No more boobs over breakfast?!

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to ascertain that the ogling of women in their knickers, over cornflakes and breakfast tea, is sexist.

But isn’t it fair to say that when it comes to feminism’s fight against pornography, page 3 is an insignificant drop in the ocean? Harmless, even.

The fact is, we have bigger fish to fry.

Hearing the banning of page 3 being referred to as ‘progress’ just does not sit well with me. At all. The hard work of our ancestors made it unacceptable for men to tell us women what to do, but now we’re essentially telling each other…?

What ‘No More Page 3’ cohorts are branding ‘advancement’ is actually a toxic, backwards notion of radical feminism, whereby said feminists aggressively impose their views of what it means to be a woman, upon all womankind.

Surely this is preposterous – as individuals we have our own ideas of womanhood - to me, it means being in charge of your own body and free to do with it what you will.  Boobs and all.

Telling a nation what they can and cannot do, say or print, fundamentally amounts to censorship, and underpins the values at the very heart of our liberal British society. In the words of Paul and Linda McCartney (sort of) – 'live and let live'.

In a free society, things are always going to exist which ignite debate, controversy and disagreement. The way to deal with this is to actively prevent others’ actions only when they cause actual harm to people. Objecting to anything else I fear amounts to self-righteous evangelism and tyranny of the majority.

Even more dangerous than this, is the perception of page 3 as a means to look down on and exploit women. To purport the idea that a pair of exposed boobs encourages rape and sexual assault, is to sooth the conscious' of those who perpetrate these terrible crimes; this is not ok. Not at all.

The supporters of ‘No More Page 3’ arrogantly render their values and life choices more important that that of the other types of women out there; the fact remains that we are all individuals and in the same way some women wish to surrender their femininity completely, others wish to utilise theirs to exploit men and earn bucks – and good on them I say.

To the ‘no boobs over breakfast brigade’, why not pick up a copy of this weeks Heat magazine and check out ‘Torso of the week’ rather than attacking your fellow sex? 

This is equality. This is feminism.

My love-hate relationship with fashion

Deep breath – it’s confession time.

Simply put: Sometimes, I hate fashion. There I said it. Don’t get me wrong; I love cute clothes and sassy shoes and style. I love the sentiment of self-expression through the aesthetic vehicle that is our choice of attire. I love the variety and diversity that fashion enables; whether it’s a Goth in Doc Martins on the tube or a red carpet regular adorned in couture, I fizz with excitement at the discernible manifestation of personality before my eyes. It’s truly beautiful.

But there’s another side to fashion – an ugly side. A dark, murky place filled with glossy magazines flaunting underfed, exploited little girls - part human, part makeup, part Photoshop – pouting with wide eyed sadness and radiating melancholy.

I’m a reasonably typical young woman – so yes, I like Topshop and boys and pretty clothes, but I also like food and – dare I say it - comfort.

Not a Saturday night goes by without the harrowing mental conflict surrounding the ‘heels or no heels’ dilemma. I mean they just hurt, don’t they? My feet, toes, calves, you name it. And at 21 years of age I resent requiring a human crutch to get me safely across London’s cobbled streets. Coupled with the fact that I will now be taller than pretty much every guy in the bar and will probably spend the evening trying (in vain) to crouch down inconspicuously.  

But oh, surely a small sacrifice for Giselle-like legs, poised posture and pushed out breasts?

Just.Look.At.Those.Legs.

Then there’s the stuff. The boundless, endless, interminable lust for more stuff. Combing the Brent Cross rails for a new outfit for a night out or fashion event has become my Saturday afternoon ritual. And with the likes of Facebook ensuring no great outfit goes unseen – or bad one unpunished – recycling the same clothes just isn’t an option. How incredibly sad.

Becky Bloomwood - the world's most famous shopoholic

When I want something, typically of the garment description, I’m like Becky Bloomwood on crack. No really. My yearning for the garment in question takes over me and in that moment, nothing else matters. We’ve all been there, staring through the windows of Harvey Nichols at the glittering displays of unsullied splendour and fashion finery. Perfectly proportioned Barbie Doll manikins draped in haute couture and dripping with diamonds, each dainty foot clad in coveted red-soled shoes - costing more than my car.

Yet Kate Moss has a pair and my cousin has a pair and my mum has a pair and I want, no, I need a pair. (Enter Becky Bloomfield on crack.)

Red Soled Christian Louboutins

Last but not least I must reference the evil seductress more commonly known as Victoria’s Secret.

Since it’s recent opening a mere 15 minute drive from my house a month ago I’m ashamed to say I own 12 of those pretty little hot pink shopping bags and enough baby pink tissue paper to start my very own art club.

One of Twelve...

There’s just something about the atmospheric lighting, sweet scent of vanilla and of course, the ethereal Angels strutting down the cinema screen sized video catwalk, that makes me want to spend, spend, spend. And what’s wrong with that?

Absolutely nothing at all, right?

Or so I thought, until I stumbled across what I can only describe as two preteens, in prostitute fancy dress, taking selfies in the changing rooms.

At 12 years old I thought thongs were flip-flops.

Probably because I wasn’t exposed to images of unworldly angels decked out in itchy lace knickers, push up bras and suspenders.

I was more than happy frantically rifling through the washing basket on a Monday night for my ‘Tuesday’ 'days of the week' cotton panties.

Why do these little girls subject themselves to discomfort and wedgies when they don’t have to? It’s just not worth it. (OK, sometimes it is, but I digress…)

Victoria's Secret Angels

Essentially, I think there’s something exceedingly creepy about teenyboppers in thongs. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Maybe I’m looking into things too deeply. Maybe I'm too caught up in my own stark materialism. Maybe.

But I think not. I think Selfridges' slogan philosophy ‘I shop therefore I am’ says it all. This crude intonation – this mantra for morons - says more about our society than I care, or am brave enough, to delve into any deeper.

Sweaty fun with satisfaction guaranteed... Introducing Boot Camp!

A girlfriend at the gym once announced mid treadmill sprint session that 'we girls don't sweat, we sparkle'. Glancing down at my patchy grey workout attire I couldn't quite keep a straight face; I definitely fucking sweat. On a scale of 'incontinent drowned rat' to 'sparkling seductress' I'm a rat and damn proud. But then unlike my 'shimmering' female counterpart, I go to the gym to exercise more than just my fluttering eyelashes...

Anyway. The purpose of this background story wasn't so much to inform the world of my sweating problem but to emphasise I'm certainly not fazed by a gruelling workout. Ergo, I’m not exaggerating when I say Saturday morning Boot Camp renders me unable to walk properly for 3 to 4 days. MINIMUM.

Having affectionately coined the class 'Booty' camp, (due to the horrendous amount of time spent in a squat position) I’m expecting Kim Kardashian style results any day now. And it’s not like there haven’t been sacrifices; I completely abstained from the delights of an open bar last Friday night (YEAH you read that right) in anticipation of Boot Camp’s sprightly 9am start.
Sad?  Tick.
Sensible? Tick.
Sore? BIG FAT TICK.
I should really start by divulging some vital information:

This class is not for the faint hearted. Really, it will kick your ass and you will want to die. And the pain isn't over post-workout. Day to day activities will be jeopardized and getting comfy in bed at night takes a whole lot of wriggling around. Oh and you can leave your dignity in Studio 2 as walking down the stairs just isn't going to happen.

After a few classes though, you're gonna forget how it feels NOT to be in pain every move you make... and what you don't remember, can't hurt you right?! Now I'm well aware I've made Boot Camp sound like the Hunger Games - but contrary to the gist of my review so far, it's actually kind of…fun? (I can hear your haughty scoffs of derision from here, but hear me out).
My first experience of this class was... harrowing. In a good way. As my workout-partner-in-crime Miki and I entered the studio we weren't quite sure what to expect. I remember thinking, 'I really hope this a good workout...I had Pizza last night'.
I needn't have worried.
Tibor, the instructor, had us in for a world of pain. The "warm up" involved various methods of traveling around the studio in a circle (running, skipping, and midget walking for extra pain) whilst the main body consisted of splitting into teams and sprinting, bunny hopping, crawling and lunging your way across the room as quickly as humanely possible without throwing up and/or having an asthma attack. If you get through the class without either of these two things happening, you definitely deserve the obligatory ‘team high-five’ on departure. (Kind of cheesy, but also makes me feel like a cheerleader).
I really love to compete (sorry not sorry) and racing against members of the other teams - most of whom probably don't even realise my burning desire to beat them/couldn't care less/think I'm a psycho - means I push myself super hard. It hurts, sure, but it gets me out of boring Saturday morning errands and into the skinniest of skinny jeans so...who's the real winner here?!
Back to the workout, (uh-uh there's more), the final part alternates cardio, plyometrics and a whole load of push ups. Masses of motherfucking push ups.Oh and just when you decide pretending to pass out is preferable to continuing, there comes the delightful tradition of holding a squat position for 2 minutes straight. NO REST. Tibor's assurance that a 70 year old client of his completes this hellish task makes it pretty hard to moan and groan when he says "just a few more seconds". He's fit too, so there's that... (However you can take a break when he's not looking. Just make sure it’s well timed, there are mirrors EVERYWHERE).
And then just like that, you're allowed to un-squat and you can hear your own thoughts again. It's over, as quickly as it begun, twice as painful and three times as ugly. (Yeah you're gonna look ugly. Embrace it).

And boy do you feel GREAT. Don’t get me wrong, Boot Camp is an hour of hard graft, but it’s different to any other workout I've tried and I really love it. Hell, I love it enough to quit Friday night drinking. So A LOT. The studio is huge, the participants are friendly and the workout is damn great.What more could you ask for? 

See ya'll there?! ;)

Leila

GO AND VOTE NOW! (or later's cool if you're busy now)...

Just a quick mini-blog because I CAN’T BELIEVE THE NONSENSE MY EARS WERE JUST SUBJECTED TO (and writing this is a nice little procrastinate break from revision for my exam tomorrow.)

So I just walked the 2 minute walk to my nearest polling station, and cast my vote for the European and local elections. Now as aforementioned, I do have an exam tomorrow (A FINAL may I add which the rest of my life, career and future happiness could depend on) and I still took the time out of my day to go and put a couple of crosses in a couple of boxes and have my say in the running of society.

Now I appreciate some people may be hugely busy, have full time jobs, kids etc. but COME ON. Surely everyone wants to stand up and be counted as a member of society – anyone not voting today totally baffles me.

Which brings me onto my inspiration for this heated yet still reasoned (it’s NOT a rant) blog entry.  On my way back from voting I came across two neighbours of mine out walking their dogs. We got to talking and after predictable pleasantries the subject of the polling station (a mere 20 seconds walk away) came up. The two women told me they wouldn’t be voting today and proceeded with a rather novel three-fold argument as to why not:

 ‘We’re not into this politics lark’, ‘Politicians are all crooks anyway’ and ‘It doesn’t really affect us’.

If it hadn’t been for the two massive Labradors and their calming puppy dog eyes I think I may have been absent from my exam tomorrow and in custody instead for ‘Acts of violence against morons’. (Yes I’m aware that’s not actually an offence in law, but it really should be.)

 Now it’s completely and utterly against anything I believe to separate men and women in matters such as these; notions of equality should obviously apply across the board -voting included.  Saying that, although the men not bothering to vote have no excuse, the women not doing so are actively regressing the cause of feminism. Women worked their asses off so we could enjoy this fundamental right; bras were burnt, there were hunger strikes, I MEAN IMAGINE BEING BOTH HUNGRY AND BRALESS?! No but seriously, not bothering to exercise this right after all the work women of the past put in on your behalf is a huge slap in their faces. Miss Pankhurst jumped in front of a horse for crying out loud, the least you can do is take a sunny stroll to the polling station and put your well-earned right into practice in her memory.

Even if you’re less than proficient in politics or don’t wish to support any of the candidates/parties, you can still actively abstain by marking your paper incorrectly; at least then you’ll have turned up to voice your opinion and avoided ‘societal outcast’ status by doing so.

 So to sum up – please can you all go and vote. Now. Except if you’re planning on voting UKIP… you stay at home.

Leila xoxo

#RevisionProbs #sos

It's that time of year again. That sneaky bitch of a season that sneaks up on you before you've even had time to colour code a revision timetable to brighten up your desk. It's April, you legitimately don't have lectures to attend and your exams are in...oh shit they're in May. BETTER GET CRACKING MATE (after Made In Chelsea repeats tho cos if your mind is relaxed you'll learn more right?).
So you make a big revision timetable (and use gel pens not just because they look pretty and smell nice but because colour coding helps things stick in your brain you know) and then you obv don't stick to it because revision timetables never include enough TV breaks - FACT. Then you feel guiltier and guiltier as days go by and you get more and more behind until you rip that fucker off the wall in a rage and then cry and make another one because procrastination just happens at this low point in life.
FRIGIN MAY. Man if I had a birthday in May I'd kill myself. Or just kill myself anyway because what's the point of living when fun is a dirty word and if you have it you feel bad because you should be revising so it just ruins your fun. So you just stay in and revise and well, that's no fun now is it let's be honest. ITS A VICIOUS CYCLE THAT CANNOT BE BROKEN.
As you're reading lecture one page one for the third time (because your brain is doing that thing where you're reading but you're not really reading) you're filled with regret at all the chances you missed when you were young and free and your life was completing practice essays by borrowing/copying someone else's dissertation you found on Google.
OH HOW YOU WISH TO GO OUT. Why oh why did you leave early that night just because your shoe broke and you had glass in your foot? MAN UP. Why did you sensibly stop drinking when you felt sick THAT'S WHAT VOMMING IS FOR. What you wouldn't give to be back out in the comfortingly freezing no-exams-in-sight winter weather with no troubles no cares and no coat and still loving life because alcohol jacket FTW.
OH SO FULL OF REGRET. All those missed opportunities and yet here you are two weeks into your revision timetable and still on day 2. You start to rap the words on your page to the tune of Slim Shady and dear God you sound deranged. Did you just applaud yourself? Ok you need a break you're going crazy. Why not just log onto fb have a quick browse clear the mind then get right back to it. Ooh everyone's online so you really don't have to feel bad - half an hour break it is.
Fuck fuck fuck FUCK an hour later and you've stalked that hottie from the gym's photos back to 2009 and just accidentally liked his random picture of a cake HOW COULD THIS BE this is the single worst thing ever NOW HE KNOWS YOU FOR THE STALKER YOU ARE. What's even the point of revision might as well just book flights and leave the country right this second.
Ooh flights. You really need a holiday. Seriously your legs are the colour of the paper on which your dreaded revision notes are scrawled. After all this work you've been doing girl you deserve to tan. And you should really book in advance because that's when all the best deals are. WOAH LOOK AT THAT CHINESE FEAST DEAL ON GROUPON omg you need food. Like now.  If you just go straight downstairs make some food and then bring it up with you... Having something to chew on will really help you concentrate and even if it doesn't food's good for brain power and energy and GOD you feel like you're actually falling asleep and you really want a coffee but you also want white teeth OH THE TRIALS OF LIFE.
Oh fab. That's just FABULOUS. There is no food at all in this house how could your mum be so selfish. Oh it's cool she's going to the supermarket. You feel kinda bad for calling her selfish now... You should really go and help her tbh. Can't send her out supermarket shopping alone that would just be selfish and you're no hypocrite. So half an hour tops at the supermarket and you'll get right back to revision and you'll have had food, fresh air and you'll be SO focused. LOVING THIS PLAN.
Back from the supermarket. You eat all the new food. Like literally, you eat an entire jar of peanut butter how did that happen. Oh god you shouldn't have done that you can feel the fat appearing and it's MAY which means summer is round the corner. Ok you should definitely go to the gym this evening. And you might even see the hottie there and can explain your accidental Facebook 'like' this morning. Blame it on the cat or something? YES. Blaming it on the cat is PERFECT. That's actually such a great idea and it just came to you without even thinking - who needs exams when this girl's got street-smarts?
Fuck it FUCK IT ALLLLL let's just go to the gym get a hot body and be a stripper. Wait what?What are you even saying. OPEN YOUR BOOKS. Ah yes here we are lecture one page one LETS GO.
Ok now you really need to pee. And you're hungry again. When's dinner...?

God loves a twerker...

A checked gingham pony, giant twerking chicken and what can only be described as a deranged Winnie The Pooh all grown up (and definitely on something) - just a few of the WTF-worthy scenes irrevocably etched on my brain forever and for that Miley Cyrus I SALUTE YOU ️

Tuesday night kicked off the European leg of the increasingly controversial BANGERZ tour and boy was it banging. (Like literally, there was banging. Big pink stage bed and everything).

The queen of 'twerk' slid cowboy-boots-first down a super sized replica of her own tongue and greeted her 'Smilers' in true 'We can't stop' style with a big old affectionate expletive and display of tonsils. Crotch grabbing, car humping, a leotard made entirely of dollar bills and a twerking dwarf with impressive back-off; the thrills kept on coming. And just as you thought it couldn't get any weirder Miley motor-boated the girls. Not her own (don't be silly), but an Amazonian dancer's magnificent pair of double F's.
Now, I challenge you to tell me you don't wish you were there just a little?!

Alas, my sentiments weren't commonplace amongst those audience members of the Daily Mail persuasion; Annabelle Cole's boringly predictable article went as far as to suggest Miley's use of giant teddy bears and psychedelic kittens alongside her booty shaking shenanigans was a bid to 'suck in' and then 'sexualise our children'. This nonsense is coming from a supposedly intelligent(albeit retrogressive)woman. Is she seriously suggesting Miss Cyrus is on a one woman mission to corrupt the world's children? I'm like, Annabelle, honey, isn't it possible she just likes giant cuddly teddy bears? She's only human and we love teddies um HELLO have you seen the queue outside Hamley's at Christmas time? 

The lovely Annabelle went on to include 'kissing someone of the same sex' in a long derogatory list of things she felt Miley wrongly encouraged. Outdated even by Daily Mail standards, I'm not sure if her comments left me seething or amused by the fact she'd just punctured her own credibility.

Anyway, I digress. The point is, this was a Miley Cyrus concert for crying out loud. MILEY FREAKING CYRUS. The girl hangs naked on a wrecking ball and licks stuff. And not just hammers - panties, bras, a lot of shit gets attention from that infamous tongue (as demonstrated Tuesday night). She sings about getting high and wet, in that order. What kind of self righteous, stale individual buys a ticket for this concert and then has the audacity to complain of being offended? 

The tour is called BANGERZ with a 'Z'. Everyone knows that when someone uses Z instead of S they're pretty damn bad-ass... So to Annabelle and all the mothers complaining of their little darlings being scarred for life: I wouldn't pay to see my nightmare come alive in front of me Harry Potter style. In the same way, if you don't like her, don't go see her. It's pretty simple. 

In spite of the bunch of moaners though, most of us hugely enjoyed the thoroughly barmy, unhinged and entirely nuts performance. And yes Miley said the C-word and the F-word and wore a gold necklace with a marijuana plant pendant but we took this in the spirit of light heated entertainment BECAUSE WE'RE NORMAL. And we're not scared of bums and breasts and crotches since newsflash girls we've all got 'em. 

If I hear another audience member's appalled analysis of twerking then I truly fear for the brain power of humanity; Miley twerking on stage was about as the predictable as rain on bank holidays. 
Yes, she is an absolute fruit loop. She didn't remove her hand from her moo the entire show long (and I'd love to introduce her to the squat rack at some point) but damn that girl can sing, perform and captivate an audience like no other and I for one completely LOVE HER. 

Thank you Miley for putting on hands down the best show I have ever seen. If I had a pound for every person condemning my viewpoint I'd collect up all those pounds and go straight to the ticket office so I could watch you all over again.  

SMILER FOR LIFE ;)

Leila xoxo

(here's some photos)

Annual trip to dentist/ lowlight of my year...

So recently I made my annual (if that) trip to the dentist; spending as little time as possible with someone's fingers poking around my mouth just seems logical to me. Have you ever stopped to think where those evil metal tools have been minutes before they're used on you? Yep. Covered in someone else's saliva. I mean WOULD YOU SHARE A TOOTHBRUSH?! Anyway, I digress.

My dentist is pretty much a grumpy bastard. Probably because he can sense he's the lowlight of my year. And even if he can't sense it I'm sure he knows because well, I've told him. (And also bit him one time since in my opinion when someone needs to swallow and someone else won't let them shut their mouth, that someone else absolutely deserves to have their finger gnawed off).

Anyhow, he usually makes polite conversation,I make agreeable noises (as far as possible with my mouth wide open and dentist onset lock jaw) and we get the job done.
This time however, those 'agreeable' sounds just would not come out. Now when it comes to ehem 'faking it' I'm up there with the best of them...but this REALLY wasn't doing it for me and I couldn't keep my mouth shut (well open in this case... I was at the dentist...) a second longer. 
'My daughter isn't allowed to speak to boys.' Mr. Grumpy announced proudly.
'She goes to an all girls school and any parties are avoided - don't want her getting bogged down with any worries other than her school work. She's going to be a doctor' he went on. 

I laughed awkwardly. Could I bite him again? BOGGED DOWN?! Yes, she might be shielded from a little bit of old fashioned teenage heartbreak, but this poor girl was missing out! No crying in the school toilets over that boy who text her for a month and then went out with *Stacey Moore* instead (that bitch works at TGI Fridays now so I'm not even bitter), no squealing over that friendship request or shrieking with your friends on the receipt of a 'dick pic'.
Okay, I guess I can't exactly begrudge Mr Grumpy for objecting to that last one. But the crux of the matter is that yes teenage years are often difficult, somewhat silly, and always self absorbed but everyone has the right to live and learn.

'Spit' Mr grumpy commanded. 
'Um, do you mind if I just...' I trailed off. This man was dangerously close to my mouth and had access to power tools. I'd better shut up.
'Go on..' My Grumpy challenged. 
'Well, don't you want her to integrate with... I mean... Sometimes girls and boys are just... Well my best friend's a boy' I babbled.
'Thats nice' Mr Grumpy looked at me mockingly.
'Its nice to hang around with boys from a younger age so they're not a shock to the system' I continued defiantly with a quote I'd come across in my sisters psychology book. 
'Hm. Right. You're all done. No problems'.
Well that was me told. I glanced over at Mr Grumpy's scarf hanging on the back of the door - that SAME bright red monstrosity had been brightening up his office since my first ever fateful visit God knows how many years ago; He was beyond help.
I slid down off the death chair obediently, feeling rather like a fish escaping the fishing boat (Yes. I really hate the dentist). 
'Its a dad thing. A man thing even. Ask your boyfriend how he'd feel about same sex schools'. 
'Oh I don't have a boyfriend' I explained. Not that it was any of his business... Nosy bastard.
'Oh? So all that integration practice hasn't come in handy so far' he winked. YES WINKED.
Ouch. Touché Mr Grumpy, touché. I probably deserved that.

'I suppose not. See you next time' I forced one last smile, waved and proceeded to get my boyfriend-less butt out of there.

Lesson of the day: keep all opinions to yourself unless asked. Especially when your dentist is an ass.

*name changed to avoid awkwardness.

Food and Feminism...

It's a typical Wednesday night, I'm tweeting a selfie, debating what flavour pesto would best compliment my salmon, and BBC news is on in the background (because there's only so much 'Friends' a girl can watch). Hmm let's see, there's like, gallons of pollution dust all over England, (apparently- can't say I've noticed), conducting an orchestra is too physically demanding for women, Holly Willoughby's preg.. Wait, hang on, go back one? Suddenly distracted from hashtagging my selfie I rewind. And yes, it seems I did hear that correctly.

On prime time TV, in the 21st century, TWENTY-FIRST FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, women conductors are being told they're just not 'strong' enough to hack it. The fact that they're perfectly qualified and talented in the art does not seem to distract classical music's resident chauvinists from the fact that they have a vagina and are therefore obviously incapable. Did I mention we were in the 21st century? My stomach is turning - rather like Emily Pankhurst in her grave, I'd imagine.

Granted, Bruno Mantovani composing some sort of positive correlation between conducting talent and physical strength is downright ludicrous (stick to composing music mate). But he did not make me want to be sick on myself quite like Vasily Petrenko did, his comment rendering me uncharacteristically speechless: 'A sweet girl on the podium can make ones thoughts drift towards something else'.
Fucking. Pervert.

This notion of a women's sexuality hindering her ability to conduct an orchestra strikes me as bullshit of the highest order, projected as a viewpoint in order to detract from Petrenko's obvious inability to deal with a women in charge.  Truth of the matter is, no matter how much we preach equality, no matter how many token females we place in the House of Lords, no matter how many women are judges in the highest court in the land (which us girls should shut up and be grateful for by the way, so I've been told), there's clearly dicks still out there with the audacity to voice their outdated opinions - not a hint of embarrassment, no explanation necessary.

Yes we can wear short skirts and have pre-marital sex yada yada yada, but we're sure as hell not equal. Not yet, anyway.

Feeling rather dejected by the realisation of my previous naïvety, my mind wandered back to food (as it often does). At least the pesto conundrum was solved. I put my salmon back in the freezer replacing it with a big old pizza. Because SOD MEN I CAN GET FAT IF I WANT TO.
And I'm having a Yorkie bar.

Leila Glen AKA Heat Workie

Yes I admit it. I’m the most inconsistent blog-poster ever, but this time I have a valid excuse I promise; I’ve been interning at Heat magazine. I KNOW. Mega-exciting. (I wouldn’t even normally say ‘mega exciting’ - the Heat jargon has clearly got to me.)

So far I’ve spent one massively valuable week as the so-called ‘Heat Workie’ (see pics below of my all access pass), and I still have another to go! Wanting to work in magazines is a tough dream to have… but alas, it’s the only one I’ve got! So I applied online for an internship through a company called Go-Think-Big. I knew it was pretty competitive and having no prior magazine experience I never in a million years expected to get chosen. But I thought I’d ‘think big’ (pardon the pun) and to my surprise was interrupted during my morning post work-out shower by a phone call inviting me along to the Heat Offices!!!

On the morning of my first day I quite literally jumped out of bed at 6am – having had no sleep the night before out of sheer excitement, getting up was actually a pleasant relief. I didn’t have to be at Heat until 10am but - me being me - I had to get a gym session in first to calm the unruly butterflies in my stomach. Workout done I headed home to shower, slip into my pre-prepared and seriously over analysed outfit (ended up bumping my trusty twenty8twelve jeans for tartan cigarette pants) and attempt perfect flicks with my liquid eyeliner. Seven eye-liner attempts later, I swiftly headed for the tube.

Coming out of the station I discovered it was raining, my umbrella broke, and I stepped in a puddle. I’m not normally superstitious but even Roy Cropper (the most cynical person I could think of…?) would have felt a little put-out by the trio of bad omens. My very rational (despite popular opinion) fear of being anything less than punctual, prompted me to break into a jog (heeled booties and all) and 35 minutes later I’d FINALLY completed the ‘5 minute walk’ to the offices. (And been called Rita-Ora on the way…Curious but nice.)

Once I’d signed in at reception reception, junior style writer Hannah came down to meet me, talked me through my general duties and showed me around the office (heat magazines, fashion collages and celeb breaking news stories were strewn out on every desk). Heat radio is broadcast in the room next door and blasted out all round the office – cool or what? (Ok not exactly blasted, but there was pleasant background music… we fashion editors have work to be getting on with you know).  I got logged on to the computer which I was to call mine for the week and duties included calling in products for shoots, talking to PR companies, researching for features and I was even given the chance to write articles for Heat online! Seeing my name in print (well, online print) next to my words was just the best feeling ever. If you weren’t one of the *ehem* lucky few being bombarded daily by mass text messages of links to my articles, you can find them below…

http://www.heatworld.com/Star-Style/2014/01/Who-wore-it-best-Miley-Cyrus-vs-Nicole-Richie/

http://www.heatworld.com/Star-Style/2014/01/Who-wore-it-best-Nicky-Hilton-vs-Harley-Viera-Newton/

http://www.heatworld.com/Star-Style/2014/01/Who-wore-it-best-Triple-special-Jessica-Wright-vs-Luisa-Zissman-vs-Vicky-Pattison2/

http://www.heatworld.com/Star-Style/2014/01/Who-wore-it-best-Rosie-Huntington-Whiteley-vs-Alyssa-Milano/

All in all my first week as a Heat intern was hugely insightful and I can honestly say I loved every minute. (Maybe had a slight teeny tiny miniature (barely there) blip in enjoyment when I went to the bathroom and realised I’d been walking around all morning with lipstick on my teeth INFRONT OF THE BEAUTY EDITORS). But apart from that genuinely didn’t want to leave the office!

Bring on the week ahead! Never thought I’d say this, but I really CAN wait for the weekend.

Leila x

Hello 2014

So last night was NYE and weren’t we all just raring (or succumbing to pressure) to ‘party it up 2014 style’? Admittedly, my past new year’s excursions haven’t gone exactly to plan BUT you’ll witness me lie down and die before I let this weather my NYE spirit. Being kettled by police in Central London is an experience right?!  Drinks taste SO much better on this enchanted evening it almost warrants the day-light robbery. And who needs to SEE the fireworks anyway when they’re such a treat for the ear drums?

THIS year though, I had a good feeling about. I mean it was NYE it obviously had to be bloody great (or at least a hazy enough memory to allow distortion)… however THIS year I had enough ‘ghosts of New Year’s Eve past’ in my closet to avoid rookie mistakes; I’d paid my sweaty crowed dues and THIS year I was owed a good time. Sure enough some drinks with my gorgeous family followed by a dinner party with good friends was one of the nicest ways to bring in the New Year to date (note to self: avoiding crowds/ public spaces/ going out in general is a sure-fire way to sidestep NYE tears).

The dinner party (I felt the height of sophistication btw) was glorious, with everyone contributing a dish/ bottle of wine (in my case Vodka, obv) we ate, drank and chatted our way into 2014! 

 The chilled out vibe allowed for more low key fashion choices than my usual NYE attire (see below for last years glitter-bomb of a dress) so I wore a high waisted black and white checked Zara skirt (grabbed in the sale!) a classic topshop crop tee, YSL shoulder-skimming earrings and the my favourite brand of black tights in the history of the world (Falke - just so soft). Oh and no shoes needed- bonus!

Hope you all had as fab a time last night as I did and are looking toward 2014 with nothing but total readiness! With my internship at Heat magazine starting next week and exciting projects in the pipeline here's to 2014 being the best year yet! Don't know about you but I've got BIG plans ;)

Leila xoxox

Below are some photos I snapped intermittently throughout the night:

Last years dress! <3