I've moved on...
...to a different domain. Why, what were you thinking? The truth is, I just woke up one day and decided it's time for a change—a metamorphosis, if you will; or, in layman's terms, if Britney can shave her head, then maybe so can I? Nevertheless, it's been a rather handsome 10 years of talking to you, and thank you for putting up with all my moodswings and terrible dad jokes. Fear not! The hormonal imbalance and jokes are more terrible on CUBICLE, see you there.

Dress, ASOS Black, Sandals, Kurt Geiger Elena. Turquoise Nail Polish, BarryM

Now, don’t let this be any sort of guide for some of you brave (*cough*insane*cough*) folks out there packing for the London games this summer. I’ve thrown in a jar of Indian Summer, a sachet of Third-degree Sunburn, a swig of Pimm’s (along with a slice of cucumber and half a strawberry) and a few desert-lizard tongues into the Photoshop cauldron while cackling like a mad hag. This mad hag also happens to have bartered a few crucial marbles in exchange for a tub of SKII Cellumination at duty free and then lost an additional few during one Q&A session with life (or rain-pregnant sky) on the topic of WHY THE FREAKING FREAK IS IT 15 DEGREES IN JULY. So no, don’t be fooled by the styling choices in this post (or lack thereof), the nonchalant summer-smiles and that bottle of perspiring Rekordelig. Thankfully our 3m windows heat up the flat to OK-degrees but it might as well be snowing outside. Good luck to you athletes.

Elena studded sandals courtesy of Kurt Geiger, for it truly takes a superhero to be flying out – platformed/studded feet-first – to kick

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this weather’s donkey for the good of humankind.

Marc Jacobs Wellington

Cashmere sweater, Muriee. Boyfriend Jeans, ASOS. Booties, Sam Edelman Rowin. Specs, YesStyle, Bag, Marc Jacobs Wellington

Just a quickie before I go tip a huge bowl of rice crackers from the lounge snack-bar into my boyfriend jeans for the 8am flight back home. I’m wearing the exact pair now and by happenchance caught a glimpse of my reflection at Tokyo Narita airport and honestly thought it looked like I pooped me pants. In a good way, like, you-ain’t-gonna-pat-me-down-there-surely type of convenience. Anyhow, this is probably not the outfit to be posting while on a layover in 35ºC+ (95ºF) Dubai, but I’m quickly learning that it’s not summer in London if there isn’t at least one piece of cashmere in a July outfit, so to heck with it. This Muriee piece is another one of those that fly on and off the couch with an indecent wash vs. wear count ratio, with a shape so boxy that so effectively conceals all stages of le food baby. My favourite bit is the fact that the cashmere is dyed with berries and leaves, brownie points for eco-friendliness!

Shot in London before leaving for Japan; Thank you Kit for helping with the snaps.

Petersham Nurseries, Richmond

Bag, Marc Jacobs Wellington

Petersham Nurseries Café

Image shot for and courtesy of Editer.com

Image shot for and courtesy of Editer.com

Image shot for and courtesy of Editer.com

Image shot for and courtesy of Editer.com

Baby beetroot with barrel-aged feta salad by Chef Greg Malouf – Recipe & more info available at Editer.com

 Petersham Nurseries, Church Lane, Off Petersham Road, Richmond, Surrey, TW10 7AG

Since all eyes & ears are on Federer’s back-hand and Serena’s grunts in Wimbledon I thought I’d share another compelling destination in a similar area: Petersham Nurseries in Richmond, which is just 6 miles (or 20 mins car-ride) from the courts. Mind, I live in North-East London and this this as South, and West as it gets without dropping off the map – the journey’s over an hour on the tube and my mind leaked out around about Willesden Junction… so when I finally got there my mood was down to a silent-growl (nevermind the screams of seat-pattern embedded buttcheeks). Of course, the tendency of my mood is like that of a Pomeranian, and shall we say Petersham Nurseries was a beef jerky wrapped in a sock. The place was a breath of fresh air – literally – with roses, ferns, foxgloves, jasmine and hydrangea that were exhaling scents while the red dirt floor smelled of of fresh rain (the weather was trying to be nice, as Sophie cleverly put it). We met the star chef Greg Malouf as he demonstrated how to make Baby beetrood with barrel-aged feta salad at the cafe, then I wandered off to explore their home-ware & antiques shop while the taxi never came. I mean, it did come in the end, with much coercion and one too many threat calls (think an episode of 24),  but it did give me time to pick out exactly what I wanted to get the next time I braved a trip down again. I’ll just need to bring a truck and lottery money, that’s all.

Edit: Just realised they take orders online/over the phone too but I’ll pretend not to have seen that.

Ceviche in Soho

Ceviche in Soho

Sandals, Dune

V-neck tee, YesStyle. Heels, ASOS Sienna. Boyfriend Jeans, ASOS. Headphones, Urbanears. Brown satchel, ASOS. Leather Bracelet, COS. Watch, GUESS (Have you entered the GUESS One to Watch competition!?), Gingham bike-seat, YesStyle; Photos on rows 4,5,6,7 taken for Editer feature

Pop quiz: What does Ceviche, iced lemonade on a humid day, 2-for-1 sale at Sainsbury’s and cushioned flats during LFW have in common? Answer: The ‘Ahhrrrhhhhhhhhhhh‘ from an angelic choir that fill your head and relieve your stress-bar of gremlins and oafs (oaves? no). It’s one of those difficult-to-explain things that forces you give a vague explanation but also allows you to witness that rare surprised look on your ever-sceptical dining buddy as the first fork goes in – you know – the subtle hop of eyebrows and the curt nod before he catches your eyes and says ‘yeahhh it’s alright’. Pah, men and egos. Personally, when I had my first bite while shooting for Editer not only did I join in with my angel choir with a high-pitched medley (think ‘Oh Happy Day‘) but there was also hooting and banging of spoons on the table some. It’s that good. And as far as vague explanation goes, Ceviche (of Peruvian kitchen) – is basically raw fish and seafood marinated in spicy citrus juice, or what they call Tiger Milk. I obviously had a brief moment of imaging milking a tiger and thinking THAT’S RIDICUWOOS, but a sip of it induced another angelic ‘Arrhhhhhhh‘ plus a happy tiger roar and then I understood why the name. So there you have it, a perfect birthday lunch with le hubby. (Bday is actually the 4th but since every year I’m busy counting fireworks [FOR ME!?] we decided to celebrate earlier.)

Speaking of birthdays and delights, got some fun news from the lovely folks at Motilo: An opportunity to win a ridicuwoos amount of dosh to spend at NET-A-PORTER.COM. I have my eyes on a certain PS1 classic or contents of a full suitcase to take to Japan next week. In fact, the competition ends on the 10th of July and that’s just about when I fly so I’ll see you, suitcase, at the airport. Note: if you’re feeling generous, please feel free to enter with variations to my name (i.e Shini Parko, Shini Parkookoo, Shini Pee…etc) and I’ll never complain that someone spelt my name wrong in an email again.