Snapped Up and print-clash experiments

Mammy, Dark Mavis and I took the Betti Baudelaire rail on the road today, and boy, what a corker of an afternoon we had!
Snapped Up Market takes place at the Printhaus, which is a whole 4 minute walk from my house. Mammy has been busy whipping up some of the designs - I've been woefully lax on the sewing front since starting my new job - and so we were able to debut four new pinnys, two new skater skirts, a ditsy floral dress and a few vinyl cake stands that Oli and I whipped up in the wee hours of last night. DM also brought down a bunch of beautiful t-shirts and prints by his newest collaborator Pyklops, whom I may be working with in the near future...watch this space!
The market wasn't as busy as we had hoped it would be (I reckon the heat + Sunday = BEACH TIME equasion was a factor there) but we managed to shift a little bit of stock, gorged ourselves on sweets and coffee and still found time to pose for the ridiculously cabaret photo above.

I made a doofy decision on looking out of the window this morning. I spotted a grey cloud - a cloud, would you believe?! - and therefore assumed that our moody British weather had returned to normal. Not so. I was clammy.
I've never been a big one for print clashing. The whole thing renders me slightly bewildered - hell, I have trouble remembering what colours match on the best of days. Whenever I attempt to put together a so-wrong-it's-right combination I end up squinting at my reflection in the mirror, unable to figure out whether I'm rocking the clash with panache or looking like a poor woman's Iris Apfel. I played it semi-safe and opted for an old Chelsea Girl leopard print midi, breezy polka dot jersey and big-ass specs that I hoped screamed 'I DO FASHUN THINGZ, HONEST'. I'm not sure it worked...

Polkadot top and headscarf - hand-me-downs from Mama H, skirt - Chelsea Girl, belt - chaz shop, cigarette - definitely not in my hand

Pissholes in the snow eyes are a result of my hate-hate relationship with make-up in these face-melting conditions, by the way. Over and out!

Betti Baudelaire xxx

Get Yr Knit On

It's done! It's finally all done!
Yup, somehow I managed to complete all four gigantico Uni assignments a week before deadline and now I'm free, FREE GOD DAMNIT, to sit in my living room eating pizza and knitting Christmas presents.
Did I mention that I learnt to knit the other week? No? Well, I did, as evidenced in the poorly-made GIF above. Yaaay! You can see how proud I am here:

 Scarf - hand-knitted by meeee, headscarf - given to me by a bloke in the queue for Clwb Ifor Bach in exchange for a fag, t-shirt - Jose Vanders merch, braces - H&M, skirt - secondhand from Rhi, tights - sheer magic.

So I made this scarf in a couple of days, and had so much fun doing it that I decided to produce a whole bunch of shitknits in time for the festive season, which means all my pals will be receiving lumpy woollen goods in their stockings. This has nothing at all to do with the fact that I'm totally skintos. NOTHING, I TELLS YA.
In other news, I based my childish outfit yesterday around these ridiculously awesome Roy Lichtenstein-inspired tights. I picked them up in Paris when I was fourteen, wore them once and promptly discarded them for the next ten years. Until last week that is, when I had a little rootle around in my tights drawer for something to jazz up my flagging paupers wardrobe and rediscovered them and all their pop art glory. Have a butchers, they're great.

In keeping with the throwback theme, today I channelled the spirit of my 13 year old self and looked back 11 years to a time when my life revolved around school blazers, Silver Ravenwolf books and unfinished chemistry homework. I was always an odd child, and my friends and I (I won't name the rest of them for fear of causing them embarrassment *coughLOZCOOKcoughZOEFJSUTTON*) would spend hours casting magic circles and boiling things up in my mums casserole pot and wearing pentacle necklaces and the like.

So today I dragged that old pentacle from my childgood jewelry box, paired it with a schooley ensemble - albeit in more flattering colours than my original high school uniform. A cat jumper, creepers, a vacant stare and some Picmonkey wizardry enabled me to emulate Robin Tunney in The Craft like I always wished I could do when I was a young'un.

Headscarf - stolen from Mammy, blazer and skirt - charity shop, cat jumper - Peacocks, socks and tights - Primark, creepers - Niche, bad photography - too cold to be outside, swanky special effects - WITCHCRAFT YO.

Speaking of editing, here's what happens when I allow Oli to contribute to my blog.

Adios, amigos!

Betti Baudelaire xxx

Rage

I'm giving up smoking for the 17465th time. It's not going very well, hence the title of this post and the following mishmash of staccato, passive agressive sentences. There's a cold, hard, menacing glint in my eye. My fag-hand doesn't know what to do with itself, the max-strength nicotine gum is giving me a sore throat and my hair smells strange. Like, fresh. Ugh, I just shuddered involuntarily.

It's been one day.

To combat the gnawing sense of loss that accompanies ditching the cigs, I did my best to pull together an outfit that didn't feature a single leisurewear garment. Right on schedule, I experienced a massive attack of the 'I HATE YOU, WARDROBE' neuroses. Seriously, every single bloody item of clothing I own has magically revealed itself to be woven from 10% cotton, 90% crap. I'm sorely tempted to give the majority of it to the poor, unsuspecting charity shops around the corner.
How does one beat the bad clothes blues? Help needed.

Bowler hat - Primark
Cardigan - Lily Vintage in Chester
Dress - H&M
Belt - River Island

I was dangerously close to curling up into the foetal position and admitting defeat, but then remembered this no-fail cardi from Lily Vintage that I picked up in Chester earlier this year. Its fuzzy mohair beauteousness and jazzy splashes of colour enlivens even the 'pleh'-est of outfits in much the same way that a brick enlivens a dull floor (guess the reference, British TV fans. The winner gets a rake. There's another one for you...um.) This 'ere cream glittery H&M Christmas dress gave me a much-needed sparkle injection. Glitzy dresses - better than Prozac. I cheered up a treat, resisted the urge to set fire to the mountain of clothes left on my bedroom floor and went for falafel. MMM.

The one good thing that has come out of this whole fag-dumping fandango is that I used the money that would usually go towards a pack of 10 Sterling to pay for my first dance class in almost a year. Progress indeed.

Adios!

Betti Baudelaire xxx

Workwear is the WORST

The ode to the Nan-slacks will have to wait (although they do make an appearance), because tonight I'm dedicating my ramblings to the joys of...wait for it...WORKWEAR.
Please don't fall into a dead faint.

I've been on work experience at GT Magazine in London for a week, and as such have not had much time for blogging. Well, not personal style blogging anyway. I've written a couple for the GT website already, which you can find here and here, and am assured the rest will be put up next week. Including one about Nicki Minaj, and you KNOW how much I love her...

I did try to take a few photographs over the week, but my phone camera is SHIT and as a result every sodding one came out like this.

Lame.

Luckily I've scrambled back to Cardiff this weekend to do a bit of reviewing for Media Wales, which means that my on-call photographer/lovely boyfriend was roped in for a retrospective snapfest of my outfits from the past week.

The term 'workwear' generally makes me feel like I'm about to lose my lunch. To me, it's a byword for mundanity. For boredom, pinstripe suits and the slow surrender of personal and style identity. And beige. Ugh. So when packing for my trip to the Big Smoke, I attempted to create a capsule "really, I'm a serious journalist, look at my flesh-coloured tights and sensible mid-heel" wardrobe that was as far from the dreaded W-word connotations as possible.

Piratey Blouse - Hobos
NAN SLACKS - chazz
Belt - River Island
Shoes - George@Asda

Puff sleeves! High-waisted woollen check! A scraggly beehive and pops of ballerina pink! On my first day at the office I opted primarily for comfort with a sly nod to crazy. Enter Adam Ant-esque blouse, which is light, airy and makes me want to go 'YARRR' every time I catch sight of my own reflection.

Bandana - Rebel Rebel
Jumper - Peacocks
Skirt - River Island
Boots - chazz

I woke up on day#2 missing Daveycat like mad so decided to pay homage to her in this natty kitty knit. The woman serving me in Pret A Manger got so excited about this jumper that for a moment I thought she was going to leap from behind the counter and try to stroke my belly. Thankfully she didn't.

Headscarf - Colours in Berlin
80s-tastic all-in-one - The Yellow Shop
Boots - chazz
Day three was a lazy day, so required a lazy solution. I'd predicted this mid-week slump so packed a jazzy vintage playsuit that, when worn, gives the beholder the impression that the person wearing it has carefully thought through their days attire. In reality, I rolled out of bed, slung it on and dashed out of the house, only just remembering to hop back up to the bathroom and brush my teeth. £22 well spent - this thing can guarantee an extra 10 minutes sleep in the morning.

Jumper - chazz
Skirt &shoes- as before

Oh, what to wear on a bitingly cold day with intermittent spells of torrential rain? Answer: Super-cosy embellished jumper to keep pneumonia at bay, plus nude tights and sturdy but easily removable shoes to ensure the rest of the day isn't spent shivering in wet trousers. Simples.

 

 Those on instagram feel free to give me a follow - it's torchthetreasure.

Adios, pals!

Betti Baudelaire

THE ONES

 
The sun has decided to man the fuck up and poke his little face through the clouds for the past two days, and I've finally been able to heave a massive sigh of relief and take a breather now that 90% of the work I've been piddling my pants over is out of the way. Rejoice!

This meant I was able to snap some style post pics. I know the 'but it's raaaiiinnning' excuse is tired and lame, but honestly - there is not A SINGLE DECENT PLACE to take a blog-suitable shot in my charming but ever-so-slightly tatty little flat. I've been waiting, camera in hand and foot impatiently tapping, for a sunny day so I could showcase my purchase of the year.

I do not say this lightly.

Look at them...LOOK AT THEM!!! These are the trousers I've been waiting for my entire life. They are my Ones (don't tell Oli). I'm not a massive fan of high street shopping - as if you couldn't already tell - but these cropped, tailored, floral and paint-spattered H&M beauts were so far up my street they were practically knocking on my door and inviting themselves in for a cuppa.

I'm not sure how seasonally-appropriate these lads actually are and I'm still not entirely convinced by the whole winter florals-and-pastels malarkey but I can't hide from the fact that when I slip these jazzy trews on in the morning, life just seems a bit brighter. Well-deserved BOOM, H&M.

Trousers - H&M
Jumper - Prefab second hand
Blouse - chaz shop
Shoesies - George at Asda

So I guess it's pretty apparent how enamoured I am with my statement purchase for this semester (student loans only stretch so far), but I could only handle the saccharine-sweet pastelmania for so long before I started feeling queasy every time I looked in the mirror.

The antidote was lurking, as it often does, in the menswear section of Primark where Oli and I discovered it on a routine boring sock shop. I'd all but vowed to never buy from a high street retailer again after the disappointing autumn/winter crop until my dream jumper literally jumped out and punched me full force in the face. Ok, maybe not literally. But it may as well have done.

 

THE BREAKFAST CLUB?! A still from one of my all-time favourite films featuring the cast looking suitably insouciant plastered onto a jumper of not-totally-tragic quality for just £12? Get in. Pastel induced nausea - neutralised. (Crap Instagram picture a result of another torrential downpour, boo.)

Next time - why high-waisted woolly Nan-slacks are God's gift to womankind.

Betti Baudelaire