Ignore the painfully chewy and not terribly enjoyable taffy apples...banish from your mind (if you can) the multitude of "sexy" Halloween costumes that have assailed your eyes everytime you ventured out of the house...for it is the time of year that adds a spring to the step of the expat Brit. Yes, the Cadbury Selection Box has arrived on these shores. And much as I hate shopping for Christmas food before the end of October I know that these will sell out before November has as much as shambled across the doorstep.

Hence the shameless stockpiling...and the knowledge that I'll spend the next two months lusting over the fingers of fudge and caramel bars nestling inside...

A sunny Saturday...a long walk watching nature have a final frolic before things get colder...and the anticipation of an evening with the latest issue of The Gentlewoman, a glass of red wine, and some episodes of The Avengers. All in all, not a bad little day...

As all of these one-of-a-kind bags are sold out this is more a case of a yet-another-item-to-add-to-the-ever-expanding-DIY-idea-list than anything else. A reason (as I'm running out of wall space) to contemplate buying slightly abused...and, in all likelihood, badly painted...canvases from thrift stores...and attempting to give them a new lease of life being both useful and decorative.

I'd like to apologize, up front, to any small men who frequent my local H&M. No...wait...that didn't come out right. Blinded by the excitement of snagging a gorgeously vibrant cotton and silk cardigan...and a classic cotton/cashmere v-neck in an equally classic shade of oatmeal...both at very wallet-friendly prices courtesy of H&M's men's section...I veered wildly into the land of the double entendre (you can take the girl out of Britain, but you can't take Britain out of the girl). Apologies...and if you are a gentleman of diminutive stature...unable to satisfy your urge for form-fitting knitwear...the apologies are doubled.

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms,
clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits
intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if
these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable as they;
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

The answer, as they say, is rarely found at the bottom of a glass. A self-forming smiley face at the top of the glass certainly helps you pose the question though...

There's your general, low-level, geekiness...and then there's the level of geek where you find yourself getting way too excited by the prospect of being able to color-code all of the black cables in your bag. I blame it on the fact that almost every cable I use comes in basic black...which is great if you're looking for a dress...but irritating beyond belief when you want to hook up your external hard-drive but can't figure out which cable you need...

Christmas...childhood...the two are inexorably linked, aren't they? Even when the memories are...painful. Like the year I decided (with a certain amount of parental coercion) to make an extremely large kissing bough...the k.b. being (according to the great God Wikipedia):

"...a traditional Christmas decoration in England. Also called a Christmas-bough or mistletoe-bough, it has the shape of a sphere or globe with a frame made of wire. The whole frame is covered with greenery. Red apples or oranges may be hung from ribbons in the centre and mistletoe is tied below."

So...little Heb...a quantity of heavy-duty wire which she fashioned into a ball about a foot in diameter...buckets of holly (incredibly painful to attach, via thin wire, onto the ball)...and the final coup de grace...attached a couple of finger-pricking days later, I might add...the poesy of mistletoe hanging below.

It looked...if I might say in a slightly Martha Stewart-esque manner...rather impressive...festive, yet daunting by the sheer number of man (I mean chid) hours that it took to create. So imagine my chagrin when I saw the "Fresh Eucalyptus & Pomegranate Kissing Ball" available at Restoration Hardware for a mere $39...all the beauty, none of those pesky child labor laws.

The conversation went a little something a little like this...

Physiotherapist: "These shoes would be perfect for you, they have rigid soles."

Self - trying not to recoil from the full orthopedic horror of the image in front of me: "Ah..."

(Followed quickly...in the hope of finding the silver lining in a very dark cloud..and having a valid excuse to purchase those shearling clog boots)

"...how about shoes with wooden soles? They're firm."

Physiotherapist: "No...they're too firm."

I am, officially, a footwear Goldilocks...the soles of shoes are now viewed as...not firm...too firm...and just right. The shame of it all is that "just right" also appears to be hideously ugly.

Based upon the...slightly dubious and wholly unexpected success...of my knitting project...this may be the time to try and crochet an underwater world. If a snood could morph into a hat, a prawn may very well turn into world domination (insert Pinky and the Brain worthy maniacal laughter here)...

The inner demon has struck again...the one who casts a despairing eye on the ocean of black, gray, and similarly dark hues nestling comfortable and companionably in my my closet...and decides that it's time for a little color. Actually...strike that...make it COLOR...as the little blighter (not one for half measures) talked me into a v-neck sweater which is almost astroturf green in its vibrancy.

A color that I love...despite the unfortunate memories attached to it (namely self...a white bathroom...a tub of green hair dye...a lack of foresight related to rubber gloves resulting in hands that matched my hair for a couple of weeks...and a similar l.o.f. which caused me to "go green" just before St. Patrick's Day).

With all apologies to Amy Winehouse there was really nothing else to title this post...no other way to concisely describe what can happen when an enthusiastic-yet-not-very-practiced-knitter decides that her first project of the winter will be a one-star-difficulty-level-snood.

Not one to bother with the minutiae of life she takes vague notes concerning the type of wool and needles needed...beyond the fact that the former must be thick...while the latter should be large. Armed with this information...scribbled on to a soon-to-be-lost fragment of paper...she heads to the store...and buys a lovely, marled grey wool...and pair of hazard orange needles.

Visions of warm necks...and seasonally appropriate sugar plums...dance in her head. A feeling of well-being that is only accentuated by the speed with which the project moves forward...I mean, really, even the final casting off is a painless experience...while sewing the ends together is the work of a moment. In fact, right up to the moment when "the knitter" tries to get the snood over her head, every prospect pleases (as the poet said).

Then she realizes...the snood is not a snood (at least, not for an adult human) but...with a few stitches at one end...it is a hat. Once again proving that you can be up to no snood, yet still get ahead...

Just in time for Halloween...though, to be fair, I think I'd be able to justify gorging on caramel and chocolate just about any day of the week...my Spidey senses led me in the direction of Vosges' Day of the Dead skulls.

In no particular order my newest skull loves are...Tequila Caramel Skull (Corzo silver tequila, Fleur de Sel sea salt, and 70% cacao dark chocolate)...Red Fire Caramel Skull (Ancho y chipotle chillies, Ceylon cinnamon, and 70% cacao dark chocolate)...and Dulce de Leche Skull (Argentine dulce de leche crammed inside a 45% cacao deep milk chocolate shell). Life may be sweet...but this may be sweeter.

"I leave you, for these woods;
Here I will lay me down, beneath these shady pines;
And, wrapt in meditation deep, despite the power of love"

- The London Chronicle, 1761

Whilst web wandering I happened across these images from what may be one of my favorite editorials from the late 90's...Stella Tennant...exuding a nonchalant, minimalist, quiet, sense of ease and...power. The power of being comfortable...in your own skin...the clothing that covers it...and your surroundings.

From the April 1999 issue of US Harper's Bazaar...Shady Pines...

I've been thinking a lot about driving recently. Having failed two tests...both in the UK...both for utterly stupid reasons...both on cars with manual gearboxes...I can't decide if the time is finally right to have one more go...in an automatic...on this side of the Atlantic.

Worst case scenario I remain a cab-taking-pedestrian...best case...road trips...the potential to buy the Jennifer Hart 70's Mercedes Roadster of my bad-television-induced dreams...and the ability to park (should work or whim take me to Detroit) in the somewhat eroded 1920's splendor of the Michigan Theater...

In general, I am...even though a slight obsession with all things suede would tend to suggest otherwise...a practical shopper. I eschew...and even, on occasion, ridicule...stylistic elements that I know will either attract dirt like a magnet or ensure that I am freezing my derriere off at a time when I should be toasty warm (I'm looking at you...gossamer-thin, ankle-length skirt in sub-zero winter).

Yet, faced with the utter ridiculousness of a rabbit-lined trench I find myself going weak at the knees. On the practicality scale, fur and water are as badly oriented compatriots as chalk and cheese...Felix and Oscar...and haggis with virtually any other food source...and yet...

The trench is...classic (in a Peter Falk as Columbo kind of way). The golden zip is...(quite frankly) pimp-e-rific. The rabbit fur...decadent, yet destined towards a damp bunny future. Yet, I am captivated...

har·le·quin

– noun
1.( often initial capital letter ) a comic character in commedia dell'arte and the harlequinade, usually masked, dressed in multicolored, diamond-patterned tights, and carrying a wooden sword or magic wand.
2. a buffoon.
3. any of various small snakes having bright diamond-pattern scales.

– adjective
4. fancifully varied in color, decoration, etc.: harlequin pants.
5. resembling a harlequin's mask: harlequin glasses.

Origin:
1580–90; < F, MF ( h ) arlequin, semantically (and in part phonetically) < It arlecchino < MF, phonetically continuing OF *harlequin, halequin a malevolent spirit (Compare mesniee Hellequin a troop of demonic horsemen, lit., Hellequin's escort), prob. < ME *Herla king, OE *Her ( e ) la cyning King Herle, presumably a legendary figure, rendered in AL as Herla rex; cf. OHG Herilo a personal name, deriv. of heri armed forces

On the road...or should that be in the air...again. Somewhat pathetically the ability to take (decent) photographs on my phone...instead of having to excavate my camera from layers of bags...is providing hours of childish amusement...especially when I'm at how-ever-many-thousand feet...

The only thing that would add to this glee would be Want's appropriately named O'Hare bag to grab the phone out of...

Some winter's mornings...mainly those that incorporate the double whammy of having to get to work at an obscenely early hour and wandering the dark, empty streets in an attempt to find a cab...you lack the energy to do more than wave. For such mornings, might I suggest taxi mittens? Admittedly, they're more Ugly Betty than Catherine Deneuve but when you're cold...tired...and in desperate need of a head-clearing cup of coffee...such considerations fall by the wayside.

I'm always rather dubious of things that do double-duty...you always hope that they'll be a wonder product but, in reality, there's a tendency towards mediocrity when you try to use them for either task. All of which makes me slightly dubious about this tweed pencil-cum-mini-skirt...no matter how tantalizingly librarians-go-wild it may be.