tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67485715254018481972024-03-13T04:09:36.910+00:00STYLISED DIALOGUE by Daphne EconomouDaphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-42638281876325825292015-03-11T07:00:00.000+00:002015-03-11T13:54:21.109+00:00The Stylised Guide to UNLIKELY beauty tutorials #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It has occurred to me recently that the blogosphere is having a real beauty/make up moment. A quick glance at my bloglovin' newsfeed and you will come across the words 'dewy', 'pigmentation', 'long lasting' and 'chantecaille' (aka put another mortgage on your house because you NEED this blush that looks like every other blush you own) more times than you probably ever have up to this point.<br />
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I don't mean to sound <strike>bitter</strike> sarcastic, I get pretty bad FOMO(fear of missing out) and I'm not one to let a bandwagon pass me by.<br />
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So, I hereby present you my first foray into beauty blogging. *insert frantic clapping*<br />
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My inspiration was a Greek Blond Ambition whose latest beauty look was one of the most talked about of 2014. People tend to be dark haired in Greece so when someone finds the guts to embrace the Blond Bombshell look, they need to be celebrated (or ridiculed)<br />
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So let's begin. I solemnly swear to provide tips, photographic guidance and even a GIF to help you through every step of the way:<br />
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The Stylised Guide to UNLIKELY beauty tutorials #1</div>
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Foundation! For this look, I'd suggest you opt for a base a few shades darker than your natural skin tone. Foundation shades tend to pull orange on paler skins which is exactly what we want for this terracota tinted babe!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxwENVVI9lHgzJd8feplsWD4WowDwVVHDIBx1YJGBFDINyINwbQRM93Y9CjFGqb34xAinjcXhPiR5qFui_SWDYaHgTVdjQ_fa2VysATMZlvA60Fj5CY4MTOZ8OHffjM9SQfejNH109UkS/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxwENVVI9lHgzJd8feplsWD4WowDwVVHDIBx1YJGBFDINyINwbQRM93Y9CjFGqb34xAinjcXhPiR5qFui_SWDYaHgTVdjQ_fa2VysATMZlvA60Fj5CY4MTOZ8OHffjM9SQfejNH109UkS/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">real life demonstration of foundation application while looking super miserable</td></tr>
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So here I am looking pretty tangerine-y! Next, add some bronzer for that extra under-the-sun hue<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUM6ihW6JdJr7wONtJFl-OJb0pm6VCwwSNdw8zDIN5g4keKvraBr6poFdWdLFqaZmX-1Pk2p2AG72_ubwdssR2Yfd2KVqv2F0Z7Vgg0wNaDqqOv3q6s7wf82oYYHvrCz3ZB2GqJ9xHlCw/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUM6ihW6JdJr7wONtJFl-OJb0pm6VCwwSNdw8zDIN5g4keKvraBr6poFdWdLFqaZmX-1Pk2p2AG72_ubwdssR2Yfd2KVqv2F0Z7Vgg0wNaDqqOv3q6s7wf82oYYHvrCz3ZB2GqJ9xHlCw/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros2.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bronzing like a pro<br />
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So now that we look like we're the sun's number one mistress, let's focus on the damage it may have caused. The next step is of great importance and cannot be missed. If you are not aware of what conturing is, it's basically a technique with which you shade targeted areas of your face in order to carve out the appearance of cheekbones, high temples and teeny noses. Or, for the more knowledgable amongst you, the secret to looking like a Kardashian.<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"> </span>Kevyn Aucoin created a great sculpting powder which he produced for the lacking-in-cheekbone masses in exchange for our left kidney. I was lucky enough to get my hands on it with both kidneys still intact and to be honest, if you, like myself, identify with the full moon shaped faces, I'd encourage you to take the plunge and just drink less!</div>
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In this tutorial, however, we're not going to use the sculpting powder to conform to glossy beauty standards. Au contrair, we'll use it to create prominent under eye bags, frown lines, side-of-the-mouth wrinkles and crows feet... hard earned signs of restlessness, captivity and plotting. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqlUI11uPCWvYWBlF8r40a02gqPW1zXil3KV2r0tUlZmJD1AKRzgdvYZC5rF1yktskISuyCijjeNmrb4WCC3fpfbw9UVcQ2CSGVdM2r1LaMC6R2UA3jRBYC41NgYD1VuC-9lRAi3wIhTFQ/s1600/%5Bgickr.com%5D_188f0b5a-ea03-ad84-c93c-5ea34f090086.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqlUI11uPCWvYWBlF8r40a02gqPW1zXil3KV2r0tUlZmJD1AKRzgdvYZC5rF1yktskISuyCijjeNmrb4WCC3fpfbw9UVcQ2CSGVdM2r1LaMC6R2UA3jRBYC41NgYD1VuC-9lRAi3wIhTFQ/s1600/%5Bgickr.com%5D_188f0b5a-ea03-ad84-c93c-5ea34f090086.gif" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look guys! I created a GIF! I'm practically techy *googles the meaning of: hard drive*</td></tr>
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We're nearly at the end of the tutorial but we've only just started dipping our toes in the revelation of our inspo's identity! I never said this iconic beauty was a lady, so get your eyeliners out, we're drawing on a beard! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsh4df1yzeHok-pHb5hM8Frsl24Yj7UpyT0q-hcwLwFqUX_YQAFVIIzSTraaYbtpiKp_mr2kthF6hszIMvokR6uIwdIUPtW63qmJvaw-64ON4qt2zTI4wlAVPSgjsj9_zfeGhj7sYnsNr_/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros7.JPG" height="480" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">concentraaaation can be fuuuuuuuun</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">so come with me to concentrated laaaaaaaand (which song have I just paraphrased? brownie points if you get it!)</td></tr>
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Make sure to get the ombre effect right! Use a brown eyeliner towards the bottom of your chin, then get a white (or flesh coloured one) and go in for the sparse white hairs here and there.<br />
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Beard in place and now all that's left is to ADD A BLOND, BOBBED WIG (with which I can't assist you, I'm awful at doing hair) AAAAAAAAND WE'RE DONE.......<br />
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DRUMROLL, (as per usual...)</div>
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Could you STILL be wondering who it is that I'm channeling? I mean, I understand if you're not Greek...</div>
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But if you are? Καμ όν γκάηζ!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir37I608stdChd9UFkuj4Qwl-oTxin9MKNTKdHB1a47BCaKFN6Z54mJyg_iDazR02djX0lNiTCf217EYnn2ek4KbfvjrggAGVMx8gjO6wdu8AeTRxZ1Iho5qWLzfSQo0ACx2DoqdU91sHk/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir37I608stdChd9UFkuj4Qwl-oTxin9MKNTKdHB1a47BCaKFN6Z54mJyg_iDazR02djX0lNiTCf217EYnn2ek4KbfvjrggAGVMx8gjO6wdu8AeTRxZ1Iho5qWLzfSQo0ACx2DoqdU91sHk/s1600/styliseddialogueksiros8.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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The End. </div>
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P.s If you recreate this look please tag me on instagram with the hashtag #ChristodoulosKsirosStD (what! that's what all the other beauty bloggers say) </div>
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*tumbleweed*</div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-29999949978307177952014-06-16T17:58:00.002+01:002014-10-17T15:45:16.155+01:00(I forgot about) FATHER'S DAY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So you know how yesterday was quite a big day for the ones amongst you that have fathered an offspring? yeah...<br />
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... you all knew about it, including this guy:<br />
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...who threw plenty of reminders my way...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIzFqk2mqz4SVr1J0qkZkubDRUp7rjKRbP1y81d7sPs8nH8S8DFl0ouWIngbO2Y7Pv7JnZCtbo9P4ogr5bRDjzmeMnLThLKlpH8SaBbm54lfbqpeXgMQ2t16pCc31nMFPFsWYCrF8u3nz/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-06-16+at+17.56.58.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIzFqk2mqz4SVr1J0qkZkubDRUp7rjKRbP1y81d7sPs8nH8S8DFl0ouWIngbO2Y7Pv7JnZCtbo9P4ogr5bRDjzmeMnLThLKlpH8SaBbm54lfbqpeXgMQ2t16pCc31nMFPFsWYCrF8u3nz/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-06-16+at+17.56.58.png" height="166" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>free drinks? final draft? fone daphne(sp)? admittedly, it could be anything!</i></td></tr>
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but still... it all went over my head.<br />
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Until this morning when it dawned on me... F. D. .... FATHER'S DAY!!!!!!!!!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKnomBmYm-QQ7TVbR-6CnNgVnAbUHnlaiFhIVhEdX0tc402afjeNqka5B8ZLys8wzh0xTo8iMOdW5ldd5VxGqkqbMa483XrDfhr4_spt1_bHLC-3djHeX-FqUDAy90WXib88OwkaD8T2R/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKnomBmYm-QQ7TVbR-6CnNgVnAbUHnlaiFhIVhEdX0tc402afjeNqka5B8ZLys8wzh0xTo8iMOdW5ldd5VxGqkqbMa483XrDfhr4_spt1_bHLC-3djHeX-FqUDAy90WXib88OwkaD8T2R/s1600/photo+5.JPG" height="640" width="476" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OH CRAP!!!!!!!!!!</td></tr>
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And since my "OH CRAP" face has evolved into a significantly less adorable version of the photo above, changing this mood around may require some effort...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcMyxcXEX4HJ8mNsjxq0sJzZNvLcG8_-kpRLeUDgNiH01iaeZyvLJRLhYnYFxMWCSiMDLM94f1tuOUONeuSHqFUzotdgY57DM-3_Wy0UGrVywqM5H917j_0NLhXEF51AVUnko4y4IlcPb/s1600/2014-06-16+15.02.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcMyxcXEX4HJ8mNsjxq0sJzZNvLcG8_-kpRLeUDgNiH01iaeZyvLJRLhYnYFxMWCSiMDLM94f1tuOUONeuSHqFUzotdgY57DM-3_Wy0UGrVywqM5H917j_0NLhXEF51AVUnko4y4IlcPb/s1600/2014-06-16+15.02.32.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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No, dad, you listen now, imma make it up to you, promise!!<br />
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But lets start with some reverse guilt tripping first...<br />
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Hey Dad, remember that time you and mum happily posed in Venice while I was being eaten alive by pigeons?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQwUE2TANQFkccUUwwJWA4CrkDUj2pyywonaUPvTpLJilQPyKng-cIyJATAeRqpiQeOmMMg91bc9CWZaXPj0WJTjGhf1FJbD6wpE-8IBp4MP_ES7XJ1kSfPY4vw0zPtSAET4szohy_bFw/s1600/photo+ee1+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQwUE2TANQFkccUUwwJWA4CrkDUj2pyywonaUPvTpLJilQPyKng-cIyJATAeRqpiQeOmMMg91bc9CWZaXPj0WJTjGhf1FJbD6wpE-8IBp4MP_ES7XJ1kSfPY4vw0zPtSAET4szohy_bFw/s1600/photo+ee1+(1).JPG" height="640" width="514" /></a></div>
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yeah.... that wasn't very nice now was it?!<br />
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But it's ok, I survived what could have forever been remembered as the poor man's Hitchcock disaster and can thus move on to wish you a Happy Father's Day which you wholeheartedly deserve for all the reasons I am about to list below (as well as provide photographic evidence for)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">HAPPY FATHER'S DAY DAD AND THANK YOU...</span></b></div>
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<li>FOR SCHOOLING ME IN ALL THINGS GREAT MUSIC</li>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">...AND THE GROOVY DANCE MOVES TO GO WITH IT...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKR4gTcbBR56mz-EgnD6TQc-ShhJTajPy7PWZtVVa92nyGAv4yXb9XLPRhUUKoC8DsaV_AWSkjms7td79PRs12l00ZjVisDrD-KnbR0x8qCEx6zHhioGIvKUuYE1LYuLLzAxaT445SlRu/s1600/2014-06-16+15.22.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKR4gTcbBR56mz-EgnD6TQc-ShhJTajPy7PWZtVVa92nyGAv4yXb9XLPRhUUKoC8DsaV_AWSkjms7td79PRs12l00ZjVisDrD-KnbR0x8qCEx6zHhioGIvKUuYE1LYuLLzAxaT445SlRu/s1600/2014-06-16+15.22.26.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilN_xRR2qii4IG0iu1a926pUFeCpZ74slmPFH9vXvU5npvDHv4uBMeR9i2QHEs-UqShOoHeGJbFrJXbcyOefar78ET5ITlJSZT3DRv3gIL0L4aq3GR_bUyLIZbR8Hz9tMmApRCAjHZg566/s1600/2014-06-16+15.22.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilN_xRR2qii4IG0iu1a926pUFeCpZ74slmPFH9vXvU5npvDHv4uBMeR9i2QHEs-UqShOoHeGJbFrJXbcyOefar78ET5ITlJSZT3DRv3gIL0L4aq3GR_bUyLIZbR8Hz9tMmApRCAjHZg566/s1600/2014-06-16+15.22.47.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;">THANK YOU FOR LOVING ME AS A BABY, DESPITE LOOKING LIKE THIS </li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIojlrgAMSpTKYL1UvHKZgNf7YhyFe_JO3Yqglrcsgw-Q9tsRXK1-jYRS0S8ppkvUCgu26K01vHZQxhspjJZ-BvLNPjykxwpnkIGpYbrH1MgnO6F3skiXRs0QTEk0glnAVxRHdSl72aos/s1600/2014-06-16+15.15.09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIojlrgAMSpTKYL1UvHKZgNf7YhyFe_JO3Yqglrcsgw-Q9tsRXK1-jYRS0S8ppkvUCgu26K01vHZQxhspjJZ-BvLNPjykxwpnkIGpYbrH1MgnO6F3skiXRs0QTEk0glnAVxRHdSl72aos/s1600/2014-06-16+15.15.09.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1GdRTX8M_9nRgwLo-3Pbf-Dns3xXet0t_mTND2F_PIRVxV5Qfuq0MuRLqylrK9UocNc57ZT1nqGi4kcgh-hGJp_XGQ-5qpehdFiCT4Ria2ezSPWBUfXKI0if6DGe69FSQHghKEW7VkaV/s1600/2014-06-16+15.17.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1GdRTX8M_9nRgwLo-3Pbf-Dns3xXet0t_mTND2F_PIRVxV5Qfuq0MuRLqylrK9UocNc57ZT1nqGi4kcgh-hGJp_XGQ-5qpehdFiCT4Ria2ezSPWBUfXKI0if6DGe69FSQHghKEW7VkaV/s1600/2014-06-16+15.17.07.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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I bet you loved it when people said I looked just like you...</div>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;">AND THANK YOU FOR NOT LETTING ME STARVE (, despite aforementioned hideousness )</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfzOutMVwGf3voUg54ro3qdFXjI-gYcng_o44cbglWtkCSdhjFG8I_sNedBLibu5itR1g2TtUXhkRkwsuHo99Cz8ZmZURIEhGP2DM6Z6E3crD1g7l21rjXZFZq7ZbOPBr4Br16x8TCBwe/s1600/2014-06-16+15.10.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfzOutMVwGf3voUg54ro3qdFXjI-gYcng_o44cbglWtkCSdhjFG8I_sNedBLibu5itR1g2TtUXhkRkwsuHo99Cz8ZmZURIEhGP2DM6Z6E3crD1g7l21rjXZFZq7ZbOPBr4Br16x8TCBwe/s1600/2014-06-16+15.10.07.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><3</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWQr1UlN-OzAPyhpb6Jxugu92MPX_M4Mp3Gzm8ndesklDv8OBwGtb4HHPzUiyq19a070lU8eXDMwFWRlq3p702oliYYICBecZBepz3hWMYUZuby7qbQbEtCHrajWYDvtiMgCae-Tl1w9V/s1600/2014-06-16+15.08.51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWQr1UlN-OzAPyhpb6Jxugu92MPX_M4Mp3Gzm8ndesklDv8OBwGtb4HHPzUiyq19a070lU8eXDMwFWRlq3p702oliYYICBecZBepz3hWMYUZuby7qbQbEtCHrajWYDvtiMgCae-Tl1w9V/s1600/2014-06-16+15.08.51.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME TO BE SILLY, HAVE FUN AND NOT TAKE MYSELF TOO SERIOUSLY.</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQL3E64ajJLjPb1ncU06O3l8GrmxVrU7M_7cqRWyc1u_i0TIpoxPgXpWTC9oY2FQMsQ67S-Ipp3pkEGrzQkG2LBL-je7Xnigdl4UIP7rxu3cKpNLeX7jVgkUA81JSuNNp_cenfMu94BAn/s1600/2014-06-16+15.02.52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQL3E64ajJLjPb1ncU06O3l8GrmxVrU7M_7cqRWyc1u_i0TIpoxPgXpWTC9oY2FQMsQ67S-Ipp3pkEGrzQkG2LBL-je7Xnigdl4UIP7rxu3cKpNLeX7jVgkUA81JSuNNp_cenfMu94BAn/s1600/2014-06-16+15.02.52.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvxlmRx_Q365DDaG8g4FaZdLvaqYWYNq3LHO-GEExqGeEFUylcgZq6XjyXlAmj72BKVzP1fUzpVkOqD54hjPjgkgc-7U6N5B1R0mtPdHqF2gDRuUqLJ1Taz9U5GoeHp9y1kaC_B3w1VNb/s1600/2014-06-16+15.26.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvxlmRx_Q365DDaG8g4FaZdLvaqYWYNq3LHO-GEExqGeEFUylcgZq6XjyXlAmj72BKVzP1fUzpVkOqD54hjPjgkgc-7U6N5B1R0mtPdHqF2gDRuUqLJ1Taz9U5GoeHp9y1kaC_B3w1VNb/s1600/2014-06-16+15.26.33.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrdu-3bs9YrLVc00dEVehCJNssVhjGBmVVwg62IY7fODiyjd-GGWGXfK2g81P9D0Us0r_uWFlLYOjQ3qR2wBo8-4AV4RQJm8aVEPlVTRFPLkF-lBwHUrTtBskNbk8TGWanuedYZx9LZgZ/s1600/2014-06-16+15.02.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrdu-3bs9YrLVc00dEVehCJNssVhjGBmVVwg62IY7fODiyjd-GGWGXfK2g81P9D0Us0r_uWFlLYOjQ3qR2wBo8-4AV4RQJm8aVEPlVTRFPLkF-lBwHUrTtBskNbk8TGWanuedYZx9LZgZ/s1600/2014-06-16+15.02.41.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was chubbahontas...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THANK YOU FOR SETTING AN EXAMPLE OR TWO ABOUT ACCESSORISING</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeoQ1F-UYI1bXhMzum8sWFX5GDRv4zP2WIDiQVnpE6HEFt66EO_24SDvs-00JstpJT09ow7DYRqKnfJHE11ko0CafAyaDZrK-uQcwt1ORzUOLoacSrf9u_I__6MMMMToMwBDkPvexniIKS/s1600/2014-06-16+15.14.24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeoQ1F-UYI1bXhMzum8sWFX5GDRv4zP2WIDiQVnpE6HEFt66EO_24SDvs-00JstpJT09ow7DYRqKnfJHE11ko0CafAyaDZrK-uQcwt1ORzUOLoacSrf9u_I__6MMMMToMwBDkPvexniIKS/s1600/2014-06-16+15.14.24.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSYkq4tguadr7rDs75Ct__4ieoeqxOKJbEmt-b8RsbJG4MUCLzJj859hO6jgf-8l-XitJojwjZ65ZAnXwggEPnrBtPV-DR2UDMW5Bdqc9nKo2QE3AarHFTGmOA0jwvImm4fE0YDGsBxcMb/s1600/2014-06-16+15.25.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSYkq4tguadr7rDs75Ct__4ieoeqxOKJbEmt-b8RsbJG4MUCLzJj859hO6jgf-8l-XitJojwjZ65ZAnXwggEPnrBtPV-DR2UDMW5Bdqc9nKo2QE3AarHFTGmOA0jwvImm4fE0YDGsBxcMb/s1600/2014-06-16+15.25.00.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmivPmrhmDKftWrr9Du9UGCaFOGy5WVHzV-TZC1yZQ0mR_-cLYyAnNcaBchmw2zSNs7Er41Eib6W3xlf7GscdVk2ye8XJKkRK83lp8hjIYcu2IF20yFJyIoJHUygxpKGOnHAyKtDD7L8NK/s1600/2014-06-16+15.03.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmivPmrhmDKftWrr9Du9UGCaFOGy5WVHzV-TZC1yZQ0mR_-cLYyAnNcaBchmw2zSNs7Er41Eib6W3xlf7GscdVk2ye8XJKkRK83lp8hjIYcu2IF20yFJyIoJHUygxpKGOnHAyKtDD7L8NK/s1600/2014-06-16+15.03.17.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
...although I am NOT thankful about the way your knack for accessorising translated in children-wear ...</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70arg08ba__3Z-xD8sFwKXiaIxAQEBRafyCuvBjduJdmBDChfFc566PXjfsDbb0yJxNkJJ7GRsLmW722iL1Mzo37gG-iCEb0q2UH840b6nyIvKWYSIm_Sqb7EkraEAOHnH6LUBai4sWaS/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70arg08ba__3Z-xD8sFwKXiaIxAQEBRafyCuvBjduJdmBDChfFc566PXjfsDbb0yJxNkJJ7GRsLmW722iL1Mzo37gG-iCEb0q2UH840b6nyIvKWYSIm_Sqb7EkraEAOHnH6LUBai4sWaS/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG" height="640" width="554" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Dyke Economou</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqavtJw3O7pBAvNwQDWifVYfkIg00OP4v8t1KjE3yJL8HEfXiTGf7idNCrb8BSyz-1M_QwFwE4UyAQD11ufiul5KKjV56t68zqBsJj3iI7fm_8sKAq5AGtj6QaVT3XIMOBhtxMWLgKemRP/s1600/2014-06-16+15.11.27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqavtJw3O7pBAvNwQDWifVYfkIg00OP4v8t1KjE3yJL8HEfXiTGf7idNCrb8BSyz-1M_QwFwE4UyAQD11ufiul5KKjV56t68zqBsJj3iI7fm_8sKAq5AGtj6QaVT3XIMOBhtxMWLgKemRP/s1600/2014-06-16+15.11.27.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> thank you for capturing this fetching ensemble on camera and an even bigger thank you to the little girl next to me, for providing some obvious contrast between normal VS overstuffed piglet in a striped onesie and pink tights...</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO THANK YOU FOR OUTGROWING CERTAIN LOOKS (halleluja's all around)</li>
</ul>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bTe79Z1cZB8TZa9eAHroiXEI4HlU0kBlIBIIEWhIxifGWS-7cx9gutq2kIJihLXRfnZsBe3KasnDwGxAO8kBo9KosL4CKPjhdtGpXxTIhi_wZtIenglJUpe_Jgab3YwnccfKau5O7LRX/s1600/2014-06-16+15.22.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bTe79Z1cZB8TZa9eAHroiXEI4HlU0kBlIBIIEWhIxifGWS-7cx9gutq2kIJihLXRfnZsBe3KasnDwGxAO8kBo9KosL4CKPjhdtGpXxTIhi_wZtIenglJUpe_Jgab3YwnccfKau5O7LRX/s1600/2014-06-16+15.22.00.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The meanest kagouras around</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE1_FxIhUQobnmvo1JgLVEVtdbftneMkraVk8WCqNPeTr0YjQdCM4pQhvQAuNnoCsC8nJA49rdEVE_rV1vhP86XeLJ2EtwYkQSsJHb-0gdMr6D2obquJxWY00QUk_K27LP3MRnFGVObOn/s1600/2014-06-16+15.13.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE1_FxIhUQobnmvo1JgLVEVtdbftneMkraVk8WCqNPeTr0YjQdCM4pQhvQAuNnoCsC8nJA49rdEVE_rV1vhP86XeLJ2EtwYkQSsJHb-0gdMr6D2obquJxWY00QUk_K27LP3MRnFGVObOn/s1600/2014-06-16+15.13.30.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME HOW TO POSE LIKE A PRO</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71cHv24jZtNVBZ76LKL86q8a7YdlYzGlV6ljQS3dK2-rcglFT70leATcTKuQ6DqBgAmDiwAvY0pjjPnn_cyG7YEKLDzDg5d54IfsuGFEynVOk0zweX4EYqPBq4wNkKZOlBfBhmsZ9HGQb/s1600/photo+4+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71cHv24jZtNVBZ76LKL86q8a7YdlYzGlV6ljQS3dK2-rcglFT70leATcTKuQ6DqBgAmDiwAvY0pjjPnn_cyG7YEKLDzDg5d54IfsuGFEynVOk0zweX4EYqPBq4wNkKZOlBfBhmsZ9HGQb/s1600/photo+4+(1).JPG" height="640" width="630" /></a></div>
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<div>
...an area in which you admittedly had some pretty strong in-house competition...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRf6Xy5QcIU8AeIylvkTPT1P8QkL3FoXJtf3I2KsniZ-oFnXQoMS4JvdPqpAo2D4a3psrivY1InQS0gnwdzHB-M7-XXvDBnuc3GfPiwXZBsdM8bqPLHHg1vPA0pChKSZfcdhW5LT5bTPZx/s1600/2014-06-16+15.13.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRf6Xy5QcIU8AeIylvkTPT1P8QkL3FoXJtf3I2KsniZ-oFnXQoMS4JvdPqpAo2D4a3psrivY1InQS0gnwdzHB-M7-XXvDBnuc3GfPiwXZBsdM8bqPLHHg1vPA0pChKSZfcdhW5LT5bTPZx/s1600/2014-06-16+15.13.10.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">can you say awkward phase?<br />
<br />
"smile"<br />
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>"THANK YOU" FOR PASSING DOWN YOUR EYEBROWS (along with most of your face...)</li>
</ul>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>BUT ALSO, THANK YOU FOR DECIDING TO PROCREATE WITH THIS GENETIC GEM!!</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvQeUpX0mWISwsbf-ax54ivSLstEH74rSn9ZLH8XY-fJi8QEoe5ytu6BGE0e165a-v-80fQ3sdZbrElKFDg_YoQQQ8JdkowEMX4KMI1THb3amaBtHKyINEDKqn2TBFv91dGLnefFTYQDX/s1600/2014-06-16+15.15.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvQeUpX0mWISwsbf-ax54ivSLstEH74rSn9ZLH8XY-fJi8QEoe5ytu6BGE0e165a-v-80fQ3sdZbrElKFDg_YoQQQ8JdkowEMX4KMI1THb3amaBtHKyINEDKqn2TBFv91dGLnefFTYQDX/s1600/2014-06-16+15.15.30.jpg" height="640" width="476" /></a></div>
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<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>MORE THAN ANYTHING, (soppy bit), THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS HANGING OUT WITH ME NO MATTER HOW SMALL, STROPPY, TEENAGE-Y OR NEGLECTFUL OF MY PHONE I'VE BEEN... AND THANK YOU FOR NOT ONCE MAKING ME FEEL LIKE YOU'RE NOT ENJOYING MY COMPANY TOO (Let's exclude Finlandgate...)</li>
</ul>
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'till next year ...</div>
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xxxxxx</div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-55733541899854745912014-03-19T16:49:00.001+00:002014-03-20T17:30:04.805+00:00ACUTE SELF-DEPRECATIONITIS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://stylisedmonologue.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">A stylisedmonologue overspill:</a></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">At the tender age of six, I got labeled a ‘bohemian child’ by my favourite teacher of all time. My creative streak and </span>penchant for mischief earned me the highest spot on her pedestal of students. During a teacher-parent meeting (my most dreaded occurrences of all time) my parents expressed their concern regarding my absolute resistance to let numbers and their bizarre incestuous multiplying ways penetrate my young brain. Words made sense, numbers didn’t (I have since developed a theory that I am dysnumeral - and, evidently, a wordsmith – ) and they bored me to death. My six year old brain, not unlike my 26 year old one, deemed maths unnecessary for my particular lifestyle of choice (what a knobby thing to say, at six especially) and therefore discarded it from the mental list of things I would ever care to learn. My parents were not only exasperated by the fact that they wasted their time trying to get their sole offspring to comprehend the notion of 1+1=2 while it (I) looked back at them with blank stares, but they also feared that this lack of mathematical basis would shatter my confidence in the next few, inevitably numerical, years of secondary school. They were right. That’s exactly what happened.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">While being the artistic child that’s far more interested in putting on school plays and writing up imaginative stories was all the rage at my primary school, my new ‘grown up’ learning camp had a strict policy of feeding us information that we had to swallow intact and unquestioned, only to then vomit it all up on an exam paper. Learning to understand things was irrelevant to them. Having our own opinions on things was just plain unacceptable. Being creative or imaginative were borderline offences and I once got punished for rapping a prayer. R</span>apping could have been my true calling, now I'll never now.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">From the ages of eleven to eighteen, I slowly saw my confidence slipping away from me. This is not entirely a bad thing. I developed self-sarcasm which, trust me, is a double ended sword. On the one side, it's given me a fairly sharp sense of humour and the ability to not take myself seriously which makes me, not a knob. On the other side, hara-kiri. Unfortunately you occasionally encounter people who don’t understand sarcasm, self or otherwise, and will think that there’s nothing about you that is, in fact, serious. </span>(I'm about to go deep for like, one minute, CAN YOU HANDLE IT? Let's go) <span lang="EN-US">The problem with being pigeonholed a bad student is that, despite not quite realising it at the time, it makes you start doubting your abilities. So you joke about shortcoming you don't even have in order to prevent someone else finding them out for themselves. (But they don't exist, so they wouldn't find them out, so you're stupid. I am mostly talking about myself by the way, don't get offended. Also, I'm not stupid). I realised this started getting worse when I became a 'real adult' (wait, surely that's not actually happened yet?). Having an</span> ignorant friend frivolously house me in the poor work ethic category for no reason other than, I can only assume, based on my own undermining jokes, really struck a chord.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">While complaining about it to my saint of a boyfriend (whom I have in fact worked with and who can vouch I not only work hard and efficiently but I’m also good at team building) (he can vouch that because he wants sex, but also, because it’s true) (parenthesis), he pointed out that every time someone asks me what I do for a living, I flap my hands awkwardly and then trash talk myself. Is it because I think I suck? No. I think I’m good at my job and any job I’ve ever done including being a waitress and writing copy for escorts (excluding that one time I spilled orange juice all over some guy’s crotch – I’m not going to tell you which of the two jobs this happened during). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In the same way I diagnosed myself as dysnumeric, I shall diagnose myself as a sufferer of a rare condition called self-deprecationitis. And lets be honest, self-deprecationitis is basically a residue of the even greater disease(fun fact: I had to leave without finishing my sentence, a whole 24 hours later, I have no idea what this greater disease was going to be but lets assume it was something hilarious with small rays of profound truth shining through). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Like with every disease, imaginary or not, certain things can trigger symptoms. So, in the same way my body shuts down at the sight of an apple, my self-deprecationitis flourishes in nearly all social circumstances (especially the beginning and ending parts of a social gathering where you have to hug, kiss and introduce yourself/hug, kiss and make fake plans with each other) as well the receiving end of compliments (a position I oftentimes find myself at… #knob). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So, in a bid to no longer self sabotage, I decided to fake it. I mean I got really good at it during my last relationship… JK! LOL! HAHA! etc… No, but seriously, I am terrible at faking anything. I think it stems from that one time when I was, like, 7 when my dad asked me if I’d done my homework and I straight up lied about having been assigned none. When my dad persisted, my guilt got the best of me and I mumbled something along the lines of “err… something was written on the blackboard but I’m not sure that it was homework”. And that's when my dad proceeded to ruin my life forever (It’s true, dad, I’ve been meaning to tell you this for YEARS)*** by being really angry at me for lying. “Your punishment is that I will never trust you again” he said while wrath laced his voice and disappointment painted his face. I see what he was doing, he was trying to raise me an honest individual. An overrated quality, if you ask me, which he did managed to forcefully instil into me. 19 years later, and I’m more honest than <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUT5rEU6pqM" target="_blank">Shakira’s hips(but with less of an ability to make a man want tospeak Spa-nish)</a>. I don't lie because I'm terrible at it, not because I don't want to<i>.</i> I don’t even lie on my CV out of fear that I will get caught and end up ugly-crying into the interviewers lap while questioning if she/he will ever trust me again. (You’re paying for therapy, right Dad?) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So faking confidence when you are very confident that you can’t fake anything is hard. (Plus will that make me less funny? Since, you know, I mainly laugh AT me?) BUT I VOW TO DO IT!<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Starting from today, I promise to not put myself down. Not even for the sake of a really great joke (I'm probably lying, but I do promise I will only do it when the joke is exceptional).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And if you are also a victim of Self-deprecationitis, you should do the same!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I WANT <b><u>YOU</u></b>, TO BE NICER TO YOURSELF!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwWrwSbyFkGUcVty_tCB8DJ699HzvTWXtNzSPi5OKYLfRC6sG1DlTraixheLeKBG67Laob4-JCjjTezxXX8a4Nc0t2g4HomP47j-aVxRaP6YRO6RU3sDjTjDs8opUpPoe_aRaEiVQKwg/s1600/e513d7de312103124e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwWrwSbyFkGUcVty_tCB8DJ699HzvTWXtNzSPi5OKYLfRC6sG1DlTraixheLeKBG67Laob4-JCjjTezxXX8a4Nc0t2g4HomP47j-aVxRaP6YRO6RU3sDjTjDs8opUpPoe_aRaEiVQKwg/s1600/e513d7de312103124e.jpg" height="640" width="566" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><b><i>God, I look SE-XY in a top hat</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unlike Jean D'arc (gurrrl was nuts!) we shall shut those doubt-y little voices. Well, maybe not shut them, but reserve them for the people whose humour can take it!<br />
<br />
***I'M JOKING DAD, YOU'RE THE BEST!</div>
</div>
Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-46404637321084759872013-11-28T13:27:00.001+00:002013-12-01T13:16:36.596+00:0017N : Nudism with your dad and a couple of terrorists.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Here’s the thing, being a pre-teen is not fun.
Period. Now add a recently deceased grandfather, a cancer stricken aunt, a nudist beach, a lack of
survival skills, the constant sight of where you came from (aka your father’s
penis) and a couple of members of your country’s most wanted
terrorist group to the mix and you get a slight feel of what the 6<sup>th</sup>
month of the year 1996 was like for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Before I let my intro carry all the
spoilers, let me tell you how it all started. June 1996 was a bleak month for
my maternal family as my grandfather unexpectedly died while my mum’s twin
sister was hospitalised for a type of cancer brought on by a previous two year
long course of chemotherapy. Unable to add a child going through the first
stages of puberty to the list of things she had to deal with, my mother decided that 10 years of marriage should start
paying off and basically handed me over to my father with a verbal note that I
can only assume went a little like this ‘do whatever you want, just don’t
bother me’. My father and I have always had a great relationship and spending
time with each other was a frequent and fun filled happening. Regardless however, the idea of a tete-a-tete holiday over the course of over a week with his little girl dealing with growth pains in the chest area (I mean,
they were minor pains as there was minuscule growth, but you get the feeling), tampons and period cramps for the firs times in life was certainly not
my dad’s idea of a carefree holiday. So he did what every logical human being
would do… contacted a male friend who had long been abandoned by his spouse and
left with a daughter around the same age. George, said friend, used to spend
every summer camping at a beach in the central part of mainland Greece… grand!</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"> My dad and I ventured for some half arsed outdoors shopping which made us the owners of a shitty blue tent and a few other, unbeknown to us, useless accessories and got in the car full of joy and Rolling Stones cassettes to entertain us. A few
out of tune Ruby Tuesday’s and multiple Sympathy with the devil inspired lip
tickling ‘mmmmmmmmm’s’ later we finally arrived at the glorious beach of
‘HILIADOU’. I want to say I was happily strolling towards it but realistically
it was boiling hot and I was carrying pointless camping paraphernalia so the
only child slash teenager in me was most likely already in a state of inner
despair… when I saw IT. A wooden sign, the depiction of all my nightmares.
‘NUDIST BEACH’ I think that was the first time I understood the power of words
as the combination of a mere few letters carried the highest amount of horror I
had yet to experience in real life (given that my grandfather had just died,
you get how shallow a teenager I was). My previously flat chest had recently
turned into a set of puffy nipples (attractive, I know, but that’s what
happens) and well lets just say that I had hair in places I would rather I kept
for myself and not share with a whole beach of people. Before the numbing dread had even had the time to sink in, my dad’s friend and his extremely
brown penis (A sight forever etched in the depths of my innocent brain) came to
greet us and help us carry our stuff to the beach. Following behind him, my
feet sank into the hot sand while I observed the plethora of naked bodies
casually holidaying around us. They were doing normal things like reading and
swimming and playing beach sports but they were doing so naked. You know how in
French films you sometimes get (usually from a child’s point of view) a fantasy
of normalcy but in the nude, accompanied by the music of some generic jewellery
box or the nightmarish tinkly music of funfairs… which then of course blurs out
and becomes normal people perfectly dressed… well that's what it was like, except the last bit never happened, the birthday suit was the only thing en vogue on this land. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">To enhance the feeling of
utter embarrassment, upon arriving to our designated patch of sand, my dad and
I set off to put up our lame excuse of a tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now let me tell you, you know how some families are outdoorsy families?
The kind you see skiing and cycling together in matching gear whenever the
opportunity of a holiday or even a long weekend arises… well that’s not my
family. The little trio that consists of my parents and myself are more the city
strolling, museum browsing, cuisine enthusiast types that considers a weekend
in the countryside an experience of extreme primal survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when we were faced with the massive task
of turning a bulk of blue material into some sort of a shelter, we kind of just
stared at it in despair. I can’t remember the specifics per se but I do
remember we managed to eventually make something vaguely reminiscent
of what the rest of the tents looked like out of ours. To explain how bad it
was, however, a day or so later, when a girl I made friends with asked me which
tent I slept in and I said ‘the worst one on the whole of the beach’ her
instant reaction was ‘oh the blue one that looks like the result of a bomb
explosion’. I’m sure you’ve come across campers before. They are organised
people. They have chemical toilets, snake repellent strings, little fridges
packed with large amounts of small foods, radios, lights, torches, loo roll and
more things that I don’t remember and would probably be unable to even think of
through basic logic and imagination. My dad and I, on the other hand, had
brought… nothing. Except from some SPF 50 sunscreen which my mum probably
forced us to not forget. And although sunscreen is very helpful when it comes
to preventing sunburn and melanomas, it does absolutely nothing to repel
snakes, keep mosquitoes at bay, fill empty stomachs or provide some much needed
light once the sun has bid its goodbyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">The first few days were tough. I have to
admit my prudish inner self did get the best of me and forced me to cover my shame inducing body with a red swimsuit that, of
course, made me stick out like a sore thumb. It was also glaringly obvious that
my prudish side was not inherited by my father who fit right in with the rest of the naked flesh on display. Every night we would lie in our
tent with a little piece of waterproof material separating us from the
freezing night time sand (because we obviously didn’t think to take sleeping
bags, mattresses or anything with us), and every morning we would wake up with
the tent fallen onto us, having assumed the position of our nonexistent
blankets. My dad’s brown penis-ed friend albeit lovely, was not much help. I
don’t blame him, he had his own puberty consumed daughter to deal with.
Mosquitoes and all sorts of creatures feasted on us while we feasted on nothing. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Thankfully, not too far from the beach, was a Tavern, which was basically an oasis
full of clothed people, steady ground, food and air conditioning. One day,
while watching some TV, at the small slice of civilisation the tavern
provided, the annoying tune of breaking news rudely interrupted the bad yet
delightful soap opera I was enjoying. </span>At the time the ‘17<sup>th</sup> of
November’ a Greek terrorist organisation was thriving, killing politicians and prominent members of the
society as well as mere civilians who happened to be at the wrong place at the
wrong minute. It’s not that I didn’t have an acute interest in sociopolitical
happenings… or actually it is, I didn’t. I was far more interested in the
illegitimate daughter of the main character of the soap opera who was about to
deliver the twins of two different fathers that were, of course, each others
arch enemy. Bored to death I overdosed on tzatziki while my dad and
everyone else gathered around the TV stung by interest and intrigue. I drifted
in and out of listening to the news for
a good two hours before I was summoned to return to the beach, for the first
time this wasn’t terrible news.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Upon returning to our tent, that had
obviously deconstructed itself into some sort of bright blue rubbish bag, and before
my dad had the chance to go back to his Adam-minus-the-vine-leaf look, we
noticed a shinny new tent located right next to ours. Surrounding it
masterfully were colourful deck chairs that to our camping amateur eyes
appeared like thrones and a shower appliance that looked high tech enough to
not only rid us of the sand and salt that had accumulated in our hair but
perhaps even wash us of all our sins. Sovereigns of the camping kingdom were two
good natured looking men in their late thirties with scruffy beards, pot bellies and
kind dark eyes. Our expressions must have
been reminiscent of the little matchgirl staring at fancy dinners through
crystal clear yet very dividing windows on an icy Christmas day because for
some unknown reason, the good natured men approached us with utmost sympathy
reflected in their kind eyes. I’m not certain of the conversation that followed but
I’m fairly sure it was just polite words masquerading the pretty clear
subtext that screamed ‘awkward father and daughter duo possessing the
survival skills of a mentally retarded slug have seen each other’s private
parts too many times and are in dire need of a saviour and some snake
repellent”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As the two men assumed much needed roles of mustachio-ed Mother Teresas with a kick ass penchant for all things outdoors living, the best of times began. I must admit that my memory is blurry as to what exactly happened but I know we acquired a constant helping hand when it came to our camping short comings. They put magical and desperately welcome tweaks into our tent managing to finally get it to stand up straight and resist crumbling under the embarrassingly mild elements it was exposed to. Sleeping bags now cuddled us to sleep, while food was regularly consumed and mosquito bites became more and more infrequent. They offered to show us around the area and took us on little boat rides into exotic looking caves. Best of all, they even broke the biggest nudist beach rule for us by allowing us to wear some sort of cover up on the fish boat without being frowned upon. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Eventually the days passed and the time to bid goodbye to the largest amount of human flesh I'd ever seen had come. My dad, my best tan to date, unused clothes, useless camping equipment and myself got into a car and drove to the land of the dressed. I don't remember any goodbyes being said although I'd like to spike my memory into making them tearful. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
Back in Athens, while trying to get used to our flesh being touched by materials and our limbs being constricted into tailored clothing, we told the story of our good Samaritans to anyone willing to listen (lies, we probably shared it with people entirely uninterested too). The mens' names is a vital detail neither my dad nor I recall (although a simple Wikipedia search does help create a shortlist), mainly because in the re-tellings of the story those names got replaced by the seemingly accurate characterisation "Those Good Men".<br />
<br />
Many years later, in the summer of 2003, the memories of the nudist beach were nearly as faded as that aforementioned glorious tan. Well into my teenage years, I was staring at the TV screen while waiting for the dial up Internet to end its little melodic dialling and connect me to my beloved MSN messenger when the breaking news tune abruptly landed on my ear drum. At the time this was a frequent occurrence as some of the members from the '17th of November' had been caught causing a domino effect in finding the rest of the group. The tune this time captured my attention as my interest in sociopolitical events had started to get cultivated mainly by the fact that this all seemed like the end pages of a mystery novel. New members had been found and arrested. On a beach. A nudist beach. The names blared on the screen while a shaky TV reported claimed that pictures of the terrorists would be shown soon. The usually relieving sound of the dial up getting connected no longer interested me as I ignored bleeping windows with MSN friends requesting my attention, all I wanted was to see who these people were. Pictures on the screen. Two mustachio-ed Mother Teresas staring back at me and the rest of Greece as they were convicted for being members of a terrorist organisation. In a cartoon-like manner my eyes tripled in size balancing out my dropped jaw. Regaining the ability to resist gravity, my jaw went back into its place and I ran towards my oblivious dad's office ....<br />
<br />
"The Good Men! The Good Men ARE TERRORISTS!!!!!!!!!!"</div>
</div>
Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-85827224140834671772013-10-30T22:00:00.002+00:002013-10-30T22:10:44.309+00:00The Stylised Guide to Being a Hallow(i)eener. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Growing up in Greece, Halloween seemed like a really exotic thing, people "abroad" got to do. I remember staring at this borderline 'urban legend' occasion happening on the bulky glass screen of our TV ( I would have said flat screen but who am I kidding! Holler mid-twenties, cue to self pity filled sobbing over my FIVE white hairs, but I digress). Every October, while I sat in my boring "winter clothes", children abroad would dress up as witches and skeletons so intimidating that grown ups would bribe them with "candy" to ensure their safety.<br />
Fast forward to 2006, I may have not been a child but I was on British turf freezing my arse off and missing the shit out of those inverted commas snuggly caressing the words Winter Clothes. But I was also in a land where Halloween was real! At the time, I lived in a house of four and a half residents, three and a half out of which found my foreign excitement hilarious, but I was determined to go ALL OUT. I was going to be what I thought was a very original Corpse Bride (which of course Unbeknown to me was a really popular costume) . I bought a white dress which, a flower crown and a lot of face paint for my housemate Hayley to draw what we set out to look like a snake but ended up resembling a penis coming out of my eye. The result was, I thought, marvellous but upon descending our semi's stairs in a "walking down the deadly isle" manner, I stumbled across... a cute fairy, a SEXY witch, an ancient Egyptian woman and someone who just had brown contact lenses in... wait, what?! what's scary about any of that?! And then it dawned on me (I'm fairly sure this discovery does not pale to the penicillin but you know, that's up to your own interpretation) There are Multiple Types of Halloweeners!!!!! (enter horrified emoji here).<br />
<br />
So, without further ado, here to help you sort out your Halloween identity crisis, we present...<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itAOGRiYRLI" target="_blank">click on this, it's a vital link for the smooth progression of this post..</a></i><br />
<br />
<b><u> THE STYLISED GUIDE TO BEING A HALLOWEENER </u></b><br />
<b><u><br /></u></b>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THE SEXY CAT </li>
</ul>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>(the focal point of the outfit is the word SEXY. Cat could be replaced by witch, pumpkin and other variation which my brain is currently failing to retrieve)</i></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPRU4tq9OscBeEsj7HR50oSZaF9J8zwnnOdiE6Bnj96Tc0NygOsVwUK-oyUKAseyKxhs0Bbss9JEujaMiSTv0oVyRvpW3W2jyNMIs4xvTlN-uo2wcSlBl8c4OeAKiSdUjLqt197t88kro/s1600/styliseddialoguesexycat3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPRU4tq9OscBeEsj7HR50oSZaF9J8zwnnOdiE6Bnj96Tc0NygOsVwUK-oyUKAseyKxhs0Bbss9JEujaMiSTv0oVyRvpW3W2jyNMIs4xvTlN-uo2wcSlBl8c4OeAKiSdUjLqt197t88kro/s640/styliseddialoguesexycat3.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Usually, said Halloweener is clad in much less than pictured above and is posing in a slightly more serious manner.<br />
<br />
Like this<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiJxGTX3f7al88TgzLmd17Qx9rK9BBkFK05Vq1XC3WGgGDh94xM2M4m9aGM_fFJ0OTQLnE1PJqtDalmhzz9_3kCvftZTFOatziNnbigg8dzEOybC0kuTYvHzF2bNgKlVar3HQfyxz8ph7/s1600/styaliseddialoguesexycat1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiJxGTX3f7al88TgzLmd17Qx9rK9BBkFK05Vq1XC3WGgGDh94xM2M4m9aGM_fFJ0OTQLnE1PJqtDalmhzz9_3kCvftZTFOatziNnbigg8dzEOybC0kuTYvHzF2bNgKlVar3HQfyxz8ph7/s640/styaliseddialoguesexycat1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
or, this<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mfkFsvOgwDai9qSzMJKPssOISgqQSKhQSwIeBJ1O8fffeZNPZ-wImMCnnX19uTCNbsEQ2NTPYpcqRkpWX49NaJxod7cE1xt83SAH-9-DojsTW8cW1Vz7wIpvpKERty3xsloAsyWNIcmP/s1600/styliseddialoguesexycat2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mfkFsvOgwDai9qSzMJKPssOISgqQSKhQSwIeBJ1O8fffeZNPZ-wImMCnnX19uTCNbsEQ2NTPYpcqRkpWX49NaJxod7cE1xt83SAH-9-DojsTW8cW1Vz7wIpvpKERty3xsloAsyWNIcmP/s640/styliseddialoguesexycat2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
This role applies to you if: you want to be slutty without being judged upon it. Think of the 31st of each October as a free pass for you inner slut.<br />
<br />
For this look you will need: A LOT of eyeliner, a little lipstick, and a small selection of flesh baring clothes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THE SERIOUS ALL-OUTER</li>
</ul>
<div>
<i>(The key word here is SERIOUS. There's no tricking those serious Halloweeners)</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4C4PEO_Lupdip3pKhLONyuVECMrm-3KC7mLLLg3oI3eYytyRJlPLAUlhr42ETjwikOtGryI4C6GARNOQFfKBSaDTL_7wEIlLlo2mlA99gY__-qIHfFN1gW302mm6HbybUZfsvMi9j3r_/s1600/IMG_0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4C4PEO_Lupdip3pKhLONyuVECMrm-3KC7mLLLg3oI3eYytyRJlPLAUlhr42ETjwikOtGryI4C6GARNOQFfKBSaDTL_7wEIlLlo2mlA99gY__-qIHfFN1gW302mm6HbybUZfsvMi9j3r_/s640/IMG_0058.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
If you take Halloween seriously, then this category is for you. Not toying around with extra inches of bosom on show and lack of artistic effort, this halloweener is set out to scare you. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7CpledwcqhxVVmnyJY2JyJ7E90rB-mhhXUc0CjWkRap1JoFAt3d_BCnkgRB8Kx7DafOaV6uOocsD6QJKAClq1f9V5u8A81THCrZ7LLK_Qe7Iiyx2OGS7ZVYcgGoDQd5OsyksDPEWjqQ1R/s1600/IMG_0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7CpledwcqhxVVmnyJY2JyJ7E90rB-mhhXUc0CjWkRap1JoFAt3d_BCnkgRB8Kx7DafOaV6uOocsD6QJKAClq1f9V5u8A81THCrZ7LLK_Qe7Iiyx2OGS7ZVYcgGoDQd5OsyksDPEWjqQ1R/s640/IMG_0062.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
BOO!<br />
<br />
For this look you will need: A LOT of face paint (or just make up as illustrated above), a lot of time and a damn good face cleanser.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THE NO MUSS, NO FUSS-er</li>
</ul>
<div>
<i>(The serious all-outers, arch enemy)</i></div>
</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQ6VL3zgRUNAneboxlMho5PvSxewZDNYiAroqHwapoVwBgIasQv8A7X6ODB33tJLvWifuT6lfJZ55KBC5wWBTcka2F7-0_GpuY0JJBLpIR3Fad3ZrTKjZDOjQ0iyQdJLTuVrHZ26PZQmI/s1600/26277_10150141330330012_5696767_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQ6VL3zgRUNAneboxlMho5PvSxewZDNYiAroqHwapoVwBgIasQv8A7X6ODB33tJLvWifuT6lfJZ55KBC5wWBTcka2F7-0_GpuY0JJBLpIR3Fad3ZrTKjZDOjQ0iyQdJLTuVrHZ26PZQmI/s640/26277_10150141330330012_5696767_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Halloween doesn't excite you the least but you've been invited to some party and your friends have been on your case about dressing up. You just grab the cheapest accessory you can find, chuck it over your normal clothes and once grilled just say, "what? Pandas are scary! I have a rare mental condition that makes me feel like bamboo, nothing is more threatening to bamboo than pandas". Done. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For this look you will need: ANY slightly unconventional head wear/ coloured contact lenses</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>THE ADORABLE VANITY LACKING FUN LOVER</li>
</ul>
<div>
<i>(I am biased towards this kind, as I identify myself with this awesome lot)</i></div>
</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil49Dkn23BagmiLqgjjTJ5B3Q85dupgwzeplPcUFBwkY6g26wZR559FDniLR65ed79zUIiACiB4Vqao6KXGAhpIxxnytBvMOkvOEB8fhv67nlYoDhp7UjW_xaTtlWCy7qlm5ghpcxZ11Hk/s1600/320151_10150771604365012_839645011_20390183_2620907_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil49Dkn23BagmiLqgjjTJ5B3Q85dupgwzeplPcUFBwkY6g26wZR559FDniLR65ed79zUIiACiB4Vqao6KXGAhpIxxnytBvMOkvOEB8fhv67nlYoDhp7UjW_xaTtlWCy7qlm5ghpcxZ11Hk/s640/320151_10150771604365012_839645011_20390183_2620907_n.jpg" width="636" /></a></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
If you think of Halloween as the time to dress ridiculously and have fun behind Maoam Teeth and and a fake moustache then you are my kind of Halloweener. Usually my outfits include drawn on chest hair and a complete inability to grab the bartender's attention which is obviously captivated by the sexy kittens. I pride myself on looking so ridiculous that even my friends get repelled. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My archives are full of disguises that could potentially drive me to eternal spinsterhood, but since I have done well in finding a paramour that appreciates the ridiculousness that Halloween brings out of me (who am I kidding, lets just say call things what they are and admit it's any old Thursday), here are some of my all time favourite costumes. (Deddie Mercury, as witnessed above and below)</div>
<div>
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Glam rock Jesus</div>
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Super Mario's Ghost</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bbsMgYp0N940vYs5akrhfmimPlm4bx42RCpGgy21WBpgnTWCQMjy9LcrBYGZlwmY_7Vyps0Q2Ndmm0eXvknVJ6_Q6XDfZnux-3AVmjEMaSN2c8RplNXPtXwPInp5vK74sEdHHdIkk81H/s1600/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bbsMgYp0N940vYs5akrhfmimPlm4bx42RCpGgy21WBpgnTWCQMjy9LcrBYGZlwmY_7Vyps0Q2Ndmm0eXvknVJ6_Q6XDfZnux-3AVmjEMaSN2c8RplNXPtXwPInp5vK74sEdHHdIkk81H/s640/Untitled.png" width="438" /></a></div>
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Which proved to be very popular with the mummies</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRatGu5tBvRhk9o6arWD5OIjrACQ4dVSATt3oxX-9Ozz4O_Y7l_oqgWFzHAo6EenyhQFlIM30NIKU3JfUemEPnEiRPAQvzqmWNBMmbeqbyieeqZcQ1VR7gBSZ1QUj0LbmWjDr2AqQjuq4O/s1600/148882_492747823342_916002_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRatGu5tBvRhk9o6arWD5OIjrACQ4dVSATt3oxX-9Ozz4O_Y7l_oqgWFzHAo6EenyhQFlIM30NIKU3JfUemEPnEiRPAQvzqmWNBMmbeqbyieeqZcQ1VR7gBSZ1QUj0LbmWjDr2AqQjuq4O/s640/148882_492747823342_916002_n.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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...I can('t) see why</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3VUnC2ggSk40LI5WAigScu9I5Dk9ai7KsECqmkJAwfZKt-0vTBVrX_XIYjecr-p8GAs9LOWCmmReeKEKQnff0QDDOdWSrbokWh7Ha7lCWGB19zz4Uu8Np4jNoZJB43FQ8n2gym8Uh1-b/s1600/73809_492750263342_3850240_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3VUnC2ggSk40LI5WAigScu9I5Dk9ai7KsECqmkJAwfZKt-0vTBVrX_XIYjecr-p8GAs9LOWCmmReeKEKQnff0QDDOdWSrbokWh7Ha7lCWGB19zz4Uu8Np4jNoZJB43FQ8n2gym8Uh1-b/s640/73809_492750263342_3850240_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I am trying to figure out if I was posing in a "sexy way" here *enter vomit noises*</div>
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Yeaaaahhh... I like my facial hair... and holiday appropriate cross dressing apparently!<br />
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For this look you will need: fake moustaches, to squash your vanity and probably some vodka brought from home because no one will notice you are waiting to be served.<br />
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To sum everything up, I will present you with a picture from my first ever Halloween, each of us was a different type of Halloweener. Can you spot which one's which? (DUH!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihM9W6gDrbOxtnRYpXx7wCNIq3Xwhc642HDyhIW5ozhL4Rddv0E7j7uzxXXNe9b1p1d2UWoULqLV4r-ctwzn3rUFNAfJ8vh1H3PwqpXCFmY-kj_8itRzah36jiZdkSDmUpHQU7FlUU4lSw/s1600/007266c2417011e3a62122000ab5bc1b_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihM9W6gDrbOxtnRYpXx7wCNIq3Xwhc642HDyhIW5ozhL4Rddv0E7j7uzxXXNe9b1p1d2UWoULqLV4r-ctwzn3rUFNAfJ8vh1H3PwqpXCFmY-kj_8itRzah36jiZdkSDmUpHQU7FlUU4lSw/s640/007266c2417011e3a62122000ab5bc1b_8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Which type of Halloweener are YOU?!<br />
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Daphne.<br />
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P.S</div>
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(my ultimate Halloween costume,is to be able to grow a penis for one night only to go as THIS - <i>nsfw-</i>)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhfIthxGQPEcIpNe6Q5dIHxNujVvzK0Ki7iK7uCKwI4O4JSmWQ9KOwVzDaa_LkFIGsbeK8heKH3QsJctT5KVNNgh1poUSGInRmzCFMdoh65dhgRJ2wpbB2ekcVpGbuBKqFyyvyQDNWm0g/s1600/AopPmDHCIAASI6O.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhfIthxGQPEcIpNe6Q5dIHxNujVvzK0Ki7iK7uCKwI4O4JSmWQ9KOwVzDaa_LkFIGsbeK8heKH3QsJctT5KVNNgh1poUSGInRmzCFMdoh65dhgRJ2wpbB2ekcVpGbuBKqFyyvyQDNWm0g/s640/AopPmDHCIAASI6O.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-55461807480122664412013-10-21T16:57:00.000+01:002013-10-21T16:59:43.724+01:00The Stylised guide to putting the 'IN' in INSOMNIA.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Put as non dramatically as I possibly can from the land of the constantly awake, insomnia is the David to my Goliath, the Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner, the Lex Luther to my Superman, the Cain to my Abel, those unbeatable pixelated turtles that would never die to my Super Mario. Or, cutting a long story short, my main arch rival. The way I see it, my eyes and brain have some sort of love-hate relationship going on, with the latter occasionally becoming the more prominent of feelings. Brain will bully Eyes (capitalising because I've anthropomorphised them and those are now their names!) to stay open by attacking them with every single anxiety inducing thought I've ever tried to suppress within its chambers.<br />
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To paint you a word picture, this is how insomnia works: You go to sleep, nice and early(ish), get semi comfortable, set an alarm, close your eyes and.... nada. You count sheep, read, watch something, turn the light off, count sheep, turn the light back on, sit up, go get some water, come back, turn the light off, try to sleep, turn the light on, make a hot drink, drink it, look at the clock, panic over the lack of hours to sleep, toss and turn, panic a little more, get up, take INSANE pictures of yourself in an attempt to not think about sleeping... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrGAI5c3ALVDx8XgzlfC38tupkpyr_zOCpaiz2uPmxwA7fcvhPB3NocldoFw4SkNMRHowj-ffQM4mks6vOC7l4PSFDZHlTRYr1bU9QM3OPQHmctNaiReUiNSBQO0oevjWOq6iVRifNGIw/s1600/Photo+on+2011-05-04+at+22.15+%235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrGAI5c3ALVDx8XgzlfC38tupkpyr_zOCpaiz2uPmxwA7fcvhPB3NocldoFw4SkNMRHowj-ffQM4mks6vOC7l4PSFDZHlTRYr1bU9QM3OPQHmctNaiReUiNSBQO0oevjWOq6iVRifNGIw/s640/Photo+on+2011-05-04+at+22.15+%235.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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...then laugh hysterically over said picture for a good fifteen minutes until you realise there's now only three hours left until you have to BE in work, get up in a panic, cut your fringe into something that resembles a misshapen foot that sticks up on the right due to a very persistent cow's lick the existence of which you obviously forgot in your delirious state (in my defence, it was only one time, it was not a big deal and it happens to everyone), give up on getting any rest, have a paddy, cry, have a shower, get dressed, drink coffee which will make you feel both more awake and like you've just been electrocuted, and go about with your day feeling itchy, depressed and bipolar. </div>
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So, what happens if R.E.M to you is more of a band that sings about how everybody hurts sometimes and less of a biological function of the brain, and you really want to avoid your new boyfriend finding you looking like this at 5am?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZUWpsrkGn7zpNvddK5WbC50Lz__kkxCelTZwJ04I2aYnXdX8cXgnpx9O0tvC70oZBt17jT6JGQEimD6tdIqXL_776QDfS5b-58TesztO9PBETW02QMwZd2S3IQnxo0xeVqyzBcUyUg2R6/s1600/a301b7c09c9c4638709e5319a8b937ac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZUWpsrkGn7zpNvddK5WbC50Lz__kkxCelTZwJ04I2aYnXdX8cXgnpx9O0tvC70oZBt17jT6JGQEimD6tdIqXL_776QDfS5b-58TesztO9PBETW02QMwZd2S3IQnxo0xeVqyzBcUyUg2R6/s640/a301b7c09c9c4638709e5319a8b937ac.jpg" width="475" /></a></div>
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(Photographic evidence of real life events.Oh YEAH, new boyfriend is a lucky man!hahahahahaha)</div>
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Without further ado, we hereby present you...<br />
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*drumroll*</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">The Stylised Guide to Putting the "IN" in INSOMNIA. </span></u></b></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Given that here at St.D (get it?!) we're a pretty thoughtful bunch of people (it's just me but we'll tackle schizophrenia on a different day - </span><i style="text-align: left;">future employers, I'm not schizophrenic, hire me! - me too! - and me! - don't forget about me!</i><span style="text-align: left;">) we (I) decided to split the solutions in categories. </span></div>
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<li><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZlqmY2_Ix4" target="_blank">The Medical Approach. [it's a link, click on it]</a></b></li>
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(<i>ok so the link was a bit pointless but lets move on) </i></div>
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This category is for the no-bullshit types. One pill, boom! No moping around, going stir crazy while you're desperately trying to overcome a jetlag that's outstayed its welcome. (call me patronising, but them no bullshit types are usually jet setters!). However, before you jump to the seemingly obvious conclusion of not reading further because this sounds pretty simple, take a moment and listen... other than the blatant Heath Ledger(aka you could die)phenomenon, a generous amount of sleeping pills could enable some highly regretable behaviour. For example, I happen to have an elderly gentleman friend who once decided, after travelling back and forth between the continents, to take a couple of jetlag squashing pills. Happy in the notion that he would soon be sound asleep, he decided to text myself and a mutual friend in order to wish us something along the lines of 'goodnight'. However, being high on said pills, he misspelled 'goodnight' into a fairly long sentence about how he would allow another mutual acquaintance to perform some rather unorthodox sexual stuff to him if she put the right price tag on the act. Thankfully, as good friends, all we did was type "hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha" a carpel tunnel inducing amount of times, screenshoot the shit out of the textual exchange and bring it up in conversation on a daily basis. Unable to erase our memories, the elderly gentleman has learnt his lesson and will now only try to combat insomnia with ineffective concoctions of several 'sleepy time' teas.<br />
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<li><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1w3Lm_gu-ZY" target="_blank">The Spiritual Approach. [it's another link, click on it]</a></b></li>
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I don't really know how to deal with you lot. Pray, meditate, keep a vow of silence. Send feedback.<br />
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<li><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuJQSAiODqI" target="_blank">The Stay Fashionable Approach [surely you know the drill with all the links by now,right]</a></b></li>
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Despite earning the largest chunk of my bonsai income through fashion writing for multiple publication that have bought my claim that I know my shit, I can hereby confess that the origins of most trends are to me as foreign as a plate of live edible squid* (*or, to be less of a knob, very foreign). What I do know however is that the fashion world seemed to be feeling a bit lethargic a few seasons ago and as a result unleashed a plethora of silky sleepwear that got branded as daywear. And while fashion critics across the world praised Sophia Coppola's daring pyjama clad appearance at the Met Gala, us insomniacs witnessed the event through slanted, sleep deprived eyes and between yawns managed to breathe a sigh of relief. Finally! Falling asleep in public after days and nights of exhaustion has become fashionable.<br />
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And while Sophia (we're totally on a first name basis) opted for a slinky Mark Jacobs design, H&M got a bit of a Marni bedtime version and most fashionistas paid their dues(cash)to Zara variations of the aforementioned design, we decided to take it a step forward and combine fading trends with brand new ones. Pyjama, meet pastels and flannel. This heartbroken hedgehog adorned ensemble has got our firm seal of approval. So for future reference, fellow insomniacs, BE PREPARED. Don't miss the chance to catch those hard to come by zzz's whenever they enter your proximity.<br />
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Whether it's while you're shopping :</li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQrjkZmBl1reir1t2ItGR9Y5wMKrzIWnylXxi_F_8ntv11ZBPozyzjtAVlSgIFHo-p-Gz3KAV1uEYdwYY-TujP73QZlbsJaDJAyGTWIwRSHREuDSGojhQcyxlTVFS4xW1_AAKfuhNky_7/s1600/SAM_0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQrjkZmBl1reir1t2ItGR9Y5wMKrzIWnylXxi_F_8ntv11ZBPozyzjtAVlSgIFHo-p-Gz3KAV1uEYdwYY-TujP73QZlbsJaDJAyGTWIwRSHREuDSGojhQcyxlTVFS4xW1_AAKfuhNky_7/s640/SAM_0031.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>while you're working: </li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vH_CajCI6TjvwLEftVVqEXdy2bDUc1wQhh6FmMgchPUoZLoYxloFul8Oc8xbjnk3LDufv8Wt10p0SCK4whiVtLazF9qGTBRy2OaVZfqriiwmAb4hRjSZLvIgBDloYaI-iNhQQwTNhx9V/s1600/SAM_0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vH_CajCI6TjvwLEftVVqEXdy2bDUc1wQhh6FmMgchPUoZLoYxloFul8Oc8xbjnk3LDufv8Wt10p0SCK4whiVtLazF9qGTBRy2OaVZfqriiwmAb4hRjSZLvIgBDloYaI-iNhQQwTNhx9V/s640/SAM_0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jHUoqZMxicCFpLsME2rDG0CsFL_xWZ7jrB3pbLMbc61CWto-6YnKAYMybxARyGgz9N9dVJTJ9M90HCPlpROUjW1vwmf5W8gjoe5isUSBY9VQM8yNUEgWs_4iMtHXIOwWAEry3f1B4nuv/s1600/SAM_0056+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jHUoqZMxicCFpLsME2rDG0CsFL_xWZ7jrB3pbLMbc61CWto-6YnKAYMybxARyGgz9N9dVJTJ9M90HCPlpROUjW1vwmf5W8gjoe5isUSBY9VQM8yNUEgWs_4iMtHXIOwWAEry3f1B4nuv/s640/SAM_0056+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>while you're taking some culture in:</li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nmfKYVjOEN_sp-DMqCJIR90oS_LgfOOJUge7Oq__coSo6fCXGlpep4pIcUOwD3P-Q3hRG3ZV3_txN3ADGgAJUsbYDF_0Hu1kbgcONTlPbTshg9i5-Z60RjXI7lwjkZKLP8E2SW3Dl_n1/s1600/IMG_0011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nmfKYVjOEN_sp-DMqCJIR90oS_LgfOOJUge7Oq__coSo6fCXGlpep4pIcUOwD3P-Q3hRG3ZV3_txN3ADGgAJUsbYDF_0Hu1kbgcONTlPbTshg9i5-Z60RjXI7lwjkZKLP8E2SW3Dl_n1/s640/IMG_0011.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>while you're eating with friends: </li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3yqvPCrkm44qRV_2R8MUbwwZMJ5B2Y-6xYUNphp9QtDtlXmpx2OFFku_mAxwN4oKXGwIJXtYULaqwDtBxOcvMDoEsS8hMwVNsJdaZXN9S9Ah41ietA1EvF1vbPcDyTyZcLsN5YawQhy32/s1600/IMG_0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3yqvPCrkm44qRV_2R8MUbwwZMJ5B2Y-6xYUNphp9QtDtlXmpx2OFFku_mAxwN4oKXGwIJXtYULaqwDtBxOcvMDoEsS8hMwVNsJdaZXN9S9Ah41ietA1EvF1vbPcDyTyZcLsN5YawQhy32/s640/IMG_0019.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>and even when you're indulging in a bit of an instagram narcissism </li>
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#WIWT</div>
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You're welcome and Bonne Nuit </div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-39019739368261323352013-06-20T05:50:00.000+01:002013-06-20T06:03:52.937+01:00Daphne And The Deadly Chavs. (defrosted and reheated)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>A year or so ago I was asked by a friend to write a story for his blog. I recently saw my old housemate and while reminiscing about the good old days of too much afternoon champagne and not much sensibility (lets pretend any of this has changed...) it dawned on me that I haven't shared it on this Blog. </i><br />
<i>So, voila reheated and ready for you, my first ever encounter with British criminals.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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DAPHNE AND THE DEADLY CHAV.<i> </i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Most people who don’t know me, try to place
my accent. American? Irish? Do I hear… Liverpool? No, no you don’t, get your
ears cleaned and never talk to me again. My accent is a hybrid actually, I had
an Australian teacher, a love for American TV, British music idols, many
English friends and a Greek family and upbringing. <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">Before we start with my story, let me clarify this, I now
understand the British culture, I have adapted. I can’t stop myself from saying
please and thank you like my life depends on it (and</span> while it’s all the
rage here, in Greece waiters think I have OCD), I put milk in my tea and I
almost accept that the one and only thing y’all eat EVERYTIME there’s any sort
of an occasion is a roast dinner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Rewind six years, however, and none of this
made sense to me. My accent was as Greek as it gets, my skin had a hint of the
Mediterranean (as in tanned not hairy, thank you very much) and my knowledge of
all things British could be entirely summarized in the sentence: ‘you like fish
and chips and to get drrrrrrrrrunk, no?’. Adding insult to injury, I lived in
the tiny posh slash chavtastic slash brilliant town (or maybe city because of
some cathedral rule?) of Winchester in a house of four and a half residents,
three and a half of which had not socialized with many foreign people before.
One housemate actually, although good natured, never quite grasped that I was
human. She referred to me as ‘The Greek’, described me to others as ‘a Greek’
and pretty much pictured me as a cat with a Greek flag print on my fur. When,
in the summer, she came to Greece (to make sure it wasn’t an imaginary country,
perhaps) she literally ate exclusively chips and bread for two whole weeks. She
then died of constipation. No, sorry, she didn’t, that was a terrible joke. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The story I was asked to tell is about Chavs. As I mentioned, Winchester
can be quite chavy, especially the parts of it students can afford to chill at.
And what to you looks like a chav, to the untrained Greek eye is just a guy who
must go to the gym a lot and is in dire need of a dental hygiene lecture and a
shampoo bottle. So, when my half a housemate, Will, came into our house terrified
one evening because ‘chavs’ had bullied him, I was baffled to say the least.
Will looked at me like the ignorant token foreigner I was. ‘Do you not know
about Chavs?’ ‘No’ I said, semi-ashamed. At this point, Hayley butted into our
conversation ‘they’re the people with the traksuits and the big earrings’. Oh
yeah, I had seen them. ‘They are horrible’ Will and Hayley chanted in unison
(not really, but it would have been entertaining). They looked at me in the
eyes and laid the horrific facts out. ‘They will shout things at you’. ‘Never
look at them’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Especially not if they
talk to you’. ‘And never EVER talk back to them’. ‘ESPECIALLY with your
accent’. ‘They steal and spit’. ‘They killed a man outside Tescos the other day
because he told them to be quiet’. It suddenly all made sense… they don’t go to
the gym a lot, they wear tracksuits to run faster and the rotten teeth are from
all the spitting and OH MY GOD their hair is dirty because they don’t have time
to wash it in between murders!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Fast forward two chav induced nightmare
filled days, Hayley offers to give me a lift to the one stop. The little drive
goes smoothly. We listen to two verses of a song and the beginning of a bad
Fearne Cotton joke and we’re there. The glorious one stop. I get out of the
car, unaware of what is to come. Take two steps. Then I see them. Trainers,
tracksuits, bad teeth, bulldog, shit hair. My internal monologue goes into
overdrive. ‘don’t look at them, don’t look at them, not with your accent, not
with your accent, wait… they can’t SEE my accent, shhhh just don’t look, just
do…’ ‘MISS?! MISS?!’ I hear a voice through two brown broken teeth. ‘shit,
shit, shit, SHIT, I’m going to be the man at tescos’. Despite trying not to, I
look up. They are actually talking to me. I can see the headlines ‘Chavs murder
foreign girl after she rolled her ‘r’s at them’. They look as threatening as I
expected. Short, angry. I turn around and look at Hayley with terror! Hayley is
unphazed, she probably hasn’t noticed THE CHAVS, I think. I run towards the car
keeping my composure. They talk to me again ‘Miss, Miss will you...’ That’s it,
their voices trigger my street wise defense mechanism, unable to control it, a
scream escapes my vocal chords<s> </s>‘CRIMINALS!! THE CRIMINALS SPOKE TO
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE’. I get in the car shaking. Hayley looks at me like
blankly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I expect her to share my panic
and drive away in full speed. Instead, she takes a moment to realize what has
just happened and wets herself ‘you absolute moron!! They are eight year old
kids in tracksuits, walking their dog’. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNKh4iWG09i_GxqdoW0aDedIDllQnuLfrtDjqGqnILZjxEYeD__1Uzou1i6CzYS1K1HZvvGnbCk5I1qh3MPsbaPVUR44VRAwSCsGtTRmsntmxyPJuXU-GyTEZSa1Ye_jKlf4U9HoGrEoS/s1600/226402_11154990011_9576_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNKh4iWG09i_GxqdoW0aDedIDllQnuLfrtDjqGqnILZjxEYeD__1Uzou1i6CzYS1K1HZvvGnbCk5I1qh3MPsbaPVUR44VRAwSCsGtTRmsntmxyPJuXU-GyTEZSa1Ye_jKlf4U9HoGrEoS/s1600/226402_11154990011_9576_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The above picture was taken approximately 15minutes after the terrifying incident. October 2006.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-23285660424952743942013-06-14T18:02:00.002+01:002013-06-14T22:56:57.023+01:00The Stylized Guide to Breaking Up.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I don't mean to be a cynic but I have little faith in relationships. Basically, they always seems to go a bit like this.<br />
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Breaking up sucks. Simply and to the point, here's a list of things I'd rather be subjected to:<br />
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- Eating my body weight in apples (I'm allergic to apples)</div>
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- Have a Richard Gere film Marathon (I hate Richard Gere) </div>
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- Ouzo induced hangovers (The absolute worst)</div>
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- The full body itchiness you get after pulling all-nighters</div>
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- Being stark naked in public (but maybe not on fat days)</div>
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- Sinusitis </div>
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- Maths... (<i>I took it too far, give me a break up over maths any time!)</i></div>
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Now, I think that all break ups fall under the rather large umbrella of 'awkward, unpleasant, painful social situation'. I have personally experienced two spectrums of the above collection of undesired feelings. In the few break ups I have experienced in my life, I have been either awkward, unpleasant and painful but in a way, a relief</div>
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(what a visual representation of emotional relief looks like in my head)<br />
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or awkwardly, unpleasantly, painfully devastated. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCDkErgSJu6ZW8KIP6omjAQlfjV6jx5VpBu-iuRCIQmkt0cI2cgauVKSdoAg7zNjXYVHqqA7Knv9SopaccIAK6EEdumZdXPlDNdQxYAbj3dnfo1WUGc6D394rWhLY5lDOYm5U-SFaA7qA1/s1600/19942_374856370011_173341_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCDkErgSJu6ZW8KIP6omjAQlfjV6jx5VpBu-iuRCIQmkt0cI2cgauVKSdoAg7zNjXYVHqqA7Knv9SopaccIAK6EEdumZdXPlDNdQxYAbj3dnfo1WUGc6D394rWhLY5lDOYm5U-SFaA7qA1/s640/19942_374856370011_173341_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm going to come out and say it, I got dumped A LOT when I was in school. I'm not entirely sure what the reason was but I have a hunch it had something to do with the fact that I would get intimidated by beautiful boys and therefore not really talk to them for the entire duration of our 1-3 month long relationships. This kind of happened twice, one was a summer fling that commenced in the summer of 2003 during the ever so promising night of the August full moon (stuff right out of a shit chick flick can take a toll on the unprotected teenage heart), once the summer was over and before our tans had even had the chance to fade, the guy just stopped talking to me altogether (the lack of proper ending, I'm pretty sure, TECHNICALLY, still makes us a couple, so this is an apology to all of my boyfriends of the past 10 years for unknowingly two timing you, sorry guys!).<br />
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The next guy to dump me, genuinely had every right to. He intimidated me to the extent of muteness like no other. We used to go out and just sit opposite each other. He would sip on his abundant in milk coffee while I would order...nothing! He'd ask me to list my hobbies to which I'd just...giggle! But the absolute worst was our phone conversation. He'd ring me every night because that's what boyfriends did and we'd listen to each others silence for a cold sweat inducing 15 minutes before exchanging awkward I love you's and hanging up. Said relationship lasted a record breaking three months which at the time saw me ecstatically happy and blindly oblivious to the disaster to come. 'We have nothing in common' he said on the phone and even though I was pretty sure we both loved the Doors and Rolling Stones, in retrospect I think he meant the ability to use the power of speech to form a conversation. To say I was heartbroken is an understatement. I went cliche extreme, singing 'love of my life' more times than Freddie Mercury ever did, crying myself to sleep and rebounding with someone I did not care for one bit. Ahhh to be a teenager.<br />
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Last time I got dumped I had left my teens behind for a good two and a half years. A short lived relationship ended with an inbox facebook message that amongst other gems, included the phrase "I need to focus on my dissertation". In retrospect it's hilarious. At the time, I MAY have said that I was going to go to his house with placards listing the reasons our connection was not to be lost. My friends supportively took the piss out of me and all I did to keep us together was tell my friends that I would. Instead, I ate a few too many soft king biscuits whilst replying to his message like I did not care one bit that he no longer saw a future together. (It was a hard task but one I feel I carried through with success).<br />
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How to cope with devastating break ups:<br />
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1) <b>Find friends who have also been recently dumped.</b><br />
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At the time that this picture was taken, high on heartbreak delirium, my friend Natasha would greet everyone with the phrase 'Hello, we've just broken up....not with each other). And by everyone, I mean EVERYONE.<br />
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<b>2) Don't eat your feelings.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-K7C0Cio4SUPO_FtgLa8POwPaldOKOTnyf_LtZpuIx0uBRolxD9gCrmq6EbMXXf2L3_dHE66Nj5_3TN8QeW4KsyHr04IUPWgSjZFpBwsdnY_DEVUfqrwhLcRwC1JvpcnKDLIZR56pKsna/s1600/179644_10150372866565012_7974773_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-K7C0Cio4SUPO_FtgLa8POwPaldOKOTnyf_LtZpuIx0uBRolxD9gCrmq6EbMXXf2L3_dHE66Nj5_3TN8QeW4KsyHr04IUPWgSjZFpBwsdnY_DEVUfqrwhLcRwC1JvpcnKDLIZR56pKsna/s640/179644_10150372866565012_7974773_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Meeting your ex whilst being twice the size you were throughout your relationship is definitely more traumatic than the meeting itself.<br />
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3) <b>DO NOT. I repeat DO NOT send a million and three texts with varying emotions. </b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">- Daphne Economou 10:30 </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Hey! I hope you're well, I've missed talking to you :( xx</span><br />
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- Daphne Economou 11:01<br />
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WHY ARE YOU NOT REPLYING? This is so fucking typical of you, I'm so much better of without you. TWAT!<br />
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- Daphne Economou 11:30<br />
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I need my stuff back. I am moving on and I don't want to still have stuff lingering in your flat.<br />
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- Daphne Economou 12:00<br />
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Why is this happening to us? :(<br />
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- Daphne Economou 13:00<br />
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OMG remember our first date? how hilarious was that thing that you did? hahahahah xx<br />
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- Daphne Economou 14:00<br />
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YOU WERE ALWAYS AN ARSEHOLE I WASTED MY TIME WITH YOU.<br />
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<b>4) Don't listen to 'your' song on repeat, don't watch rom coms, don't reminisce whilst looking at pictures and more importantly, don't go wearing their old boxers shorts that have been left in your flat. (I may have been there, I am not proud)</b><br />
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<b>5) DO get drunk. NOT responsibly. BUT maybe hand your phone to your friends so that you dont drunk dial too much.</b><br />
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<b>6) DO rebound. AND then show your rebound this blog post so that they know how to handle the fact that they meant nada to you! SORRY rebound.</b><br />
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Then, there are the 'better' break ups. You've loved each other but you've had one too many arguments and you've had enough.<br />
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When you've shared your life with someone you sort of mesh into one person, letting go of that unity is hard. But worry not, here's a few things you can do to make things better.<br />
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<b>1) Spend time with friends that are hilarious.</b><br />
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<b>2. Eat (more than) your feelings</b><br />
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<b>3) Cherish the good memories.</b><br />
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<b>4) And finally, forget the bad ones. (Like the time you dressed up as a cow on a bus and it was NOT appreciated.)</b><br />
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<b>To end this post here's a list of cliche phrases you might hear a lot during this time. (possibly the worst aspect of the break up) </b></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>- You're better off</i></div>
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<i>- Keep your chin up</i></div>
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<i>- She/he didn't deserve you</i></div>
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<i>- It's going to get better</i><br />
<i>- This too, shall pass.</i></div>
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<i>- Keep calm and carry on (punch the person who tells you this, you've got my permission)</i></div>
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<i>- The best is yet to come....!</i></div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-34521081844012189362013-05-13T19:54:00.002+01:002013-05-13T23:00:07.939+01:00The Stylized Guide To Frida Khalo Eyebrows. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was a late bloomer. In all bar one areas of my body, my development was the absolute loser in the race against that of my classmates. See, one or well, technically two, parts of me developed before my limbs, vocabulary, (still impending) sense of sensibility and even the ability to hold my head up on my own. I believe that when my parents had that very first scan, the gynaecologist told them "congratulation! you are expecting a healthy pair of eyebrows".<br />
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In an unfortunate turn of events, I was about to spend the next decade and a half of my life in a world that frowned upon brows... With Caragh Delevigne and Lily Collins still swimming in their fathers' ballsacks, the only time you saw more than approximately 15 hairs covering a woman's eyes was in before shots on laser clinic ads, threading salons and ugly-duckling-turns-into-a-swan type plots in American films (you know the story, bushy browed nerdy girl gets a good ol' plucking, high shine barbie-esque skirt and subsequently the class stud. Or, Anne Hathaway is revealed as the next to throne of an inexistent country and like any good Queen to be, she knows that her politics and eyebrows can't both meet in the middle). My classmates would trim theirs down to absolutely nothing thus making mine look even more like a pair of yetis naping over my eyes, in comparison. The more I hated them the more they started liking each other. Like a couple entangled in a secret affair, knowing they should keep apart seemed to work like an aphrodisiac that drew them closer and closer together . My mother was like a watchdog, every time I had as much as pulled a single hair out she would yell at me and tell me I'm ruining my face. [Real time fun fact: She just walked in, asked me what I was writing about and said : don't you dare write portray me as harsh, I did you a favour]. In fear of getting yelled at, I let the secret browffair blossom until my 14th birthday. Eventually, like a scorned spouse I had enough. No amount of motherly screaming was going to stop me. Determined, I walked into a shop and straight to the hair removal section. Creams seemed messy, tweezers needed patience... and then finally, in the form of a pack of pink wax strips I found the Moses I needed to part the Red sea that had become of my eyebrows. Halleluja! And parted they did, only a tad too much. I waxed the top of my brows and the bottom of my brows, the sides of my brows, the middle of my brows... as a testament to the extend of their growth, all that waxing didn't quite leave me with a 1920's brow line, but it was certainly a bit too much. In immense fury my mum gave me photos of Frida Khalo and told me I should aspire to look like that. I thought she was insane. obviously. I decided to grow a fringe instead and put my brow vows behind me forever. Alas, the cow's lick on the right side of my head eventually had enough of the sharing of my hairline and the fringe had to be grown out. My naked eyebrows were once again exposed. I started compromising with them. You can grow as full and as wild as you like but you are in no way allowed to meet. The Moses like strips got substituted by the milder tweezers.<br />
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And then something magical happened. (Ok in reality it was to be expected as trends tend to get recycled.) BIG BROWS HIT THE SCENE. The bigger the better. At first it was the icons, then the runways and then the people.<br />
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Big browed ladies rejoice. People are now TRYING to achieve what we've been fighting off. And, hey slim browed blond girl in the 6th grade, you know when you told me to sort my eyebrows out? IN YOUR FACE.<br />
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So now, I can embrace my true self, I can become the person I was always meant to be...<br />
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Estoy Fridha, por favor conocerte.<br />
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-43580775586711928932013-05-10T01:59:00.000+01:002013-05-10T07:35:04.682+01:00And then there were three... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I know parents lose their children and
children lose their parents. I know there are deeper cuts and sorer wounds. I
know life can be cruelly unfair on the fate stricken. I know that our pampered little
dog dying peacefully in the arms of the people she loved the most at the grand
age of 17 and a half doesn't compare to all these. But she was part of our family. A family that is, at the
moment, feeling loudly incomplete in a house that’s never been so quiet. Our
bodies don’t seem to know the news that our brains and hearts are struggling
with, so we still walk carefully around the corner she used to sleep by in fear of stepping on her long playful tail. I know she was just a dog to you. But she was so
much more to me. I had expected the lack of empathy but I’ve been
shocked by the inexistence of sympathy and understanding. We found her when I
was 8, she was the best present I have ever received, a present that kept on
giving, selflessly. We became four. We grew older, wiser, sillier. We
changed schools, universities, jobs, houses, cities and countries. I turned
from a child into a teenager into a young adult into an adult. She turned from an adorable yet piranha like puppy with a crazy penchant for chewing, into a chubby adult dog with short legs and a tail that smiled to everyone, into a skinny old lady that would refuse to put a single paw forward unless the whole group was together. She gave us love, happiness and countless slobbery kisses throughout it all. The day we got her was
nearly 18 years ago. 18 years that flew by. Today we were left three. We are happy she was so
loved until the end, beyond the end… We’re happy that we are alive, well and able to carry her memory. I know I didn't lose a parent or a child and for that I am so so so grateful. I know they say she was ‘just a dog’ but we’re heart broken. I never realised being grieved was a privilege reserved exclusively for the
two legged. She will always be a beauty.</div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-76923301418840750572013-02-23T02:08:00.001+00:002013-04-19T23:55:27.500+01:00Enrique + Daphne = Love For Ever (a story of teenage lust/humiliation)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In homage to all the discounted, heart shaped chocolate going stale in shops across the nation with only a few preservatives and the memories of the glory days of early February keeping them alive, I decided to share with you a personal story of intense, teenage love gone wrong...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Before I go into it properly however, I need to ask you some key questions. Ready?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koJlIGDImiU" target="_blank">Would you dance? if I asked you to dance? Would you run? and never look back? Would you cry? if you saw me crying? Would you save my soul tonight? Would you tremble, if I touched your lips? Would you laugh? oh please tell me this... </a> (click away)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was somewhere around my 13th birthday. My hips no longer resembled my friend George's hips but alas, our chest areas remained identical. A lot of girls had been training for this transformation for years but following a pattern that 12 years later still dominates my life, I was completely and utterly unprepared for it. My eyebrows were pushing to meet each other more and more each day but my mum had established a draconian Frida Khalo inspired grooming regime when it came to dealing with them. (May I also point out that this was the early 00's aka the years when the desirable number of hairs covering your eyes was in single digits). Getting my period was, controversially, actually brilliant as it finally gave me a real excuse to skip swimming lessons and more importantly, it gave me hope that I would soon grow boobs. Unfortunately the only thing that grew in the next few years was my despair at my flat chest. Boys really only cared about boobs, and they saw straight through my attempts at stuffing my white cotton beginners bra with toilet paper, napkins and the occasional shoulder pad I had ripped off my mum's 80's jackets.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the same time, all I cared about was boys which obviously came hand in hand with the horrible shame that serves as a soundtrack to most teenage people's lives. Wondering what someone's penis looks like in your twenties varies from funny to slightly weird to hopeful. Being unable to look at your religious studies teacher without picturing his penis (or what you assume a penis is like) in your early teens is gut-wrenchingly embarrassing at best. So, as no teenage boys cared for a chest mirroring their own and my R.S teacher was, well, not a pedophile, the only relationships I was involved in were those of my Sims (who I pervertedly forced to 'make love' all the time until they had so many babies I got overwhelmed and killed them all in a swimming pool with no ladder...)(Stop judging, I'm sure you did something pervertedly embarrassing as a teenager too! Think about it... Exactly!). So it really came as a surprise to everyone when somewhere between the Simsocide and trying to strategically pluck my eyebrows without my mum realising, I fell in love. I fell hard for the latin man with a nose grazing mole the stuff teenage wet dreams are made of! The first time I laid eyes upon him was one afternoon while waiting for my favourite dubbed Mexican show with the catchy title ' Butterflies fly freely' to begin. The sound of spanish guitar strings tickled the air that was soon filled with the seductively foreign whisper that carried the phrase 'esta noche bailamos' and with no warning to my frantic teenage heart, the most beautiful man I had ever seen appeared a mere few inches from my face. Tall, dark with a dragon adorned light blue jacket framing his naked chest he looked into my eyes and said 'tonighttt we daaaaance' while literally fingering the air around him and consequently every teenage girl and closeted gay boy who watched the video in fantasies that will probably haunt them for life. ( when I say he fingered the air around him, I mean he <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31rec2bzmAs" target="_blank">LITERALLY</a> did <- click on it to see for your self although let me warn you, it can make grown men go weak at the knees ). From that day on, I knew! It was going to be Enrik (as I though he was called for a while... ) + Daphne = Love For Ever. My favourite football players, actresses and even Mick Jagger were removed from my wall for its white surface to be entirely covered in my lover Enrik's face. E+D in a heart doodles decorated every inch of my desk and naturally, the only sound waves aloud in the vicinity carried his voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My parents were cool throughout all this. I mean they both took the piss out of him but then again what parent actually <i>likes </i>their teenage daughter's adult latino lover?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While walking through the centre of Athens one day, my dad and I decided to make our usual pit stop at our local Virgin Megastore. While my dad browsed for possible additions to his own CD collection, I ran straight to the pop music section to make sure Enrique hadn't released anything that had passed me by. That's when I saw him... Open shirt, shiny chest, mole in tact, standing in front of me all gorgeous and two dimensional. Everything I had dreamt about and more, Enrique Iglesias' life size cardboard cut out. I HAD to have him. I begged my dad to take him with us like an insanely hot cardboard human puppy. My dad asked the manager who, after laughing in my face for a good five minutes, agreed to give him to us when they no longer needed him which would be in approximately 8 days. Eight days that felt like a lifetime (and for at least eight butterflies they actually were a lifetime) passed. In years to come I got a real life boyfriend with whom I had many tear filled, real life reunions in airports and train station across Europe and I can say with certainty that my 2001 Enrique reunion in the dimly lit Virgin Megastore did not lack in the same elation and relief. Even though Enrique was life size and his life size is significantly more centimetres than mine, I still carried him all around Athens with pride as people pointed and laughed. <i>JEALOUS. </i>I escorted him into my room and placed him in the corner in front of my wardrobe and below a picture of himself from the Bailamos video. From imaginary lover to live in boyfriend, Enrique and I shared a room. Eat your hearts out weedy school boys still trying to get some over the bra action with your big breasted B cup girlfriends.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Look at us casually posing like a couple in love. </span></i></div>
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With the small exception of my mum never remembering his existence and always freaking out upon seeing him, Enrique settled in seamlessly and I went back to being semi normal. Until one day my best friend came up to me full of excitement...she had kissed a boy! <i>With tongue! </i>She told me everything in detail, the moments leading up to it, the actual kiss, the washing machine technique her tongue buddy had adopted. Filled with envy I knew there was only one thing to be done. That day I got back home determined. I went into my room, dropped my heavy schoolbag on the floor and stood in front of Enrique. It was time for us to kiss (<i>are you cringing yet?I know I am!). </i>Trying to recall the advice I was given from my now lip locking expert friend (kissing once makes you an expert at 13, true story), I stood on my tiptoes and tilted my head to the right, leaned in a little closer until it was lip to cardboard, I closed my eyes (because that, I was told, was the romantic way to do it) and... opened my mouth. Maybe it was the excitement that made me partially deaf or maybe my dad was just plain sneaky, but as my mouth opened, so did my bedroom door...and in walked my father to find me making out with what was essentially a processed tree in the shape of a pop star. His shoes against my bedroom floor sounded and felt like bombs exploding by my side and the confused version of lust in my body was rapidly replaced by burning embarrassment. Unable to really react and wishing more than anything that the earth would give me a break and swallow me, I took my face off Enrique's and looked at my dad with the shame and guilt of two thousand catholics. Nonchalantly, my dad smirked and said "oh...you're kissing! I'll come back later then"......</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My teenage shame took over my world and I avoided my dad for at least 10 days after that. To avoid further humiliation, I took down most of Enrique's posters and Mick was once again the king of my wall. Enrique, who got pushed further into the corner of my room, stayed around for another three and a half years until we moved houses. I was sixteen at the time and my real life boyfriend liked the Doors...I could no longer hold onto my first love. As I packed my boxes, Enrique looked upon me with distinct melancholia in his cardboard eyes... no bailamos esta noche, I'm sure he cried. As the van arrived and my parents got into the lift to drop some boxes off, Enrique and I said our goodbyes... and what's a proper goodbye without a real, uninterrupted farewell kiss ;) !</span></div>
Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-72805222242501402302012-10-23T22:57:00.001+01:002013-04-19T22:33:32.759+01:00A post on trend(s) and The Little Black Jacket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Fashion is a large umbrella under which a lot of elements find refuge. Style, trend, art, expression, individualism, production, advertising, accessibility, couture and the list goes on. Ideally, said umbrella has the personal signature of the beholder. Realistically, this time last year it had a pastel mint hue which has now been replaced by Gothic plum tones and lace. What I'm getting at is, the power of Trends.<br />
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I remember interviewing designer Simeon Farrar last year for a magazine I worked at. We discussed art and how his fashion designer status crept up on him when he wasn't looking. And we discussed trends. Trends as seen from the perspective of someone who is not trained to be their slave. That, he struggled with. The speed at which they changed overwhelmed him.<br />
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Could fashion exist without trends? The way I see it, trends are the language of the fashion world, it's how this form of art communicates with the people that follow or mock it. In an attempt to take style forward and express it in a way that will interest the public, buyers, high street and journos, a designer has to (more often than not) process that thought in a way that is comprehensible. First the catwalks then the stars then the high streets. And the pavements fill to the brim with boho skirts that quickly turn into MadMen-esque 60's corsets, into leathers, metallics, chunky heels, stilettos, 90s revival, candy coloured pastels, printed t-shirts, goth. Hair and skin and eyebrow sizes go along getting straighter, blonder, fuller, darker, paler, purple hued.<br />
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But not unlike history, trends repeat themselves. The outfit that up until recently belonged to a cringe-worthy photograph, may come out to adorn the flesh and be paraded around again. It will get re-vamped, it will become relevant, present! And then, after it's 15minutes of fame, the sequel, it will set again back in the horizon of the wardrobe. But then, there are SOME trends, some few ones that never go, that linger around...sometimes they stand proudly on the first line of attack and sometimes they sluggishly slack off in the back, but they're there. And more often than not, they were established by Coco Chanel. Ok that may not be true but it's a good bridge to where this article is heading towards.<br />
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So while bright neon colours come and go and the amount of muffin top on show maximises and minimises according to the waistline en vogue, the little black dress stays the same. Little and black. The shapes may vary a little, there may be a bit of beading or embroidery, the sleeves and necklines may come in a plethora of shapes and sizes and the hemlines may be grazing from thigh to knee, but it's undeniably omnipresent, like a God-like equivalent in the garment world. And then, you get even more specific, you need something to cover your LBD with, or your jeans and t-shirt or whichever trend you are currently rocking. And that's where tweed comes in.<br />
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A tweed jacket cuts through any sartorial prohibition. It can be rock, it can be classy, elegant, scruffy, boho... It can elevate simplicity, it can subtly compliment elegance and brightly contradict eccentricity. It can be pure or chain laden, it can be married with leather or lace or denim but at the top of the tweed hierarchy, it is made in the trademark Chanel design.<br />
The Little Black Jacket. Coco passed it on to Karl who collaborated with Carine. They covered the bodies of everyone they deemed relevant in its course yet soft material. Karl captured its flawless design on them and the photos became big canvases that plastered the walls of art galleries around the world, landing at the Saatchi gallery in West London. And women who look and smell like my grandmother, stare at it in awe. As do men in suits and tracksuits, as do I and my friends, my football loving boyfriend and a Danish lady in her thirties pushing a pushchair. For Alexander Wang, Lilly Allen, Freja Beha, Kanye West, Clemence Poesy, Tilda Swinton,to name a few, have such different looks yet the classic, undeniably bang on trend LITTLE BLACK JACKET can do no wrong in everyone's body and everyone's eyes.<br />
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If you are in London, you HAVE to go check it out. It's gorgeous and free (plus for the mega freeloaders you also get a free poster). Here's the link for more information:<br />
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<a href="http://thelittleblackjacket.chanel.com/en_GB/home" target="_blank">http://thelittleblackjacket.chanel.com/en_GB/home </a><br />
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As for me, the pricelessly classic Chanel design, has a price I cannot fathom.<br />
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Instead, I may direct my drooling towards the more affordable options listed below:<br />
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1) <a href="http://www.asos.com/ASOS/ASOS-Tweed-Biker-Jacket/Prod/pgeproduct.aspx?iid=2335650&SearchQuery=tweed&Rf-700=1000&sh=0&pge=0&pgesize=-1&sort=-1&clr=Blackwhite" target="_blank">ASOS tweed biker jacket</a><br />
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2) <a href="http://www.asos.com/Mango/Mango-Tweed-Biker-Jacket/Prod/pgeproduct.aspx?iid=2374749&SearchQuery=tweed&Rf-700=1000&sh=0&pge=0&pgesize=-1&sort=-1&clr=Pink" target="_blank">Mango powder pink tweed jacket</a><br />
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3) <a href="http://www.theoutnet.com/product/327574" target="_blank">Helene Berman plum, pink and black tweed jacket</a><br />
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4) <a href="http://www.theoutnet.com/product/338222" target="_blank">My personal favourite DKNY cotton blend tweed jacket</a><br />
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You should snap up the last 2 scrumptiously discounted ones before pay day makes an appearance and forces me to purchase them both, in a heartbeat.</div>
Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-67426814441474314212012-10-17T21:46:00.003+01:002012-10-17T21:52:31.353+01:00MAISON MARTIN MARGIELA x H&M<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two blog posts in ONE day, I am spoiling you lot! </div>
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It's just that I could no longer contain my Margiela induced excitment. I LOVE H&M for their collaborations. The Marni one brought tears to my eyes (mainly because the amazing patent jumper of theirs I bought is too big for me, but I can't think about parting with it without getting a rash so it stays in my wardrobe as a decorative piece). I feel like the Margiela one, however, is going to be unbeatable. Maybe I'm a bit biast to the theatricality, innovasion, sharp lines and insane talent that oozes out of the Maison Martin Margiela house but for me (maybe on a par with Alexander McQueen) Margiela stands on a fashion forward pedestal. Time to break my little MMM pigy bank, because (preview guy voice) THIS NOVEMBER, IN A SWEDISH HIGH STREET SHOP NEAR YOU......<br />
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MAISON MARTIN MARGIELA x H&M</div>
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arghslda.glwpjroytdfgjflgwa;l/keamxf (inability to speak due to giddyness produced by sartorial love at first sight!) </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">all items: maison martin margiela x h&m.... DUH!!!!</span></div>
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Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-672139895253642282012-10-17T16:11:00.001+01:002012-10-18T12:30:15.373+01:00Excuses, excuses...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ok so what are the chances that we can pretend my 4month long absence never happened?<br />
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none,huh?<br />
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but guys, I was working hard at a little shinding in London. You may have heard of it... The Olympics, it was called!<br />
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Before you stand up on your tiptoes in uproar about my potential #humblebrag (I'm hashtagging because that's what all the cool kids do nowadays, get with the times!), let me explain why I'm telling you this. I am telling you because a)it was a surreal experience and b)the scedule was hectic, <b>SO HECTIC THAT I COULDN'T EVEN SLEEP LET ALONE BLOG!</b> I honestly don't think I actually slept for MONTHS. It was like a really long day with short naps in between. As well as lack of time, on my list of excuses is the absolute inexistence of style that comes with working nonstop! Not that I had a choice, those <i>smexy</i> beige trousers and <i>super flattering</i> green top (can you hear the irony through the italics?) were ALL I was allowed to wear, thanks boss!<br />
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and as far as accessorizing goes, this<i> gorgeous</i> photo was the only thing adorning my neck... what a beaut,right! How did this accreditation only earn me a half arsed stalker and zero modelling contracts, I will never know.<br />
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Working at the Olympics was brilliant. There's so much to say that I feel I should write a whole separate article for that experience. Here's a couple of things that happened: we worked so hard that our brains started finding 'kick me' post-its <i>hilarious.</i> The temporary enviroment led to situations like my boss challenging me to say the word 'naughty' to as many IBC guests as possible on the last day. At one point I had the (self-proclaimed) 'richest man in Dubai' who was also their 1st ever gold medallist and a member of their royal family, wait in our office for half an hour, drinking flat fanta out of a plastic cup whilst his PA was flapping about on the verge of a nervous breakdown because he was meant to be on TV in, like, 10 mins but as their channel had not given us the correct info we were unable to let him through. I also pretended I didn't know what Rob Kardashians name was because I'm THAT cool.<br />
And we had an awesome quote wall (probably had to be there for most of these to be funny? or just maybe skip sleep for a few months and read these again then.) <br />
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Ahhh it was great.<br />
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And then I went to Greece in September.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i> [Greece which is still a perfectly beautiful and safe country btw, contrary to what a shocking amount of ill-informed people believe here in Britain. ] </i></span><br />
I had been looking forward to it more than words can say. Chilling in a hammock, eating grapes (yes, it was essentially a Dionysian orgy in my imagination!) and not having to work ALL.THE.TIME.<br />
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So the day finally arrived! I peeled the beige/pine green/hideous uniform off of my skin, partied until 6 in the morning like it was the end of the Olympics, packed my suitcase, went to the airport, bid the world goodbye every time the plane went through any type of slight turbulance and finally, I landed in 35 degrees about to start my summer while everyone I knew was turning off the lights to theirs.<br />
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And I didn't work, and I slept, and I sat in the hammock and I ate grapes. And it was the biggest shock to my body/brain EVER. Chilling was stressful and static and I just wasn't coping!<br />
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<i>(everyone say hiiii to Irma, she's 17 and the best dog ever. -hiiiii Irma. )</i><br />
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This is my best not coping pose... I think it transfers the sentiment pretty well, no?<br />
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Never in my life had I thought that being on holiday would take so much effort. Thankfully, after sleeping for about 3 days straight, I managed to relax a little and go to the beach and swim and eat sea urchins and pose on like a knob.<br />
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<i>Like what am I even doing in this picture? yoga whilst holding on to my hat? err anyway.</i><br />
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I have a lot of pictures and funny stories to share from my next couple of weeks on holiday, when I finally managed to unwind my wound up brain and set off to visit amazing places like Ydra and Nafplio. But for now, I have to go back to article writing because, you know, a lot of things have happened on those catwalks since I got back and I gotsa cover them. I WILL get back to this blogging malarky however! PROMISE, PINKY PROMISE!!!</div>
Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-83997813886695078482012-06-13T15:07:00.000+01:002012-06-13T15:15:39.395+01:00BRUSSELS SPECIAL.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><i>Hiya guys! How is everyone? What did you get up to last week? </i></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">I personally, travelled <s>to a far far away land </s> on the eurostar for a couple of hours and ended up in </span></i><br />
<i><b>B<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">E</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">L</span>G<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">U</span>M </b>(wow this is shaping up to be quite the colourful post)</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Now, being the ever present blogger that I am (cue to uncontrollable laughter and pointing) I have decided to compose... </span></i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px; font-weight: bold;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">THE STYLISH GUIDE TO NOT BEING STYLISH IN BELGIUM!!</span></b></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">First stop: BRUSSELS. </span></b></h4>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">What? This is a genuine traditional folk costume!! Honest. </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;"><br /></span></i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Ok. So, first things first. In order to NOT be stylish in Brussels, just go when it's raining constantly. Don't be threatened by the summery sound of the month of June. It will rain. Constantly. Disregarding mother nature's will that June, July and August are summer months. 99% of the photos I've got are of me wearing a coat. 0 fashion blogger points. HEY! DO YOU WANT ME TO GET PNEUMONIA AND LOOK LIKE <a href="http://styliseddialogue.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/stylish-guide-to-infected-sinuses.html" target="_blank">THIS</a> AGAIN?!! DO YOU? DO YOU? Good, I didn't think you did. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Right, moving on, when travelling to a country you've never been to before, it is highly advisable that you ask people you know have been/lived there for tips of where NOT to stay. I took the adventurous route. Living on the edge and all that shizzle (plus I had read that Brussels has very low criminality, because in reality I am a MASSIVE wuss) so I left the hotel picking to my man, my rock, the apple of my eye, <a href="http://planetmeet.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Anthony</a>. He promised it was central and nice. He showed me a couple of pictures and it looked pleasant enough as we were only planning to use it as a base anyway. All I need to say is that the toilet was actually IN the kitchen and the location was the (after further research) possibly only dangerous place in Brussels. Therefore, due to fear of petty crime, there was a certain relunctance on our part to actually carry Anthony's camera around much. -1 blogger points. A GOOD START I TELLS YA! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Aaaand that's pretty much all it takes to not be stylish in Brussels. Or to not have stylish evidence anyway which is probably just an excuse like when I tell my bf I know all the football terms, just not in English. In reality, I'm equally as clueless in Greek. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">Anyway, minor disturbances aside, here is a collection of COOL THINGS IN BRUSSELS:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;"><b>1. THEY HAVE WIENER BUSES. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;">see this London? you're so proud of your double decker buses which frankly, deprived of any phallic insinuations are now boring. </span></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;"><b>2. THEY HAVE NITS</b>. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;"><b>sorry, NITZ cos they're gangsta. Now, I know nits are not Belgium exclusive and that you can find them anywhere. But, that's were smart business comes in. In Brussels, THEY SELL THEM. So, children around the world, eager to rub your itchy head against that of a class mate, think again, those pests could be the source of pocket money. </b></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">3. THEY HAVE INAPPROPRIATE STATUES. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;">And here I thought, us Greeks were pros when it came to inappropriate statues. First they were naked, then we made their penises TEENY TINY and THEN we went on to actually CHOP THEM OFF. No, the Belgians won't mess about with petty aesthetic insults like that. They'll clothe their statues and then have them give the world the middle finger. Brilliant. He's a bit like: " Yeah, alright, I'm a statue we've established that now FUCK OFF and stop staring"</span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;"><b>3 1/2. OK SO I KIND OF LIED. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;">They also have naked, poorly endowed statues. The significant difference however, is that: a) this one is also weeing unlike the Greek ones that are merely showing off their marble muscles and b) this is their MAIN TOURIST SIGHT. You know how Paris has the eiffel tower, Athens the Acropolis, Egypt the pyramids and the list goes on? Well Belgium has THE MANNEKEN PISS. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;"><b>4. THEY HAVE SELF SARCASM. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;"><b>5. THEY HAVE A CAR EXHIBITION <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;">(look I made <a href="http://planetmeet.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Anthony</a> go to the Fashion Museum in Antwerp so I was kind of oblidged to go along to this one) </span>WHERE THE BEST CAR EVER LIVES. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;">It's called bubble (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">the bubble car?)</span> and I'm pretty sure it's my inanimate soulmate. </span></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;"><b>and last but not least, </b></span><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">6. THERE'S LOADS OF JUMPING SPACE!! </span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">.THE END.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><i>(American TV voice) Next time on Stylised Dialogue: An Antwerpian Adventure. </i></span></div>
</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-32910919034405196582012-06-04T19:31:00.002+01:002012-06-05T00:42:48.528+01:00The Stylish Guide To The Queen's Diamond Jubilee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So in case you guys haven't heard, yesterday marked the Queen of England's Diamond Jubilee. If you're wondering what that actually means, it means that one's kept her job for 60 years. Granted, it's not like she can fuck up and like the rest of us get fired or even become redundant. But listen, before you dismiss it, she's so far escaped death. That's pretty special. Where does fashion come in to all this, you ask. Well, keep reading and one will see. As I am too busy trying to spot the flotilla (possibly my new favourite word btw) through the patriotic crowds and drinking healthy amounts of pimms, I will pass this blog onto some very special guests to elaborate on the subject that is... drumroll...<br />
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THE STYLISH GUIDE TO THE QUEEN'S DIAMOND JUBILEE.<br />
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Right, so, ta ta from me. First up... Elisabeth Windsor, The Queen.<br />
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Greetings and welcome. One is very flattered to be cordially invited to participate in such a conservative blog. One was appointed to talk about garmnets and fashion and one is never to disobey one's rules. One's corgi's would be terribly dissapointed in one if one went on to do so.<br />
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ahhh one does crack one self up. What the fuck do my corgi's have to do with all this. Anyway, despite the ghastly weather, one only celebrates a Diamond Jubilee once in a lifetime and let us all be honest, my royal highness is a big YOLO-er. So out comes the mini white dress, eat your heart out Katy, your legs aren't full of royal blood, the cancles will soon appear and I WANT that comparisson in my resume. Now, don't you stutter in shock, like my dear old father, there are only so many oscars that can be given to royal speech impetiments, go away and produce a couple of heirs, even she that shall not be named did so. Ahhh speaking of heirs, one had the opportunity to push a couple of couples of children out of her royal vagina. Unfortunately the effect those births had on ones figure are almost as unsightly as the children themselves. A looser skirt is advisable. Crown and jewels are mandatory, of course. One is the fucking Queen, I'm not going to go for a simplistic look. As for the weather, yes , it fucked up, ROYALLY. pun intended, of course. Thankfully, Suzy, my darling Corgi, gifted to me on my 18th birthday and long dead, is going to keep me both warm and stylish, wrapped around my shoulder. Good doggy. Suzy will be with me throughout the whole thing, but alas my hot chuck of a hairy Greek lover, Phil had to be hospitalised again. As a stylish hint to my sadness, I shall replace my usual white gloves with black ones. Get well soon boo, cannot wait to go back to our dirty Greek tourist bangs incognito Royal on the beach roleplay. Footwear is casual, one is 86 fucking years old.<br />
That's all for now, civilians, one's got a very busy scedule. XO XO, your Queen.<br />
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Next up... Liz Winds, Drag Queen.<br />
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Hiya Dolls,<br />
If you're less Diamond and more Diamante, then listen up.<br />
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Shave your beard as closely as you can, push them boobs your mama (Mr. Andrew M Allan, plastic surgeon) gave you and slather on the make up. Us Queens are being honoured this bank holliday and no amount of stubble will stop that from happening.<br />
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Being a Drag Queen this Jubilee is where it's at. You don't have to socialise with the royal pain in the arses and you don't have to cover up. Wear your most revealing top and party like its... 60 years since the Queen sat on the loo. See what I did there? Right, got a penis to tuck in. See ya later loves. Liz.<br />
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Last but most certainly not least, Freddie Mercury, Queen's lead singer and legend!<br />
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Darlings!<br />
<br />
It's so nice to see you all down there having fun. I'm extremelly jealous but who wants to live forever and all that shit, you know. Who would have thought that the Queen would outlive Queen? She's not in any way killer, though. Have you seen the the shoes she wears? oh, honey, no. You can see them poor feet trying to break free. And lets be honest, that outfit she wore at her grandson's wedding?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDi6R7oH4_tDJLdYtdXd0Fzl5y0B3khJVR_d7XYoKimJZ_3L2z0Y5HEqYxNMumy1rLtBcZXGze6GSCxTrlEUJQMk2Uci_lQM-T3mIQEeE6EYGVRsVYDFTjN40XR28M35kV-zKf6R4FYCub/s1600/221789_10150557057535012_839645011_18125516_2317269_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDi6R7oH4_tDJLdYtdXd0Fzl5y0B3khJVR_d7XYoKimJZ_3L2z0Y5HEqYxNMumy1rLtBcZXGze6GSCxTrlEUJQMk2Uci_lQM-T3mIQEeE6EYGVRsVYDFTjN40XR28M35kV-zKf6R4FYCub/s1600/221789_10150557057535012_839645011_18125516_2317269_n.jpg" /></a></div>
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even "Scaramoush, scaramoush will you do the fandago" makes more sense that. Darling Elisabeth may not be much when it comes to fashion but we should all celebrate this Jubilee like champions.<br />
My advice is, wear whatever you're comfortabe in. Jumpsuits, skirts, jeans and t-shirts, trainers and yellow waistcoats. I've done it all, and I have rocked you no matter what.<br />
Just wear what you like, and a condom.<br />
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Ciao Darlings, <s>Farouk </s> Freddie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wiq7zJhZnFylPO42dGLVLvWKuRmHParYMzPu0nUbcvQz8bcUKxzQLnVE3fxYFDpfS8KZgl74Ez3TTG_ZKhq07dVJdBFCcnN0FjektyK5fcgzXyEzBSGj0rw3Mmhyphenhyphen0RI1etagNXz9xO0h/s1600/11251_626968290597_223600103_8091968_1326747_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wiq7zJhZnFylPO42dGLVLvWKuRmHParYMzPu0nUbcvQz8bcUKxzQLnVE3fxYFDpfS8KZgl74Ez3TTG_ZKhq07dVJdBFCcnN0FjektyK5fcgzXyEzBSGj0rw3Mmhyphenhyphen0RI1etagNXz9xO0h/s1600/11251_626968290597_223600103_8091968_1326747_n.jpg" /></a></div>
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The End</div>
</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-26906114080328338282012-04-24T13:17:00.001+01:002012-04-24T13:33:50.973+01:00I DO.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I GOT MARRIED!!!!<br />
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Joke.. calm down Dad, I didn't.<br />
<br />
So, last week, I went to a wedding. Here's an interesting fact for you: This whole 'I do' thing is a MYTH. They don't say it. THEY DON'T. They say 'I will' which is far less dramatic and committed. But other than that, weddings are fun even if you are the awkward plus one who has never met the bride before (thankfully she is easily spotted in the crowd).<br />
<br />
This particular wedding, was very traditionally English. It involved church singing, castles, lemon curd, top hats, nibbles, a one shouldered wedding dress with a long train...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN285JV0AurdICSINEJDqEWoL8sLKp5I82gJXvyuEmscf-vHshjKo9viWIvgrPhCJgm99PIdtpDqD3Ed5cieNhLjQxboVqR7NNJndzBEY_cpLMH39nmrGP7czvYI09x4-za_WmZ9kUm6eZ/s1600/IMG_2888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN285JV0AurdICSINEJDqEWoL8sLKp5I82gJXvyuEmscf-vHshjKo9viWIvgrPhCJgm99PIdtpDqD3Ed5cieNhLjQxboVqR7NNJndzBEY_cpLMH39nmrGP7czvYI09x4-za_WmZ9kUm6eZ/s640/IMG_2888.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I have to admit, despite having been married before myself (to Enrique Iglesias, in my head), I don't find weddings aesthetically pleasing most of the time. The flower arrangements, dress materials, tiaras, chair ribbons, venues... but most importantly <b>I never really know what to wear! </b>This is an important issue. I don't want to wear black, I can't wear white, I can't wear anything 'too much' (especially when I'm a plus one), I can't be too casual and I often feel like I need to wear control pants even though I <b>ALWAYS </b>end up taking them off mid-reception because I can't breath.<br />
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But last Saturday all this was about to change ( minus the control pants. I did wear them and as expected took them off somewhere between the amuse bush and main course), I had one cute, blue, understated dress that I was quite happy with. Realistically, I should have known it never stood a chance. For as Saturday morning saw the excited bride drinking champagne with her bridesmaids and the jittery groom looking for the church's emergency exits (I'm sure he didn't, I just thought I'd be stereotypical/sexist for entertainment purposes. Did it entertain you?), I was experiencing the aggressive warmth of freshly boiled water on my bare skin and the deep sepia colour of brewed coffee on my newly bought dress. In telegraphic detail: 6.45 am the alarm clock goes off. I get up. Get in the shower. Get out of the shower. Take ten minutes to squeeze into them Bridget Jones pants. Dress on, make up on, kettle on. Kettle off, mug out, coffee in, boiling coffee all over me. dress off. skin off. massive coffee stain on. DISASTER. But this is a story with a happy ending. The dress got salvaged thanks to the loyal boyfriend who washed it and blow dried it while I was applying toothpaste all over my burnt arms and chest (on the plus side, I smelt extra minty that day!). My skin remained bright red for the entire weekend, I didn't mind too much except that I had painted my nails red and I'm not a fan of the matchy matchy look.<br />
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Of course, don't expect any actual photos of it because the only thing I happily posed for were pictures in which I played croquet... a sport that other than a small Alice in Wonderland reference, I don't know much about. You have a ball and a stick that is not a flamingo (massive let down) and a little square on the ground that the ball has to go through.<br />
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My dress had three little bows at the back and some sort of a peplum effect. Clutch, jewellery and the whole shebang were also part of the outfit but I opted for comfort over fashion on the pitch. It was an important game. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCpX9ibqgWwtzlwnMWiTVPARGSMSUxkR9QgnhLrBgsZ5t209pq5EjNMldcNnCF62nggD1E7cladkesrcgW94W5ZqdDuAO_E0AQKQcQ4aCHfnoDfjqivZPbxyQSq1dnJBoaU-3l1Vt7rOt/s1600/IMG_2902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCpX9ibqgWwtzlwnMWiTVPARGSMSUxkR9QgnhLrBgsZ5t209pq5EjNMldcNnCF62nggD1E7cladkesrcgW94W5ZqdDuAO_E0AQKQcQ4aCHfnoDfjqivZPbxyQSq1dnJBoaU-3l1Vt7rOt/s640/IMG_2902.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Fur, heels and the occasional top hat are actually the required attire for this sport. </div>
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Needless to say, I sucked at it.<br />
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<b> (</b><i><b>no actual flamingos were harmed during this badly photoshopped athletic correction.) </b></i></div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-57316885084643092932012-04-22T13:52:00.000+01:002012-04-22T16:03:45.339+01:00The stylish guide to infected sinuses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello, my name is Daphne and I am a negligent blogger.<br />
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<i>everyone: Hiiii Daphne. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
Right, so now that the whole guilt over never blogging is out of the way, lets move on to an important subject I feel people don't talk about much. Illness in fashion. So, say you have a cold that seemed like it would only annoy you for a couple of days but has ended up tormenting you for about a week, slowly turning from a slight cough into voice elimination and finally (i hope) into a full on sinus infection. This shiz is no joke, it hurts. I know, the first time I blog properly since pretty much Valentine's day, and I do it while I'm ill. Maybe it's the fever typing, but I have decided to lay down the facts of how to look good (term used extremely loosely) when ill. Ultimately, fashion is about making yourself feel better, more attractive, more confident and no amount of face puffiness or Rudolf the red nose reindeer resemblance can beat a damn good kimono.<br />
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<b>THE STYLISH GUIDE TO INFECTED SINUSES/PNEUMONIA HYBRID</b></div>
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<li>First and foremost, you have to be good to your body. Dr Google strongly advocates that vitamin C is the way to go. I personally am very fond of this specific vitamin. It hides in a variety of yummy stuff including oranges. So, the moment the area around your eyebrows starts feeling like a little wind up monkey is playing the cymbals on your eyeballs, send your personal slave (boyfriend, parent, sibling, housemate or real slave in which case I probably don't like you very much) to get squeezing them vitamin c filled balls. Once that's done, pour them in a wine glass, this is all about styyyyle darling. Champagne or martini glass is also acceptable. </li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0r15GrLBqAIJrQbHUwZ69fCQvjuAeG-ApCt6a76tzbra4usAIEGeX2ndW_3xSAjUweqtC-otGSxE7tr9KlUP2I9K-CTUzyfbSEJqLThMlSLnpBvpLchkmpIxptYBHxs7ibYlzeckPckBz/s1600/IMG_3003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0r15GrLBqAIJrQbHUwZ69fCQvjuAeG-ApCt6a76tzbra4usAIEGeX2ndW_3xSAjUweqtC-otGSxE7tr9KlUP2I9K-CTUzyfbSEJqLThMlSLnpBvpLchkmpIxptYBHxs7ibYlzeckPckBz/s640/IMG_3003.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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(OK so there's not much you can do about your actual face unless your skin can deal with make-up, if it's sore/puffy like mine, it will very possibly be 100% make up intolerant) </div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Now, just because your body is rebelling against you, it doesn't mean that you have to drown it in unfashionable clothing. Feel good from the outside inwards. Of course I am not <i>completely </i>delusional (although slightly feverish), I know that you have to be comfortable and simultaneously warm enough but in breathable material. Kimono - Illness 1-0!</li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUDjc6BEJ-Nbv7bA2g3m-6jQDJy0medp0xBq6qpoMd99qIPYpxsSnlQ4FPCEvbUX-3jJPSbkpGm4ONhywrnGh2SYXRY3nMao4IeIiCMnyuN9Y1Ox2D1ksjs-Ihs7kJmGb3DFINAd8sorK/s1600/IMG_2994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUDjc6BEJ-Nbv7bA2g3m-6jQDJy0medp0xBq6qpoMd99qIPYpxsSnlQ4FPCEvbUX-3jJPSbkpGm4ONhywrnGh2SYXRY3nMao4IeIiCMnyuN9Y1Ox2D1ksjs-Ihs7kJmGb3DFINAd8sorK/s640/IMG_2994.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
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<li>Obviously, since we're talking about fashion, heels are mandatory but I would pick the comfiest you own. </li>
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And there you have it, infected sinuses/pneumonia chic nailed. </div>
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<b>Alternatively, you can just ignore all the above and recover slowly spending day after day in bed with Don Draper, sudafed and vitamin c whilst clad in old hole adorned tracksuit bottoms and looking like yourself. If I'm honest, I've long chosen this route. </b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipA3NXHcpoe8Ty512zPHlIy1DoAX5CBHv1KlLJlgPn9Rsghf_K-fTXBOrq6mfhPtJu1maCLy7SyWRRpmVFHbFbMoRzLW1gxD0kj2RnaMTPBFgEdURUaFiQGnl3Re5tKcNljzF0DZqDDH-J/s1600/IMG_3018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipA3NXHcpoe8Ty512zPHlIy1DoAX5CBHv1KlLJlgPn9Rsghf_K-fTXBOrq6mfhPtJu1maCLy7SyWRRpmVFHbFbMoRzLW1gxD0kj2RnaMTPBFgEdURUaFiQGnl3Re5tKcNljzF0DZqDDH-J/s640/IMG_3018.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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(<i>p.s these photos are all taken while I'm actually ill. Never ever say I'm vain hahaha) </i></div>
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</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-82465110825995211332012-03-19T18:12:00.000+00:002012-03-19T18:16:58.333+00:00MARNI x H&M IN DA HOUSE. *<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7eJ-oJnRf5MC5VQkfDVbNsYuYM2rDJqeEOHTPbKRspjDEjZBR9459wlcDYP0IEwdWkCzgG7bDACTeCndu4CIMe8aZSJNG44-f2Ydo67mQHhBwStbvR2rIJOGPkEr9FCOK_PEGtKY3m7aW/s1600/Photo+on+2012-03-19+at+17.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7eJ-oJnRf5MC5VQkfDVbNsYuYM2rDJqeEOHTPbKRspjDEjZBR9459wlcDYP0IEwdWkCzgG7bDACTeCndu4CIMe8aZSJNG44-f2Ydo67mQHhBwStbvR2rIJOGPkEr9FCOK_PEGtKY3m7aW/s1600/Photo+on+2012-03-19+at+17.53.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Hiya patent leather MARNI x H&M jumper. You are my new sartorial BFF.<br />
I will even forgive the 'fashionable robot' look your boxy cut gives me.<br />
It's not your fault I got you one size too big. I love you.<br />
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">jumper: marni x h&m (duh!)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">* my house, I know it's been in other people's houses for days now, <b>shut up!whatever!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">rings: <s>margiela </s> asos</span></div>
</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-84795458707438340692012-02-13T22:07:00.000+00:002012-04-22T19:15:51.073+01:00Valentine's Special (aka ONE LESS RED DRESS)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In case you live in a cave, I would like to inform you that tomorrow is Valentine's day. In case you've lived in that cave for long enough to have Backstreet Boys-resembling hieroglyphics on its walls, I would like to fill you in on how you should look/act on the day.<br />
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a) If you are loved-up, in a happy relationship and have generally speaking no imagination, let him spend £10 on one rose and three pieces of chocolate in a heart shaped box, chuck on a red dress and be a happy valentine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lv1RfxWAESdaJS0i-kJ1bNEQzTzqhwF9FuVxZmGp-yjBovfuWzHhJIueerMkVONkwT7WEgGyRhDpMmrlmTldaXaxYPtRG2sPNb14OOqJZMoelHMwxeojYamT44JjRAwFFtqzei317PfM/s1600/IMG_2114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lv1RfxWAESdaJS0i-kJ1bNEQzTzqhwF9FuVxZmGp-yjBovfuWzHhJIueerMkVONkwT7WEgGyRhDpMmrlmTldaXaxYPtRG2sPNb14OOqJZMoelHMwxeojYamT44JjRAwFFtqzei317PfM/s640/IMG_2114.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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If however, you happen to be<br />
<br />
b) single/recently dumped/recently fed up or a closeted asexual, all you have to do this (and every) valentine's is get Bridget Jones on the TV, a tub of Ben and Jerry's, your least sexy sleepwear and some tissues (depending on whether you're a girl or boy, these can be used in different ways but will probably come in hand-y in both cases. <i>line? what line? I see no line) </i><br />
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These are your ONLY valentine's options. Yes, I'm putting you in boxes. Stereotypes. Black and White.<br />
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I know this is usually the bit where I share anecdote's about my past valentines day's experience but this time, I won't. I've been happy, sad, single, loved up, ill, too young, too cynical on the actual day over the years but despite my love life happenings, I've never been interested in the significance of it. It's just always been the 14th of February. Feline out of the tote.<br />
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Over the years, I've gone through all the stages of cynicism concerning this day. My angry brainwashed teenage self with lack of own opinions, breasts and therefore dates, preached about it being too commercial. My single, dumped on facebook and not ready to mingle early twenties self fought about the pressure it put on people. My last couple of years loved up self was determine that love should be celebrated every day. My doubting myself self wondered often if i was just trying to be alternative. My today interning self finds roses too expensive and a bit of a cliche. But I actually think, I finally got to the bottom of it and came to the conclusion that my one big problem with Valentine's day, under the spectrum of which all my little problems fall under is: <b>painful lack of imagination. </b><br />
If you happen to walk past a restaurant tomorrow, adorned by paper hearts and roses, try and have a look at the tables. They're going to be packed with people eating over priced meals. More importantly, the vast majority of girls will be wearing red dresses.<br />
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LADIES! NYFW is happening, have a look, get inspired!! Designer's seem to be bumming those mid-lenght skirts at the moment... not sexy enough for you? right, step back a season and wear a nappy shaped pair of shorts. Not the right message? Fine! wear your silky Lipsy dress but pick a different colour. <br />
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I think I'm going to start a movement called : <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">ONE LESS RED DRESS</span>. For every photo of you not in a red dress, you get one shout out on twitter...<br />
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Fine, do whatever you want.<br />
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But just FYI I'm building a den in my living room because I am in love and despite being very happy about it, I don't celebrate it every day as I'm often tired, grumpy, annoyed by him. So I'll let some of my cynicism subside and celebrate it, with a picnic, under some sheets resembling a teepee tent with the loyal support of a couple of chairs. And I will probably be looking like this:<br />
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because, you know, I'm a rebel without a cause.<br />
<br /></div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-79945594004936301762012-02-05T20:28:00.001+00:002012-02-05T20:43:23.077+00:00GAY PARIS (happy, people, happy!)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In case you're wondering why it's been a while since I last posted, it's because I was in GAY PARISSS! (french accent please, and gay as in happy not gay as in shit. Just fiy). Now, I know there is a massive hype about Paris. It's meant to be the fashion capital of the world, the birth place of gourmet food and red wine and most importantly the most <b>romantic city in the world! </b>(it is, after all, where Tom (<i>as in, Cruise)</i> asked kat (<i>as in Holmes) </i>to become legit TomKat . BEAT THAT* *I hate them). The first time I went to paris I was eight. It was <b>freeeezing </b>and all I was interested in was how to consume as much chocolat chaud as physically possible and how to play as much footice (a rendition of football my dad and I invented where instead of a ball, you kick ice and give yourself severe frostbite) as I could before I turned into ice myself. The second time I went, it was in the last 20 days of a looong relationship that had long seen its best days. We went to all the romantic places and argued. We went to see beautiful art and argued. We had some nice food and argued. In the end, we missed our flight back and <b>argued. </b>I feel more romantic brushing my teeth every morning than I did during <i>that </i>trip to Paris.<br />
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So, having established my unconventional view of Paris, let me continue... <i>this </i>time round, I had a brilliant time. Not romantic, not even particularly fashionable but brilliant none the less. Cue to pictures.<br />
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As is the stereotype of any tourist and particularly tumblr or fashion blog owners, a trip to paris comes with an array of photographs showcasing a variety of dessert goodness. Macarons, croissants, berthillion sorbets. On top of that, it is also almost<b> compulsory</b> for any self respecting blogger to take photos of the locks on the bridges. I don't like to dissapoint my readers. So I did both. IN ONE!!<br />
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(<i>i love that this person just wished to never part from cakes and pie. He/She has found the meaning of life, I think) </i><br />
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Another photographic stereotype that comes all the way from Paris is ART. How many crowded mona lisas have you seen from visits to the Louvre? Thoughtful people imitating the Thinker? Monet's pond? and the list goes on.. Courtesy of Rodin's own back yard, I present you, a photo of ART:<br />
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(<i>on a slightly more serious note, if you happen to be in Paris, you <b>cannot </b>miss the current exhibit of Rodin's scetches. It's literally one of the best things I HAVE EVER SEEN. After this arse, of course.) </i><br />
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Lastly, Paris goers will <b>always </b>showcase FASHION. Wether it's designer windows or their own little ensembles, fashion will be present. Trust me. I happened to attend Paris with one of the most stylish ladies I've ever met, (I'm talking about my mum, how gay am I?!) so I could not pass on the opportunity to include her in all my outfit photos. She was, of course (she's my mum), happy to do so and even oblidged to the trademark I insisted upon continuing. So...<br />
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SAUTER (<i>I think, my french is merde!) </i><br />
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There were SOME (one) solo picture<s>s , </s> awkard posing. Oui madame!<br />
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and then, there was one nightmarish moment where my mum and I had to jump away from Hell. Literally. (<i>ok, sort of) </i><br />
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fiew.. close one!!!<br />
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A bientot...</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-21072989494669567022012-01-19T18:00:00.000+00:002012-01-19T18:23:58.622+00:00ANTICLIMAX.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You know how sometimes there is one coat that <b>you really trully can't live without </b>and a pair of shoes <b>without which your feet are sad and your outfits are incomplete </b>and then there are also some studded denim cut offs <b>that you don't want, you need </b>but even they would feel lonely without that perfect necklace <b>that was really made just for you. </b>Now, this doesn't happen very often if you live in London and are earning little but sometimes, call it fate, call it a miracle or just call it Christmas and be realistic, all these things might land in your very own wardrobe. With the giddiness of a school girl (why are school girls supposed to be giddy, I don't get it? when I was a schoolgirl, I was mostly tired and grumpy and confused by algebra) you chuck them all on, together, feeling like your life is complete.<br />
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All of a sudden, what used to be a 5'6 harmless person transforms into a fearless giant (those Litas are <b>taller </b>than they look) armed with a camel toe, camels would envy and an arse spikier than the most dangerous of sea urchin.<br />
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So you wear this outfit and you're feeling pretty good. And then you wear it again, and again, and again and then one day you realise...<br />
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That, actually, you look like a prostitute.<br />
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(<i>yeah, this is my prostitute face...) </i><br />
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Anticlimax.<br />
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JUMP<br />
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<i>picture was taken after my anticlimactic realisation which probably explained the pained expression on my face. </i></div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-27245996525907045802012-01-17T14:37:00.000+00:002012-01-17T14:38:52.719+00:00LUST.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">An ode to <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ACNE</strong></span></span><br />
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For Years I Tried To Fight You</div>
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Off My Oily Teenage Skin</div>
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But Since These Shoes</div>
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Have Been Released</div>
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They’re My Day’s And Night’s Wet Dream.<br />
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Love, Daphne. <br />
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<em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I have always sucked at poetry, even my endless love for gorgeous acne shoes can’t help me with that. </em> </div>
</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-8102968484509512772012-01-16T13:37:00.000+00:002012-01-16T15:48:06.527+00:00DRESS TOP. Tee Em (trademarked, duh!!)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Chances are, if you live in the western world, you spent the last month getting involved in a plethora of food/alcohol debauchery situations. This, will most probably have lead to one or both of these scenarios. 1) The uneven calorie to exercise ratio has lead to a permanent food bump causing your body conscious dresses to resemble the glutenous material containing the pork meat and turning it into a sausage (ahhh now, that's not a nice image/description is it? I should, in the future, aim for something more pleasing on the brain eye - totally 'a thing'). Or 2) (yeah of course I can start a sentence with 'or', I am my own editor <b>plus </b>artistic license, don't be stuck up) you were exposed to a champagne caused uneven sensibility to lowered inhibitions scenario that has left you with an actual growing foetus baby bump (this requires more than uneven ratio situations, this also requires a complete lack of brain cells people, what about the diseases? huh? yeah I am a kill joy and I'll preach. Do you know that the percentages for HIV are increasing again, <b>especially amongst us ladies? </b>- of course this little rant is aimed at people who were being stupid, if you actually <b>wanted </b>a baby - congrats, woop woop etc...) Aaaaaaanyway. To the point, if your NY resolution was NOT to go t-total or live on spinach and you are therefore still sporting that extra half a stone (or, like, I don't know, pea sized baby) I have the perfect solution for you. One, that doesn't include lung activity eliminating spanx. Everyone do a victory dance!<br />
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Voila the dress top (totes coined that term, yeahhhhhh!! -I know it's crap, I can't be creative ALL the time, I got shit to do) </div>
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Look how frillyyyyyyy. Perfecto, non?! The seam is high enough to hide your entire stomach and muffin top. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8KbWJ-7qxMY9Ed4sw__EwE18ssHYfBo_5ktiStmdVMAehb51xp18-hqP0EGZTP_t2lqaQJLhZzhG_wVaLg7K_Y5ron7Wd8hyH81Gv8pQS5n5cyM3yObPxXCG9P-ENJjRVAzt5bsASevc/s1600/IMG_1878.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8KbWJ-7qxMY9Ed4sw__EwE18ssHYfBo_5ktiStmdVMAehb51xp18-hqP0EGZTP_t2lqaQJLhZzhG_wVaLg7K_Y5ron7Wd8hyH81Gv8pQS5n5cyM3yObPxXCG9P-ENJjRVAzt5bsASevc/s640/IMG_1878.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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plus, if you choose one that is made out of a heavy rubbery-like material, like the one I'm wearing, it won't stick on you as you walk down the street/become the victim of that obnoxious type of wind that turns your clothes against you and makes them cling onto your body (which usually gets in your way when you're wearing silk. Silk is, in fact, the least loyal of materials. If you appear floaty and flimsy <b>stay that way, </b>you two faced exposing whore of a fabric.) So, if you wear heavy, rubbery fabrics, it just won't be windy in some sort of Murphy's law kind of way. Are you following this logic? no? well done, you're normal. </div>
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See, you can twirl in it. And it still doesn't stick on you. My only advice would be, because of the way it's cut, it would be wiser for you to pair it with slimming, elongating garments / shoe wear, or you might become the F word. <b>Frumpy. </b>So, opt for a pencil skirt, skinny jeans, cigarette trousers, high heels, leather trousers, pointy shoes. You get the gist... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGMXET4HMA-u-tEHervTG3WKZg5dqY2fwrgoIh2Cy0yPGVV441WjY7wQ7eciSi0enOmIr4VETwdtK0cTohZurFJtCj_moXG1NaoyQAmf18HoXojNfruyBkOGaugCl44SbxKOy3DWwH9ON/s1600/IMG_1888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGMXET4HMA-u-tEHervTG3WKZg5dqY2fwrgoIh2Cy0yPGVV441WjY7wQ7eciSi0enOmIr4VETwdtK0cTohZurFJtCj_moXG1NaoyQAmf18HoXojNfruyBkOGaugCl44SbxKOy3DWwH9ON/s640/IMG_1888.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Garments sold separately, pop up colours not included in the packet</i><i>. </i>(this is not particularly comprehensible or funny to you, I'm sure. I overdosed on American 80's toys adverts on youtube today and found their vocalising of the <i>'small print' </i>hilarious. Probably just me. ) My other stylistic advice would be <b>don't be a moron like me, and wear it with a coat, it's friggin' January and yes I said friggin' <i>that's how much I mean it!!! </i> </b>example, below:</div>
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So, to sum up: Baby/Food Bump Coverage: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">Check! </span>Angry American Sex Ed/Any Parent Unprotected Sex Rant: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">Check!</span> Slimline Pairing To Avoid Contradicting The Purpose of The Top: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">Check! </span>Don't Be A Moron And Wear A Coat Disclaimer: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">Check!</span> Yeah. All done. It's been educational. Right, now that we sorted all that out...</div>
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JUMP!!</div>
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<b>OH! p.s before you send out babygrows and cribs my way (as if you would, you tight lot!) let me clarify that I am in no way pregnant and the only thing that is currently and will be for the foreseeable future (a few years,thank you very much) growing in my belly is an aversion towards Richard Gere. (get it? he makes me sick). </b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">top: h&m</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">trousers: topshop</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">shoes: river island</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">clutch: asos</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">sunglasses: zara</span></div>
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</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6748571525401848197.post-72075473266729734582012-01-08T17:55:00.000+00:002012-01-09T16:24:07.519+00:001990's<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Having been born at the very end of 1987, I spent my early 90's learning about life's essentials. How to walk, talk, eat and appreciate the Rolling Stones. My days were generally spent in a variety of baby clothes that sometimes had me looking like a little pig with vertical striped cream trousers and other times like the unwashed baby of a rock star.<br />
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As you can see, this is very early 90s, it still has some remnants from the 80s. Whereas this:<br />
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Is clearly finally on board with the trademark of 90s fashion: SIMPLICITY.<br />
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The rest of the 90s saw me progressing from frilly floral princess dresses and glitter ballet flats to leggings under my dad's mick Jagger's t-shirts and yellow timberland boots that everyone had to have, to jeans and tops with Velcro trainers to trainers with curly laces to trainers with laces too cool to be tied up (<i>laces could be a post of their own). </i>The biggest part of the late 90s, I can hardly remember what I was wearing because most outfits were covered by a big triple offence/brilliance jacket that my parents brought back for me after visiting New York. It was black patent, puffa <b>and </b>covered in glitter. Oh Yeah!! (<i>these, by the way, are the same parents who wouldn't buy me light up trainers because they were <b>and I quote '</b>too kitch'. What The Face!). </i>I do remember however, my party outfit when I was 11. You know, when all the girls started wearing dresses at parties and all the boys wore lynx (called <i>axe</i> in Greece) and too much gel in their hair and we danced to slow songs. I always wore a very simple beige spaghetti strap dress and black suede pumps. I wore that dress and those shoes to every single party I went to for a whole year. So un-fashionista of me haha!<br />
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So despite my last bit of straight, simple and beige that could somehow be slightly 90s looking, I have to say the fashion of that decade and I didn't really meet. Versace's safety pins, Calvin Klein's simplicity, Kate Moss were all words absent from my vocabulary that I was too busy filling with the acoustic memorising of 'Macarena'. Granted, I did love the Spice Girls but I never owned platform shoes and the only thing Calvin Klein I was aware of was a beginners bra my mum chose for me which I religiously stuffed with loo roll and the occasional shoulder padding I had ripped off from old blazers like in any cliche film about teenage girls crying at their lack of lady lumps north of their bellybutton. I did however earn a Linda Evangelista haircut but it was more nit and less fashion related. Sad Face.<br />
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Linda Evangelista, Super Model.<br />
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Daphne Economou, Super Itchy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNdnWVg_d1syynOObN3Cnc_TIi6xkKXsUdJGZIMzwBWrX8VDgs9qtz5XITwLgcOny9sWad5eSCt9NT4XW3xwPjk4-K2fI7vByD-NU7aoLZkF31sBY-Sc7q977Q7vi1_Me-jKhYkr7Ev4U/s1600/180811_10150375398065012_839645011_16853322_7517995_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNdnWVg_d1syynOObN3Cnc_TIi6xkKXsUdJGZIMzwBWrX8VDgs9qtz5XITwLgcOny9sWad5eSCt9NT4XW3xwPjk4-K2fI7vByD-NU7aoLZkF31sBY-Sc7q977Q7vi1_Me-jKhYkr7Ev4U/s640/180811_10150375398065012_839645011_16853322_7517995_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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So now, in the usual fashion that has everyone yearning for the trends of approximately two decades ago, I see 90s influences popping up everywhere around me. And I decided to give it a go, in a Peter Pan/Michael Jackson syndrome moment, I felt like I needed to go back to my childhood (minus the nits) but on the fashionable side of it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-NPQzXvsdZwp9X4Tqx85PALv6SsipGjBPvuML-T0NbdTHc_cAJs10OQll0xoNlADoOniQHNUjsvs5L3PvHXVc823m9WHfi-ayd0PwPOW6zQBgx1pKZE_i6p8oYeVQ1uBagZmK0eqVOU0a/s1600/IMG_1637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-NPQzXvsdZwp9X4Tqx85PALv6SsipGjBPvuML-T0NbdTHc_cAJs10OQll0xoNlADoOniQHNUjsvs5L3PvHXVc823m9WHfi-ayd0PwPOW6zQBgx1pKZE_i6p8oYeVQ1uBagZmK0eqVOU0a/s640/IMG_1637.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm sure Jennifer Aniston had jeans like these. And sunglasses like the ones below too. Maybe I'm just channelling Jennifer Aniston.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIt60KyP8DllnyV8Yb8vVdAar25WOLe7jW0Vg90AI1nl7D9yGQ4BTaIChokSJlfN3Ga8OiKEhNwl4s5CY0MIaaqvsFRPLwBAz1nCCm95LHi0Virl42btrLiDkwn8TFBWkp9w4PtuVpHLb/s1600/IMG_1701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIt60KyP8DllnyV8Yb8vVdAar25WOLe7jW0Vg90AI1nl7D9yGQ4BTaIChokSJlfN3Ga8OiKEhNwl4s5CY0MIaaqvsFRPLwBAz1nCCm95LHi0Virl42btrLiDkwn8TFBWkp9w4PtuVpHLb/s640/IMG_1701.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Remember in the 90s, when banana phones were all the range?!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoK0io-I_8EbmaxKZof23-7moMs6ODqvfTgz2vZBZ6GvEf0QLvHg5WRbJNliu7NUrBzsyrH5oikaRkF6DJYLg1Z-gkKTO0oiS08kgJPUCQhIy6ApXoNMhLifvbgMGr5zDyB3Olv-xQmeKA/s1600/IMG_1686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoK0io-I_8EbmaxKZof23-7moMs6ODqvfTgz2vZBZ6GvEf0QLvHg5WRbJNliu7NUrBzsyrH5oikaRkF6DJYLg1Z-gkKTO0oiS08kgJPUCQhIy6ApXoNMhLifvbgMGr5zDyB3Olv-xQmeKA/s640/IMG_1686.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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yeah, ok, I made that up.<br />
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JUMP!! x<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">top/trousers/bracelets: h&m</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">lipstick: mac</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">sunglasses: courtesy of rodis (without him knowing ...oops!) </span></div>
</div>Daphne Economouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13437867979503319967noreply@blogger.com7