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Sweater – COS. Leather trousers
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Topshop. Bag – Couronne. Watch – GUESS. Glasses – YesStyle. Star necklace – MyFlashTrash. Heels – Christian Louboutin. Thank you Niek for helping with the photos!

So, apparently a work-out bench is a very different thing than of a normal bench. For example, it is not possible to pass out on a work-out bench clutching a beer can and half-eaten kebab. I have tried this. A few weeks ago, just as our holiday in Sardinia was coming to a close, hubby and I happened to weigh ourselves on the hotel spa scale and both did a double take. We threw away the pizza crusts we smuggled into the pool, raced back to the room; he ordered a work-out bench off Amazon, I Googled female sumo-wrestler blogs, then ordered a yoga mat and some macaron-coloured dumbbells, finding none. We had a steak for dinner, telling each other it would be our last, and then the next day we had our ‘last ever’ steak again. That was weeks ago, and only this past weekend we managed to sit down and plan a exercise pattern, and put together the work-out bench that was already gathering dust. I spent three hours exercising my Polish swearwords volcabulary on 2kg (4.4lbs) weights, and hubby picked up from his pre-wedding fitness and pumped 25kgs (55lbs)… all the while grunting and advertising to our neighbours that we’re having a merry time as married couple. I don’t need no bikini body, but I’d really like my boyfriend jeans NOT to fit like skinny jeans. Losing 2kg I got as a Christmas gift + 3kg I brought home as souvenir from Italy would be a definite plus.

Bah, THE PAIN though! It feels like I’m turning into Pinocchio, and apparently I walk like Forrest Gump. Louboutins ain’t the shoes to wear for post-workout, that I know now.

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Jumpsuit – Topshop. Heels – Zara. Rose-gold star necklace – MyFlashTrash. Sunglasses & Bag – c/o Couronne. Watch – Sekonda. Gold bangles – ASOS. Friendship Bracelet – DIY (similar here). Belt - Marni (via the Outnet); Ring – Michelle Oh; Thank you Charlie for helping with the photos.

Let this be my humble attempt at inquiring what ze heck is up with this weather by going into the boiler room with a wrench. Apparently, according to practice, the most appropriate attire to such assignment is either a boiler suit or a beer company t-shirt + paint-stained khakis combo, and since I’m off beer for, like, THE REST OF MY LIFE after spilling it all over my laptop the other day, I’m going with the jumpsuit option. It’s surprisingly comfortable! But I won’t speak for the poor man who missed his chance to overtake me in a narrow street and could not help but to witness the series of wedgie un-doing.  As for the weather, I’m really not too sure what’s wrong – my theory is that the thermostat plastic melted onto a permanent state of 32°C (90°F). The manuals were clear though, on claiming I am just one ungrateful bastard for complaining about this beautiful summer weather. I do apologize. Alas, I did do some good banging around with the wrench (The stud-embossed Couronne bag does a fantastic tool-bag make) and now there’s a thunderstorm outside, which means I may have either fixed it or broken it further. We shall see.

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T-shirt – Who What Wear. Jeans – Topshop Boutique. Tartan shirt - Motel Rocks. Bag – JinYoo103684. Boots – Thakoon. Watch – Guess.

Ever since we started having this amazing weather every weekend was a gamble of either risking lasagna-degrees at home or trying to find somewhere that’s not gurgling with people – cool people, especially – because now I feel uncomfortable lying in the park with wild hair and no make-up, clutching a beer generally looking like a hobo. Everyone’s out dressed in beautiful sun dresses and Miss Universe make-up, and is it just me or British boys look hotter in the sun?* I guess they technically are in 31 degrees compared to 12, but that rule clearly doesn’t apply to everyone (me). Some weekends I’d come home after spending a afternoon in Shoreditch or the flower market, wailing EVERYBODY IS COOLER THAN MEEEEE to the hubby. Eventually I’d fall asleep on the sofa to the sound of his ‘there there…’, where occasionally I’d dream that I’m a moose in the middle of a field of shiny horses all wearing horn-rimmed glasses. I run back bawling to my moose husband in the dream too (I’m seeing a pattern here…). So last weekend I tested out an ingenious idea of re-visiting** Canary Wharf, London financial district in the East and satisfyingly void of ‘cool’. Well, that’s not entirely true, because how the river and the concrete meet in this hypermodern-Venice like setting is the coolest, coldest treat in the heat, and the fact that there’s basically no one around is pure bliss. Don’t tell anyone I hang around there though, wouldn’t want to be evicted from Hackney for ‘lack of hip’ and all.

* Sorry for looking, husband, maybe we should sprinkle water on our bellies and go lie in the sun a little to see if we can grow a six-pack by next weekend.

** Used to live there for two years if you can believe it, it was the most NYC I could go without leaving Europe, okay?!

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Afternoon tea at the Connaught Hotel

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Bag – Couronne. Shoes – Zara.

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Tropical-print cardigan – COS. Frill crepe bralet – Topshop. Pencil skirt – Next. Heels – Zara. Bag – Couronne. Bar necklace – Kirsten Goss Urban Edge.

“You look like an ambassador’s wife!”, Kit yelled as she found me sitting in a park bench waiting to go for tea at the Connaught. If I had spotted her first I’d have opened with “It’s my birthday, just today PLEASE lie about my how my new hair looks and tomorrow you can tell me I look like I need to pick up my two kids from football practice at 3pm”. Alas, I was immersed in trying to lure a squirrel with a crumb-looking stone and my new hair had curtained over my corner-eye – the first betrayal of many, I anticipate. So then we all went to tea, Honest Kit, an ambassador’s wife and her sidekick, the beautiful turquoise Couronne bag that looks like it could hold any political secrets. I guess today I had legitimate looks for the ‘Do you know who my husband is‘ or ‘I declare war on your café‘ card, if ever the need arose.The deal with the hair is, I’d gotten it permed and cut just over a month ago, but the style was so un-maintainable what with absolutely no blowdry skills whatsoever, I went back in for a shorter length where Mrs Jackie had thrown in a blow dry as well. So, realistically, this style will NEVER appear again on the blog unless I magically give birth to an intern who will just help blow dry at 7:55am before I leave the house at 8. I came home and told the hubby the story about my new title, and he just said “you just look like a ‘wife’ to me”. Well, thanks, you both.

By the way, and it feels wrong of me to push this to the side, but the Afternoon tea was heavenly. What a treat! The Connaught Hotel is no doubt one of my few favourite luxury 5-star hotels in London, and while I’ve been around during cocktail hours (and learning how to make a wicked Old-Fashioned with Editer), I hadn’t tried the afternoon tea at the Espalette. Well, no wonder as around 3-4pm everyday I’m hitting back alleys in search for the fifth and final caffeine fix of the day or a bag of Haribo to inhale. The scones are warm and soft – let that be your reason to go. Butter that scone, if you know what I mean.

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Floral print-cami – Topshop. Sunglasses – Celine. Flower garland – Topshop

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Hat + Dress - Topshop

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Top – Topshop, Skirt – Kenzo. Clutch – Kurt Geiger

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Look 1 (Crop-top): Linen crop-tee, Coulottes – Topshop. Rope belt – DIY. Bracelet – Saught.
Look 2 (Floral patchwork Dress):   Dress, straw boater hat – Topshop. Bag – Bottega Veneta. Heels – Zara.
Look 3 (Maxi-skirt):  Printed strappy-cami – Topshop. Basket-weave skirt, Tiger bracelet – c/o Kenzo. Clutch - Kurt Geiger. Loafers – Hudson. Leather bracelet – COS

The classic British Summer is here – hot, muggy, air-just-shy-of-armpit-consistency, one cloud away from November degrees. I’m not complaining though, at least not on Thursdays and Fridays. See, I’m trying out a new career path where I now professionally complain part-time and the rest of the week I focus on freelance weather forecasting, because apparently in this country you don’t need a particular degree to read the weather. Here’s the secret: a rusty slot machine at the BBC does the job for you – the reels groan a bit and a series of icons forecast the weather. Today I played with a few pieces from the new Topshop Reclaim to Wear collection, in which disregarded prints from the previous seasons got upcycled into airy, summery pieces. The slots pooped out a perfect weather for this: Fog – Cloud- Sun, 28 degrees, humidity 2,000%; there also may or may not have been a Tsunami looming but unsure as the icon for it is a Bucket of Water. They’ve been using the machine since the 70′s after every single barometer/thermometer in the country quit and left for Spain. I’ll leave for Spain sooner or later, I predict.

Thank you Charlie for helping with the shots!