’t serve anyone well to get too attached to an infant or very young child, or to view them as a person in their own right, and this extended to the clothing of children. Once one had passed through the hazardous years of infancy and early childhood, it was possible to be regarded as a potential adult – and thus, dressed exactly like one. For poor people, children were dressed in the hand-me-downs rags of older siblings and cousins, or wrapped in swaddling cloths – again, because why spend what little money you may have on clothes for a baby who, in all likelihood, would be carried away.

It wasn’t until the beginning of the 20th century that upper and middle class parents began to dress their kiddies as…kiddies. Not as infants in swaddling cloths, and not as micro adults, but as something in between – as children. Of course, what age ranges constitute ‘child’, or what ‘child’ even means, have been up for negotiation ever since, and perhaps this latest incarnation of children as an extension of their parent’s look is simply the latest perambulation of our cultural attitudes to children and childhood.

But I can’t help but hark back to the brief moment a couple of decades ago – from the late 60s to the end of the 80s – where there was a certain playfulness and whimsy to children’s’ clothing – where children were encouraged to dress in clothes that they chose, that they liked, and that made them look – well, like kids. This was how I was dressed when I was growing up. For sure, I remember many a violent tantrum at mama-k’s insistence that I wear GREEN PLAID rather than PINK TULLE WITH SPARKLES AND LACE. But, at the end of the day, I was pretty much allowed to dress how I wanted to, and in a way that was entirely my own - not like a grown up, very much like a kid, and with a degree of personal latitude and creativity.

It makes me sad to think that, in our efforts to make our kids look just like us, we don’t give them the opportunity to look just like them. As much as I look forward to picking out outfits for the little tykes in my life, I look forward even more to seeing what they pick out for themselves. Case in point, and returning to the sister-themed origins of this blog post, Clementine Kemp’s little sister, and my absolute favourite six year old, LuLu, has perfected this art of dressing exactly like herself. With her artful draping of floral fabrics, held together with hairclips, she was a delight to behold at a recent afternoon tea at my house, and an example from which all of us could learn. Indeed, when children, left to their own devices, come up with the most ingenious creations, it makes me wonder why we’re not copying them, rather than trying to get them to copy us.