Showing posts with label Fan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fan. Show all posts
Apr 17, 2011
Jan 11, 2011
Rendez-vous manqués
Oh my God the frustration...
I just found out that one of my absolute favourite authors of 2009 / 2010, David Nicholls (author, entre autres, of the fantastic "One Day") will be doing a reading at the WH Smith on Rivoli and I won't be there! Please, for your own sake and literary enlightenment, if you're in the neighbourhood on February 2, go see him. I will leave it at your discretion whether you choose to tell David that a certain Little Swiss Miss is head over snow-booted heels in novelistic love with him. Feel free. Either way.
And in the meantime, read his books (there are - sadly - only three of them, so you have no excuse not to read them all). Although be warned, when I recommended "One Day" to The Boy, he stopped three chapters before the end and cursed me into oblivion because things didn't turn out how he wanted them too.
Yes, well, things don't always turn out the way we want them to, do they?
PS: The Roomie and I just finished putting the sofa together. He wanted me to point that out. On the premise that a little free advertising for his ruggedly handsome IKEA-handy self never hurt. So consider him advertised, girls.
I just found out that one of my absolute favourite authors of 2009 / 2010, David Nicholls (author, entre autres, of the fantastic "One Day") will be doing a reading at the WH Smith on Rivoli and I won't be there! Please, for your own sake and literary enlightenment, if you're in the neighbourhood on February 2, go see him. I will leave it at your discretion whether you choose to tell David that a certain Little Swiss Miss is head over snow-booted heels in novelistic love with him. Feel free. Either way.
And in the meantime, read his books (there are - sadly - only three of them, so you have no excuse not to read them all). Although be warned, when I recommended "One Day" to The Boy, he stopped three chapters before the end and cursed me into oblivion because things didn't turn out how he wanted them too.
Yes, well, things don't always turn out the way we want them to, do they?
PS: The Roomie and I just finished putting the sofa together. He wanted me to point that out. On the premise that a little free advertising for his ruggedly handsome IKEA-handy self never hurt. So consider him advertised, girls.
Sep 22, 2010
Absolutely Fabulous
"It's like watching 'Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous.'"
Dixit my father. About me.
Yes, at first I was confused too. Granted, I did write a Novel (she says, in a nasal drawl, waving around one of those long cigarette holders and flinging back a corner of her mink coat) and a entire Dozen of People have read it, but I wouldn't call myself Rich per se.
But it turns out Mr. Res Senior had a point. What he was referring to was My Evening With Stephen Fry.
Drumroll please.
It all began this past Monday afternoon, when I boarded the Eurostar and promptly proceeded to sleep throughout the entire journey (much partying had been had over the weekend). Two hours and fifteen minutes later, I was in London. I had a couple hours to kill so I strolled down Sloane Avenue and popped in for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at a Belgravia watering hole with an unpronounceable name (I believe Rachel Weisz was sitting next to me, or at least someone who looked very much like her - with fabulous shoes). Until it was time to make my way to the Royal Albert Hall, sit my behind in the fourth row and gawk at my intellectual idol for two and a half hours. And go home the next morning.
That's right, I hopped over to London for a show. Not just any show, of course; the legendary Stephen Fry is completely worth that kind of extravagance. But still. Even as I was doing it, I couldn't help but have a small giggle. I desperately wanted to wave off someone with a "ta ta, dahling, I'm off to catch Steve."
As for the show, well, it was just grand. But would you expect anything less of Mr. Fry? Part lecture, part reading, part stand-up comedy - it was a fine evening of wit, charm, provocation and exhortation. Bravo, I say.
Besides the sneaky picture my companion managed to capture at my urging (below), I also scored fifty UK stamps during my outing. Fifty stamps that will soon adorn the multitude of self-addressed envelopes I will be sending to agents, along with sample chapters, a synopsis, and a letter offering my first-born or my soul or both if they would only agree to find me a publisher.
Stay tuned.
Dixit my father. About me.
Yes, at first I was confused too. Granted, I did write a Novel (she says, in a nasal drawl, waving around one of those long cigarette holders and flinging back a corner of her mink coat) and a entire Dozen of People have read it, but I wouldn't call myself Rich per se.
But it turns out Mr. Res Senior had a point. What he was referring to was My Evening With Stephen Fry.
Drumroll please.
It all began this past Monday afternoon, when I boarded the Eurostar and promptly proceeded to sleep throughout the entire journey (much partying had been had over the weekend). Two hours and fifteen minutes later, I was in London. I had a couple hours to kill so I strolled down Sloane Avenue and popped in for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at a Belgravia watering hole with an unpronounceable name (I believe Rachel Weisz was sitting next to me, or at least someone who looked very much like her - with fabulous shoes). Until it was time to make my way to the Royal Albert Hall, sit my behind in the fourth row and gawk at my intellectual idol for two and a half hours. And go home the next morning.
That's right, I hopped over to London for a show. Not just any show, of course; the legendary Stephen Fry is completely worth that kind of extravagance. But still. Even as I was doing it, I couldn't help but have a small giggle. I desperately wanted to wave off someone with a "ta ta, dahling, I'm off to catch Steve."
As for the show, well, it was just grand. But would you expect anything less of Mr. Fry? Part lecture, part reading, part stand-up comedy - it was a fine evening of wit, charm, provocation and exhortation. Bravo, I say.
Besides the sneaky picture my companion managed to capture at my urging (below), I also scored fifty UK stamps during my outing. Fifty stamps that will soon adorn the multitude of self-addressed envelopes I will be sending to agents, along with sample chapters, a synopsis, and a letter offering my first-born or my soul or both if they would only agree to find me a publisher.
Stay tuned.
Sep 22, 2009
Et Dieu créa Stephen Fry
I adore Stephen Fry. Absolutely. Adore. Him.
One of the highlights of my life is when I ran into him in Oxford. Literally. Little Res was young and innocent(-ish) in those days, a perky and pesky 19-year old thing pretending to be a grown-up and having champagne cocktails at Oxford Uni student union. Très cool. Except that I was there celebrating having placed very respectably in Oxford's inter-varsity debating competition. Suddenly much less cool. Of course, nerd is the new chic, so whatever...
Anyways, there I was, champagne in hand and just bubbling over with sparkling, intellectual banter when the clumsy chubby girl inside of me performed an intricate and altogether graceless manoeuver which caused me to smack straight into a tall, large man's belly.
The belly of Mr. Stephen Fry himself.
While I don't recall being able to mutter anything more witty than "Oh", I truly feel that we created a strong personal bond that day. In fact, if Stephen was into short French chicks with American accents, he would clearly fall madly in love with me, propose and father all 12 of my impossibly clever children.
Which is why I'm VERY upset that no one told me that Stephen Fry has a blog...
So here it is. Enjoy. And tell Stephen I say hi.
One of the highlights of my life is when I ran into him in Oxford. Literally. Little Res was young and innocent(-ish) in those days, a perky and pesky 19-year old thing pretending to be a grown-up and having champagne cocktails at Oxford Uni student union. Très cool. Except that I was there celebrating having placed very respectably in Oxford's inter-varsity debating competition. Suddenly much less cool. Of course, nerd is the new chic, so whatever...
Anyways, there I was, champagne in hand and just bubbling over with sparkling, intellectual banter when the clumsy chubby girl inside of me performed an intricate and altogether graceless manoeuver which caused me to smack straight into a tall, large man's belly.
The belly of Mr. Stephen Fry himself.
While I don't recall being able to mutter anything more witty than "Oh", I truly feel that we created a strong personal bond that day. In fact, if Stephen was into short French chicks with American accents, he would clearly fall madly in love with me, propose and father all 12 of my impossibly clever children.
Which is why I'm VERY upset that no one told me that Stephen Fry has a blog...
So here it is. Enjoy. And tell Stephen I say hi.
Sep 16, 2009
Et Dieu créa la femme
There is an art to procrastination. And I am currently perfecting it. So quiet, please. I'm concentrating.
In the course of my artistic endeavours today, I watched CNN's "Revealed" on my favourite designer, Diane von Furstenberg. Now 63 years old and effortlessly glamourous, without the slightest surgical alteration, Diane had this to say on the subject of aging (I'm paraphrasing):
"I loved my life, I would hate to have any of it erased."
I thought that was nice. Then again, if you're Diane von Furstenberg, life must be pretty sweet anyway, wrinkles or no.
Fortunately, if you can't be her, you can at least wear her dresses and hope to channel a little timeless chic that way (which is what I'll be doing at the wedding this weekend; careful, boys!)
So ladies, repeat after me:
Feel like a woman. Wear a dress. (And some outrageous heels. And sexy lingerie. And maybe some dangly earings. And mascara. And - damn, it's hard work feeling like a woman, where the heck are my sweatpants?)
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