FashON. FashOFF.

When people find out I work in the fashion industry I am usually greeted with a (very poorly hidden) shocked reaction. Fat and in fashion? This cannot be so. But unfashionable and in fashion... scaré bleu.

When I was younger I was probably the least fashionable person, ever. Aged 4 I was frequently mistaken for a boy - it could have had something to do with the afro like hair cut or the hand-me-down rugby shirts. A lot of it had to do with the fact I didn't fit into any of the Disney princess dresses. A young wart hog some may say (well, Baz may say...proudly).

Aged 12 it wasn't much better. The age of Bootleg shoes. The only cool-like school shoes because they had a heel, but best of all you got a pencil case whenever you bought a pair from Clarks -just to boast on your desk that you had a pair of Bootlegs. Of course I didn't have a pair of Bootlegs. There was no way I was squashing my square, fat, little, hobbit feet into a pair. No, I had the pleasure of velcro grandma shoes from Ecco. Mother fucking Ecco. Comfortable and sensible the words every 12 year old craves. Throw in a budding monobrow and a Per Una skirt for non uniform day and you had the least fashionable 12 year old.

Aged 15 I was really hoping for a transformation and make up was going to be the solution to all the tom boys years. That was going to be the tool to the new me. Forget the naps on the bus every morning to school, instead I was going to perfect the feline flick, the ruby red lip and the lashings of mascara. I had seen Annie do it for years how hard could it be to copy? Hard. My first outing to MAC to get myself the tools of the trade I came back with an eyeshadow called 'Electric Eel' - think bright blue, but brighter. In hindsight a subtle shade would have been an easier introduction. Carefully applied to my ENTIRE eyelid and underneath just to be extra sure everyone saw it my bold eye was complete. C'est chic, non?

Aged 17...it was about bloody time, right? Nope. Outfit of choice for a night out: wide leg linen trousers. Not even joking. To make it even better - paired with a wide tan belt that did as much for my figure as the wide leg linen trousers. I won't divulge on the crotchet bolero jacket the image is frightening enough.

Sponsored by middle aged M&S shoppers

Aged 18. I'll spare you the guessing game, I still didn't have my shit together. University is where people experiment with their clothing so the fact I wore cowboy boots with EVERYTHING is totally fine. Sequin dress with brown cowboy boots. Tshirt dress with brown cowboy boots. Leggings with brown cowboys boots. It seems the only thing I didn't wear where with my cowboy boot was blue jeans, probably because that would have actually looked ok.

These boots weren't made for outings. 

Or the classic pink bra under see through tops...classay.

Look different coloured cowboy boots 

Pink bra don't care. 

The more concerning part is that very little has changed since 4 - apart from the pink bras they have gone. The time came for me to finally up the fashion stakes when I was a very last minute addition for the British Fashion Awards. For those who do not frequent Daily Mail (what do you spend your mornings doing?) the BFAs are the Oscars of Fashion.

I was told at 2pm I was going to the BFAs.The event started at 7pm. There was no time to go home. At that precise moment in time I had greasy hair, very little make up on, ripped jeans and trainers. Basically only something Miley Cyrus would wear on the red carpet and get canned for it. Heart palpitations, a panic attack and mega sweats ensued. The previous 'what do I wear?' battles in my head didn't have a patch on this, I was actually near tears.  I don't think I said anything to anyone for the next hour aside from 'what am I going to do?' 'What am I going to wear? 'How do I shed 4 stones is 5 hours?!'

I was calmed down and a plan was formulated and went a bit like this:

• Get a motorbike courier to my house and pray that Juliet can find me something to wear, but more importantly that she can find a pair of tights that aren't ripped/laddered. 
• Ring around everywhere and book an emergency blow dry (this was the most difficult task) 
• Try and get my make up done 
• Do my actual work 
• Don't cry 
• Practice walking in a straight line so I don't humiliate myself later 
• Don't eat (I caved on that one and had half an avacado...so fash) 
• Don't what ever you do....fuck up. 

And whilst all of this was going on I had to find something to wear (aside from partially laddered tights). Juliet was sending options but they were not options that I wanted to wear. Ordinarily if you work in fashion, you are a sample size and then it's a piece of cake. You ask to borrow a dress. If you are not sample size then life gets a little more tricky. If that's not an incentive to get to sample size I don't know what it...the Dolce dream Billie, remember the Dolce dream. As soon as I have got there and worn the Dolce dream, then I can revert to ice-cream for breakfast lunch and dinner. Until then it's just ice cream for breakfast.

Bianca Balti...that's the Dolce dream. 

The time came and I was inadequately suited and booted, and of course true to form entirely unfashionable. As predicted Kendall Jenner did not bat one single eye lid at what I was wearing nor did anyone else for that matter. BUT at the after party Hilary Alexander (google her) not only sang a range of songs from Oliver Twist to me and David Gandy, but also said I had great style. Holy moly. Of course I immediately text Geeta telling her I had made it and was totally cool now. To which the reply was go to bed it's 1am on a Monday night. It is perhaps fair to say that Hilary had had one or two glasses of champers, but that was not going to rain on my unfashionable parade. 

So instead of striving to fit the fashionable mould Hilary and I have both agreed it's best to stick to what I know best: dress other people and certainly not myself. 

Victims line up. 

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. If you think the make up got better after the disaster of the blue eyeshadow...think again. Although this time I blame the blusher on alcohol.

Welcome to the Real World.

Not the MTV version.

I think I have been living in a little bubble – ok fine larger than normal sized bubble. One that has sheltered me from this phantom 'real world' and all it's...realness. The reason I haven't blogged in such a long time is because my beautiful little bubble has been burst, BIG TIME. This is not necessarily a bad thing, I just thought when I would finally enter the big bad real world I would have my shit together maybe a little more (a lot more) than I actually do. When I think back to what I wanted to achieve by the time I was 24 (speaking from my 9 year old self) I can't say I have crossed much off the list. 

When I was 9, 24 seemed a very long time away and people that were 24 were OLD. Like really old. I had envisaged being a hugely successful 'something' (poignant, I know.) I hadn’t decided which of the conventional Asian routes to follow yet doctor/lawyer/dentist the possibilities were endless. Air hostess was ruled out when I realised rolling down the aisle wasn't an option. But anyway by 24 life would have completed sorted itself out: I wouldn’t be far off marriage, I would have a great job, being living in London and going to the Natural History Museum every weekend (my 9 year old self anticipated I would still be really into dinosaurs). How wrong I was. 

From that list – I have ticked one box. One. But that’s ok because I’m only 24 right?! And living in London is definitely the only attainable thing on that list. 

Moving on from my lack of really achieving anything. I am now at ELLE. (Woo.YEAH.) Which is the reason this has taken so long to post, it's real work. Whoever said fashion was all Champagne, glamorous parties and free clothes that don’t fit me were 95% lying. It's actually really hard, this is blog is supposed to be persuading BBB that I actually work hard now. If I had actually worked this hard at Law School I could have been quite good at it, oh well live and learn.

I have protested for quite some time that I am not made for the working world, but I may just have found the industry that suits me. We don't officially start until 10am, which means I don't have to get up until 8am, macaroons/cakes/treats are sent to the office daily, I get to play with clothes and shoes and bags that I can't ever afford.

After a couple of weeks I was asked to interview Rosie Huntington-Whitely. I think maybe ELLE were under the impression that I had actually interviewed someone before. I hadn't. I mean my cross examination as to who had the last chocolate hobnob is pretty impressive but a real life interview with a real life supermodel was terrifying. I accepted the challenge and proceeded to call Geeta and squeal down the phone that I was doing an interview, Baz was less impressed he asked why I couldn’t interview Jason Statham instead – because he wanted some fitness tips…

The day came and I put on my best black on black on black chic outfit. Baring in mind it was July this was already a huge fail. Sweaty to meet the glowing goddess was less than ideal. So I arrived 20 minutes before my allocated time like a keeno and was offered some Prosecco (told you the Champers was a lie), I refused thinking keep a straight head and straight face and I might be able to say some words in the correct order. Howeevvvvverrrr. The guy who was serving the Prosecco was really, really hot so I was swayed. We got chatting and it turns out he owned his own cookie company at which point I had convinced myself I had definitely met my soul mate. Obviously realising that I was visibly shaking and taking pity on the only non sample size girl in the room he ditched the tray and whizzed me round the side of the room to neck a large glass of fake champagne with me - he was quite literally the dream. Newly found strength in alcohol I let my mind wander to the best and worst case scenarios from this interview:

Worst case: I forget how to speak or I forget to press record on my dictaphone, or she refuses to speak to me or I ask her about Jason Statham and why she pouts so much in Transformers – ‘is there really time for pouting and lip gloss when the world is on the brink of destruction?’

Best case: We became bessies and then I flew all around the world with her drinking Champagne and partying and become the new Hilton/Richie combo, but with less convictions and sex tapes. Through this now budding friendship she would introduce me Olivier Rousteing – he would dress me in Balmain. I would be his new muse, replacing Kimmy K. Who then realizes she needs to befriend me and boom I’m a Kardashian.

Before anymore Kardashian dreaming was allowed, time was up. So I finally met her, and she was absolutely lovely. I remembered my questions, I remembered to turn on my voice recorder, I remembered to breathe - all was good. Then it came the photo time. Everyone in front of me had had their picture taken with her, but why would you do that?! Why would you stand yourself next to one of the most beautifully breathtaking women in the world?! Je ne comprends pas. So I picked up my phone ready just to get a shot of her for my article and then the PR jumped in, snatched the phone away and pretty much pushed me into her. Excellent. 

So here it is... my face smiling so much I look like a smushball. 

Obvs this was instagrammed and facebooked instantly. 

And so the real world continues comprised of fashion weeks, little sleep, and more Leon wraps than I care to admit. I think I might love it.

Fatty BB xxx

Living The London Life: Part 2

The last time I documented living the London life I was a struggling impoverished intern…6 months later I am a struggling, impoverished intern (who on occasion gets paid). A lot has happened over the past 6 months I have been back to Vogue to do the international shows, I have interned at Vogue India, I have interned at Harper's Bazaar and I am currently back at Vogue HQ writing this and dropping quinoa all over my desk (and getting paid to do it…woohoo, living the dream). 

As far as living the ultimate, brit-cool, Nick Grimshawesque London life - I think I am still falling very, very short. Harry Styles is not my bessie (and completely off topic neither is Emma Stone and we would be such good bessies), I don't eat at Berner's Tavern every night and I don't have a membership to any private member's clubs.

Up your game BBB

Current Residence: Hounslow West. Which I fondly refer to as the ghetto, with in fact very little fondness. Despite being only 8 miles away from Chiswick it's like being in a different country, I have come to the conclusion that it's not quite the place for me.

You might think that I am being a snob (which I am) but there are also a number of pointers which have lead me to this conclusion: 

1. A bus driver spat in my face -which kind of backfired due to the glass in between us and verbally abused me when I asked to get off the bus at a designated bus stop. Obviously being a total whimp I burst into tears and called Baz. 

2. A drunk man got on the bus, shouted at some already pretty angry looking kids, the kids then decided to kick the bus door down and the three year old sitting next to me threw himself into my lap, pulled my hair and cried. All the while the lovely drunk was screaming in my ear 'Hounslow is my land.' (Dude, totally not standing in your way…it's yours.) 

3. After lunch at Pierre Koffman's restaurant a day of perusing Harrods for my birthday, I came back to Hounslow to find that the area around the tube cordoned off due to a stabbing. 

4. There is no Starbucks in sight and my addiction to skinny caramel coffee frappuccinos is not waning.

5. It takes me an hour and a half to get into work. AN A HOUR A HALF EACH WAY - That totals at least 4 episodes of Suits that could have been watched. And whilst I sleep most of the time, whether it be standing or sitting (I have mastered both), by the time I get to Green Park to change my contacts have gotten so dry I look like I am winking at every passer by whilst I try and re-jiggle my sight.

And if that doesn't quantify a reason to not live so far away, the the result of the Tube strikes definitely cements my decision to move closer to the city. My attempt to get into work was a joke. I walked to the station (a good 20 minute Billie paced plod) and got on a bus to Hammersmith - promising. The bus then took 2 hours to travel all of 4 miles, during which I had a man sat next to me who constantly poked me and woke me from my tube strike induced sleep to ask me how far away from Oxford Circus we were. This is just a glimpse as to how irritating he was... 

Suddenly the bus driver decides he doesn't want to go any further and makes everyone get off on the Gunnersbry flyover, helpful. We all peter off and luckily another bus follows...which reads 'Out Of Service'. As does the next bus...as does next bus. Pretty pissed off by this point (due to hunger setting in), I marched to Gunnersbry station to see that the station was closed. Out of options I decided to play my damsel (Princess Fiona) in distress card and called my aunty to come and rescue me (unfortunately all good looking knights on handsome steads were trapped at Finsbury Park.) So I made myself comfortable in a B and Q car park, after being kicked out for just sitting on the garden furniture. 

An hour later still no sign of my saviour, and hunger is on the prowl. As are the builders who keep staring at the random girl dolled up perched on a curb - classsayyy. Girls if you are ever in need of an ego boost, head to your local handyman shop, whilst you will be offered 'nuts and bolts' of a different variety its definitely a lol. (Just not for 2 hours). 

I have found that London has changed me, I have become a bit meaner. If there is me and another person standing in front of a newly vacant seat on the tube I now take it without any guilty feeling of not offering it to the other person. I only do this if I have been on the tube longer, I am not that callous. Before I would always give it up out of politeness, but then I soon realised no one was doing that for me - it's dog eat dog on the Piccadilly line. I even shouted at someone the other day for standing in the middle of the steps at Oxford Circus tube station (I mean really). However my attempts at being a cold hearted London hustler were thwarted when I turned around to throw him a stink and he was completely and utterly gorgeous, so instead of following through with the stink eye I was overcome with a pathetical girly giggle. Way to stand your ground Bills. 

I guess it's not all bad though. I get gorgeous home cooking every night, a hilarious Aunt and Uncle and I'm in bed and watching Suits by 10pm. Regretting giving up Law if they all look like Harvey by 10.07pm.

So whilst the residence isn't quite living up to the London life is there is light to the end of perpetual strugglings (I really need to ease up on the dramatics, but I simply can't). Come September not only will I be a permanent London tosser I will be a Chiswick resident (again). Hallelujah praise the independent shop, organic veg, too many patisseries on one street gods - mama's coming home. 

Prepare for a house warming party of crudités, champagne and a huge selection of cheese. It's going to be hugely (un)civilsed - especially when the replacement pringles, cava and babybells come out to play. 

Gotta dash - curry's ready. 

Fatty BB xxx

One Pampered Pooch.

And I'm not talking about Baz. Although I could be talking about Ashwin with that amount of time he spends on grooming himself. But of course I am talking about my absolute fave, ultimate babe Bhatia, Chester. Often referred to as many or all of the following nicknames:

Chez
Chessykins
Chessywessy
Chessywessywessy (reserved only for Geeta)
Chestaaahhh (when we are being posh gits in the park, this nickname is now used with caution)

However you will most frequently you will hear: 'Chessy off' - the most overused phrase in the Bhatia household. Used at least 10 times a minute when encouraging our little chap to not eat the Aga, to not eat the rug, to not eat the wall, to not eat shoes, to not hump his bed, to not hump his teddy (disturbing to Annie, hilarious to Ashwin). A pattern quite quickly has formed - he likes to eat, a true indication that he is indeed a Bhatia.

There had been an ongoing discussion (which inevitably has lead to many arguments) as to which dog to we would eventually get as our family pet. When we were younger we lived in an idyllic little cottage, that was of course far too small for two normal sized children and one chubby child. But it was beautiful and I loved it (we wont go into the dramatics that occurred when I was forced to leave, but I shall just say that I left with all the doorknobs in my rucksack - because according to an 8 year old this is how to stop people coming into your house). Next door to us there were two dogs: one was called Mini and she was a snooty little Shitzu that would have nothing to do with the village riff raff and spent all her time with her little nose in the air. The other dog was called Chelsea and he was the complete opposite - a big friendly labrador that loved us way more than his owners...because we fed him more. Every morning I would put bird feed out for all my little bird friends (shockingly I did actually have real friends too) and Chelsea would bound along and eat it. I would put bread out in the morning and Chelsea would bound along and eat it; BBB would come back from a boozy session at the Squash Club vom in the garden... and Chelsea would bound along and eat it.

Ashwin was constantly confused as to whether Chelsea was a horse or a dog and spent many hours trying to climb on his back to get a ride around the garden.

I imagine if I had the same affliction there would be little left to Chelsea, this springs to mind.

And so as much as we loved chelsea we decided that if were to have a dog it wouldn't be a labrador, because they love food too much and people would definitely judge us if we were the fat family with the fat dog. So in a (not so) clever twist we went for a golden retriever instead of a labrador - just as greedy, just as big, just more hair. Good one. But he is so beautiful and cuddly and lovely that who cares that he tries to eat everything - I have had the same issues since birth and look how good I turned out. 

I used to really dislike those people on facebook and instagram that constantly uploaded pictures of their pets. Didn't they have better things to fill their IG with like food and Ryan Gosling memes and inspirational Beyonce quotes?! (Obviously I think my IG is exemplary). But the truth is I am now an IG pet wanker too, and I can't stop. If I'm not liking pictures of pugs in fancy dress, I'm deciding which of my thousands of photos of Chester to upload that I haven't already. Help needed. Oh, just incase you hadn't seen them slapped on all social media feeds - here's just a few of my favourite. 

                               

He is in equal measures cute as he is naughty. People have said that pets are meant to fit in around your family, not in this house. It is all about Chester. There is a rota as to who must wake up at 6am to let him out to pee, there is a constant fight as to who is Chester's favourite (which despite Annie's efforts isn't determined on who gives him the most amount of treats), there is a battle to get BBB and Ashwin to pick up his hideous poos and there is a constant struggle to try and save any flowers in the garden. Chester well and truly rules the roost. 

But I wouldn't have him any other way. For more updates on Chester please check Insta DAILY. 

Fatty BB xxx

V Day Victory.

You think with optimism thank god January is over. My bank balance has survived buying Annie's birthday present ; dry January is complete (not that I really gave it much effort after 4 days I decided I desperately needed a glass of wine Ab Fab style); March is on the horizon as February isn't a real month which means Spring is pretty much here, which inevitably means...SUMMER. Alas I constantly am ahead of the seasonal game and already planning my weeks spent in the Umbrian hills eating pasta, drinking wine, gazing at a number of oiled up, toned and tanned Paolos Luigis and Giorgios and this day dream blissfully continues until 13th February. 

Of course I have ignored all the build up to Valentine's Day - it has never held any significance in my spinster life and so I walk around with anti V-day blinkers on, laughing at the poor fools spending a ridiculous amount of money on half dead rose that will be half price tomorrow. Until I was all too aware that it was the day of shout about your love! My usual routine of scrolling insta whilst brushing my teeth was definitely a mistake. Flowers upon flowers, upon love messages, love notes - essentially any kind of declaration of love. I can't even pull off the 'I was sick in my mouth' scenario because I'm not 13 and I can't do that anymore, so I will tell the truth I was thoroughly depressed. I daren't even go on facebook - I think if I had I would have crawled back into bed, called any of the girls and demanded they tell me for the next 45 minutes that they loved me. 

Instead I made a plan with Juliet to get completely and utterly shit faced in the evening. Feeling giddy about my plan I decided I was going to face the day and nothing was going to bring me down...all that single ladies/ independent woman/ girlssss in the ciittaaayyyy / feminism shite. Sorry girls - I mean it with love. Made it to work without encountering any over the top PDA couples on the tube, things were looking up. Entered Vogue House and the reception was positively bursting with blooms. Eurgh. Today was going to be LONG. 

Lonely Hearts Club 

I should note V day was also day one of London Fashion Week, and since this is what I had been working towards for the past 3 weeks it was going to be a day of paper cuts from invitations, running around the cupboard (its a big cupboard) like a crazy mofo and praying that I hadn't completely fucked up all my tasks. I'll cut that bit short for you -there was only a couple of minor cock ups, that in the grand scheme of things were no biggies and actually pat on the back to Julia and I (mostly Julia - she is a complete and utter organisation whizz sponsored endlessly by Saint Laurent). 

Then. Something miraculously happened. I GOT FLOWERS! (I didn't get the heart balloons...they were just for added effect.) 

Serena, our beautiful fashion executive gave them to me - granted they were definitely sent in for her and not for me, but still I most certainly was not going to refuse them. And whilst everyone definitely had an awkies 'we feel so sorry her moment' when I quite brightly declared 'It will look like someone loves me!' I was over the bloody moon. So, with all the bitterness I felt towards public love declaration day...I had become one of the smug wankers - and I kind of loved it. And whilst I still have a huge amount of hatred for Valentine's day, today I was going to completely revel in it.

At least that was the idea whilst bouncing along to the tube station flowers in hand. Until I started to feel hideously awkward and uncomfortable with the amount of stares I got. I mean I normally get a few looks ( come on LOOK AT ME). But I often put that down to humming Beyoncé day in day out on a packed Victoria Line, or making awkward smiles at people on the tube because god forbid you should actually acknowledge another human being - but these stares seemed to be on another page. Another 5 minutes into the journey and I was started to see a theme with the looks I was getting and I could categorise them into the following: 

1. The Obsessive/Spoilt Girlfriend
They already had a gorgeous bunch of flowers but they look at your bunch and then look at theirs again and back at yours. The ones that were most definitely judging whose are better. (Mine were ha-ha-ha). 

2. The Cynical/Bitter Girl.
Me 8 hours previously. There were a few girls that looked me up and down and were thinking 'Christ if she can get flowers, why the hell haven't I got any?!' For that exact attitude...haters. 

3. The Complimentary Girl. 
'Lucky girl' comment, followed by an awkward smile/silence from me. Oh if only you knew the truth. 

4. That Guy.
'SHIT I ONLY GOT HER ONE BLOODY ROSE!'

Finally the journey was over and actually I was rather glad for it, and the Lonely Hearts Club party was about to begin. It couldn't have been a more cliched evening if we had tried. M & S ready meals, a bottle of wine each and '50 Greatest Love Songs' on tv. Pity party was well and truly in full swing. 10pm we decided enough was enough. We had 30 minutes to get even more boozed, put on lashing of mascara, pucker up and head out. A great plan until armed with journey juice on the tube we had no idea where we were going or in fact what we were doing. So we went with the worst possible option and headed to Fezz.

The rest of the night (thankfully) was a bit of a blur, except my favourite part of the night when Juliet attempted a slut drop....and just dropped to the floor and didn't get back up again. Don't worry Jules, this happens to me on a weekly basis and amidst the meat market that was Fezz it was better to hide on the floor. 

Alas V day is over, and frankly now I miss the attention on the tube - obvs because I am the ultimate attention seeker. Instead I am completely ignored (much to my dismay), along with every other person on the tube. It's strange really the lengths that we go to on public transport to be invisible: ​

• The minute you're on the platform, headphones in. (Attempting not to be that person whose music you can still hear despite the use of headphone and scowl at them for the rest of the journey)
• Metro/Evening Standard right in front of your face, even down the escalator. Nothing screams 'stay out of my space' more. However is it really necessary to read it whilst walking to the tube platform, this just causes injury - mostly to yourselves.
• If you are unoccupied by either of the above of course you do not make conversation with anyone around you, even to the guy who's face is literally inches from yours. No,no instead you stare at the ground/ tube map/ weird adverts on the tube / anything other than human interaction. 

And so I will continue my non existence around London until I have flowers or Ryan Reynolds to parade around. 

Fatty BB xxx

An Homage to Habib.

It has been done, Habib has gone. I thought I would jump up and down (granted I really can't jump that high) in elation that I was finally rid of the most hideous car ever to grace the Bhatia drive. But in fact I actually was rather sad and on second thought I might even miss the jazziest of Jazz's. Well not that much.

I remember the day (not with a huge amount of fondness) when I was first introduce to Habib. I was being a complete and utter brat...shock. Baz and Geeta had decided to go away the weekend I was due back in Leeds and I was outraged - who at the beginning of term can get all their stuff on a train?! Considering last weekend I had the same size suitcase for one night as Annie did for 2 weeks in Thailand it is safe to say I am not a light packer. So I was up in arms that they were disappearing and anxiety began to set in when I thought I might miss Fresher's Fruity. So this all came out over dinner that I was now rideless and potentially fruityless. Inexplicably (or perhaps quit explicably) cutlery started to be banged on the table, cupboards were also banged and I was muttering profanities about BBB under my breath. I know, I know total brat behaviour - at least I am not in denial about it.

So after a good twenty minutes of ranting and raving that no one loved me and no one cared (I seriously needed a slap), the door bell rang and Baz asked me to get it. Obviously continuing brat behaviour I made some kind of sarky princess noise and quite rudely just ignored his request. The door bell rang again...one raised eyebrow from Baz and I decided that perhaps I should answer the door. Two people were at the door (I should mention that a lot of people come to the house to see Baz on work related matters and we generally scream at the top of our lungs 'Daaaaddddd someone here to see you' and leave them to it.) So following the usual etiquette I did exactly the same thing, left the two completely bewildered people in the hallway and retreated to sulk in the lounge. After a couple of minutes I was beckoned into the kitchen; in full brat mode I shouted back 'NO.' I was called again and replied in the same appalling manner. (Yes, you should be loathing me by now.) This time BBB came and physically got me from the lounge - I knew I was in trouble. I sat at the table in a big humph, crossed my arms and did my best impression of a Geeta frown. Until the following words were uttered from Baz: 'Now...I bought you a car'.

A huge big, fat slice of humble pie straight to the face. I have never wanted the ground to swalloe me up more. Not even when a pigeon shat on me in the school car park. (Hold on it gets way way worse).

After sheepishly agreeing that I would like to see it, and not quite believing the way I had behaved considering Baz had at the point of sulk already bought me the car. Head down I went out to the drive and there stood an absolute beauty. A black Golf GTI with blacked out windows. I was jumping up and down (on the inside) with glee. The kind gentleman who I thought had bought me this fab new car handed me over the key, and before I gave myself the opportunity to actually look at the fob, I pointed and pressed in the direction of the Golf. Then a faint click was heard but not from the direction I was hoping. I heard fits of giggles and as I turned around I was faced with this.

Habib. 

And so my adventures with Habib began. Habib found his name thanks to his fondest fan James Richardson who as soon as he found out that I had a hideous Honda, googled Asian named beginning with 'h'. Evidently he didn't get very far down the list before he was satisfied with Habib.

Despite deliberately sabotaging Habib on a weekly basis, I became actually rather fond of the granny mobile. And so when some vile creature smashed off my wing mirror - my first thought (and my housemates too) was what kind of person would defile a car of the elderly. 

It may not be the prettiest of cars, but as Baz frequently reminded me it was the safest car on the road - do you think he was trying to tell me something? I'm a good driver, I promise. Once I excepted Habib was much like myself, not the coolest car on the road or the most attractive and slightly confused as to whether it was trying to be a Mercedes A-Class, we learnt to love each other. I even shared him with others. We raced around Leeds in the snow and laughed at the all micros that got stuck in Headingley whilst we glided through; we could fit a lot of people in on a hangover trip to The Oak; I could actually fit (nearly) all my stuff in it when travelling to and from Leeds and most importantly the boot was big enough to hide all the new things I had bought from Geeta. And it was GREAT for roadtrips.

 On one occasion we journeyed to the corner of Scotland, Isle of Mull to be precise for New Years and with the coldest winter ever and the most amount of snow and ice, I decided LET'S DRIVE! I can't say I loved driving in the pitch black with no lights in the snow and ice whilst everyone else slept - thank god I had Celine's greatest hits to get me through. Finally we got to Edinburgh and it was time to switch the reigns I was handing over Habib to Rupert whilst I enjoyed the perks of a roomy 5 door....

Ha. Not what you thought was it. 

And then poor Habib was tortured. Rupert invented a 'game' of sorts on our way to Mull. Where he would rapidly eat a bag of cheesy doritos, turn around with a creepy look on his face and before we could figure out what he was doing lock the windows and let out the most heinous fart. There was no escape from either the stench or Rupert's cackle that followed. 

And whilst I am very much enjoying spending the money Habib has made me on new Carvela boots and stupidly priced gin (actually I'm not enjoying that part all all); I kind of miss him. However I'm sure I will get over it as soon as Baz buys me an Audi. (That's a plea BBB...I'm over the tubes I need a car...the brat is back). So I bid him a fond farewell, I hope we buy any car sent you to a good old home (literally). 

Stay tuned, I'm running out of Habib money so until Vogue pay me this will be my entertainment, and maybe some less expensive gin. 

Fatty BB xxx

Catch 22.

I hated the book. What an awful read - the lead character Yosarian - absolute fruit loop... but I guess that was the point. In case you never had English A-Level literature thrust upon you here is the briefest and probably totally wrong (since I never actually read the whole book) synopsis:

There is a man named Yosarian Geller. He is fighting as a pilot in World War II. He wants to get out of the war. The only way to leave the war is to prove that you are insane. If you are indeed insane you don't know it and you carry on fighting in the war because...you're insane. If you are insane you cannot prove that you are insane as you do not believe in your insanity - thus believing you are in fact sane and remaining in the war because actually you are insane. And indeed if you are sane you cannot pretend to be insane as this is too rational for an insane person, and hence the flaw in your sane plan. Essentially either way you aren't leaving the war. And so Catch 22 is born.

I have probably told that in a really non-sensical way - google it. Joseph Heller doesn't really throw much light onto the situation, I vote old spark notes to help you out.

The main problem with the book was that the way it is written is so non-chronological and random that I would fall asleep trying to understand the ramble. So when it came to trying to read some of it the next day I would have no idea what I had read, go back and read it again, fall asleep through boredom and still be non the wiser. Catch22 was quite literally taking over my life.

And so I find myself in a Yosarian situation once more - a lot less serious though.

I applied for a position at Brides magazine as fashion assistant after my stint at Vogue and was so happy when I was called down for an interview, and then another with the editor-in-chief. Alas it was not meant to be and I lost out to someone who had more bridal fashion experience.

I couldn't be mad, it was totally fair. As far as bridal fashion goes in my world,  I know only one thing: I don't want Wang. I want an Elie Saab or Marchesa dress - how very Indian bride of me.

However there is this annoying catch 22 with the world of fashion, you can't get experience unless you have experience and so the circle completes itself. And I am the first to admit I lack experience...I didn't do a fashion related degree (from St Martins), I can't draw (unless it a flower - I am GREAT at those), I didn't do Art at GCSE, I didn't do textiles further than year 9 and Geeta stitched all my projects that year as I just kept getting my finger caught in the machine and covering my tapestry bag with red blotches. I am not stylish (despite sometimes thinking that I am) I do not look like Gisele, I don't have razor sharp cheek bones (in fact I'm not even sure I have cheek bones) I am not edgy nor am I pedgy...(posh edgy), I am not cool, I don't shop at Farmer's markets (we're getting off track).

Waaayyyy too edgy. 

BUT I know my Acne from A.PC. I can spot a Chloe Susanna boots a mile off, I could sketch look 1-8 of Balmain SS14 if that was a questions on Cranium, Alexander Wang doesn't look old enough to be driving let alone heading up his own brand and Balenciaga. Dolce and Gabbana NAILED their AW13 campaign (I'm trying to recreate the look, to very little success - Geeta asked me whether I was deliberately trying to look fat.)

YES Dolce. (As if I just wrote that)

I can tell you with 100% certainty that Karl Lagerfeld does not like fat people, I hope we don't cross paths any time soon that could be awkies, and that Marc Jacob has seriously got a lot better with time. 

Oooof 

And most of all I know that Valentino is a GOD. Is this enough? No way. But is this the start? I hope so. Is it so much to ask for a column in a magazine?! Caitlin Moran if you're out there - hear my plea. Think of all the politically correct boxes that could be ticked if you hired me. 

Indian - check. 

Overweight (but shifting pounds) - check.  

Doesn't wear socks with sandals - CHECK. 

And so the hunt continues.... 

Fatty BB xxx