Scheherazade's slippers

What is that springs immediately to mind when one thinks of shopping in the exotic souqs of the Middle East? Turkish delight? Dates? Filigree lanterns, Oriental carpet? Gold?

For me, it was these slippers: the quintessential souvenir of Arabia.

Of course now that I have strolled through a dozen souqs in Dubai, Sharjah and Oman, I know what will forever evoke colourful memories: the eternal cry of – no, not the muezzin, but: “Pashmina, pashmina?”

X was more often subjected to “Watch, sir? Rolex?” Once he thought to baffle one such merchant turning his own question on him. At the next opportunity, he responded, “Pashmina?”

“Yes, yes, we have pashmina!” was the instantaneous reply.

I went off into a peal of laughter that is not often heard in the marketplaces, and we hurriedly moved on, avoiding the disapproving looks.

I know what will forever evoke colourful memories: the eternal cry of … “Pashmina, pashmina?”

As for these slippers I left it until my last night of shopping in the markets to purchase them. In the textile souq of Bur Dubai I pounced on this exact pair. Though I tried on black, and grey, I ultimately returned to the pink – that colour seemed to emphasise their frivolity. (Plus they would contrast nicely when paired with my black and silver belly-dancing outfit, I decided.)

When X pointed out it looked like I had slipped them on the wrong way round, I was amused to learn that they do not come in left and right: they just are. The heel of one is malformed, so it has become the right by default. The sizing also is nominal: I merely found a pair that fit.

I adore them.

As for the pashminas – I did succumb, not once, but twice. But I’ll save their stories for another day.

Blinging in the new year

Sadly I didn’t see the fireworks on New Year’s Eve: I was far from the banks of the Yarra. We only glimpsed the smoke in the sky, but that’s no reason not to celebrate.

Reflecting on the pile of loot I brought home with me from my holiday, I have made a new resolution to spring-clean my drawers, downsize my closets.

Not these babies, though: they are distinctly upsize.

Whilst shopping in the Mall of the Emirates in Dubai, I wandered into Aldo (which sells only shoes here in Melbourne) and pounced on these enormous rhinestone earrings in delight. They were ridiculously large and I didn’t need them. I put them down. I was searching for an evening bag, after all.

Of course, when I finally returned to buy the clutch I had my eye on, my gaze fell upon the earrings again. Temptation won out, and observing that they in fact matched my belly-dancing outfit excellently, I snatched them up and purchased them before commonsense had a chance to prevail. If I would not stop at an outfit that jingles, then why boggle at these oversize chandeliers?

So raise your glass: here’s to having fun with fashion this year. Bling-bling, darlings!

Tragedy in Blue

Tragedy struck my life yesterday. I was sitting at my desk quietly working away, one hand on my tablet, the other absently – and recklessly, as it transpired – fiddling with one of the necklaces I was wearing. One moment I was staring at the screen, the next, the calm was shattered as the string broke and beads went spilling! And bouncing! And tumbling!

One or two colleagues rescued a few beads for me. One of them – need I clarify, a MALE – thought it would be a good idea to throw one and watch it bounce two feet into the air. I gaped in indignation, and when I had recovered my breath, roundly ticked him off for wanton stupidity.

Really, I shouldn’t have been surprised at the sudden destruction of the stringing material: it was fishing line. Add to this the fact that my travelling companion who bought a similar necklace, had long ago experienced this same misfortune. I had already repaired her pink agate beads, and always intended to restring mine properly, but naturally never got round to it.

What’s that old proverb? A stitch in time saves nine? So very true, but fortunately I am able to report I recovered all my beads.

They are chalcedony, in the most beautiful, pale shade of turquoise: the colour of a morning sky in winter… a colour that makes me sigh in pleasure.

They also bring back memories of the summer evening that I purchased them, from Temple Street Night Market in Kowloon. What fun my friend and I had shopping in that whirl of a tour of Hong Kong! It makes me look forward to my upcoming holiday in exotic lands abroad… what new treasures will I find?

These blue beads must be repaired in time however, so that they may accompany me. Not to bring me luck. I just love them.

Ooh la la, le chignon!

This is simply a fancy way your very good friend might exclaim, “Oh wow, you look gorgeous with your hair in a bun!”

Everything sounds posher in French: chocolat; c’est la vie; un café noir, s’il vous plaît; le weekend. Of course, it’s more enjoyable to annoy your Francophile friends by deliberately mispronouncing the words, par example, ‘cross-ant’ and ‘murky bucup’. However, you do pronounce it 'sheen-yon'.

I like to imagine Madame Bovary wearing her hair in a chignon (she probably did, being French), or Jane Eyre.

This picture actually reminds me of the artwork of a friend of mine, which was an inadvertent result of wanting to show off my Indian silver hairpiece. It is delicate filigree work, and I bought it by weight, which I thought was amusing, but fair. It comes from Zari, a boutique in Swan Street, Richmond.

My hair is quite long, and I like it that way in particular because it gives me the freedom to wear it up in a number of different hairstyles; I rarely wear it out. Occasionally I have an attack of short-hair frenzy and chop it off, but it’s been long for two or three years now. It is also quite fine, so any chignon I create is going to be fairly modest in size; the result above was simply achieved by twirl, twist and pin.

I did experiment a couple of days ago by first teasing my ponytail before twisting it up into a bun, but it very sadly sank all too quickly – like brioche taken out of the oven too early. Obviously I didn’t use enough hairspray. There are some amazing styles out there though; these are just some of them:

Methinks I require the services of a personal maid from Madame Bovary’s day!

Please, ruffle my feathers

I am very lazy when it comes to mascara. Not putting it on; although I have done some stupid things whilst doing so, like being too lazy to remove my hat, losing my grip on the mascara wand, splodging black on the inside of the brim, and then spending five precious minutes trying to clean the stain. I did this two mornings ago.

Rather, it is the process of removal I find unutterably tedious. I only want to go to bed, but – no matter the formula of my remover – the tiresome stuff defies eradication, so most days I just don't bother with it. Plus, have you noticed mascara makes your eyelashes feel like straw? No-one likes hair product that does that: “Darling, let me run my fingers through your hair.” … “Ouch! Get your fat hand out of my hair, you oaf!”

That’s not hair sweetheart, that’s a blackberry thatch lying in wait to ensnare some unwary man. Oh hang on; this might not be altogether a bad thing…

Although, I suppose gentlemen don’t usually caress one’s eyelashes, do they?

But just cast your peepers over these pretty little things: false feathers! Aren’t they darling? They were so cute I had to buy them. The only thing that could have made them even more irresistible would be if they were iridescent like real birds' feathers. (I suspect they will one day cause me more frustration than mascara, however.)

They do bring new meaning to fluttering one’s eyelashes though, don’t they? Now, I just need to find a man who would be willing to ruffle them a trifle…

All in a Flutter fashion lashes by The Beauty Case, $8.95.