COME ONE, COME ALL: YORKSHIRE PEARL POP UP SALE

IF YOU LOVE YOU SOME...

...AND YOU NEED YOU SOME....

THEN COME ON DOWN TO....

Remember when the RCA did that pick a post-card thing? Well won't it just be the best Christmas present ever in five years when Robert Clayton usurps the global fashion crown and you can't even find one of his handmade, miraculous one of a kind Yorkshire Pearls for less than a small mortgage? I'd reckon I'd been a pretty good girl if Santa pops one of those numbers in my stocking this year. Ho ho ho people!

Xmas Pop Shop
2 days only
Friday 11 Dec - 12 to 8pm (6pm to 8pm drinks & nibbles)
Sunday 13 Dec - 12 to 7pm
22 Hanbury Hall, Hanbury Street, Spitalfields London E1

Toothy times at Bert Industries

"Born on New Years Eve in the winter of discontent when striking gravediggers left coffins unburied for several weeks, Bert is the daughter of a dentist father and of a criminologist mother. Her father’s catch phrase “ its only pain” and her mother’s bedtime tales of heads in fridges provide some explanation as to how this small, blonde, industrial powerhouse turned into the driving force of Bert Industries."

Speaking of Sketchbook, it's like the editorial gift that keeps on giving. Another one of my contributors, the lovely Bert of Bert Industries her fantabulous illustrations, who so thoughtfully illuminated my Johnny interview (you'll have to wait til the mag comes out for those images), also happens to be a really quirky jewellery designer, being the offspring of a dentist and criminologist, she'd pretty much have to be.

So I thought I'd share some of her pieces with you. In particular, this tooth cuff. I think it would be so cool to turn it into a personalized sort of "ID" bracelet. Since everyone's teeth are like a unique signature which the cast of CSI can then use to identify the bizarrely mangled bodies of legions of underpaid extras, while this may be somewhat unpleasant at the time of, you could take a cast of your teeth (dentist-style) and then have your own tooth ID bracelet made to order!

Click here to check out Bert Industries' site!

Stuck in my head: Jason Derulo Whatcha Say

Interview with Johnny Blueeyes for Skethcbook Magazine

I meant to post this a while back, say, around the time it happened, but given that this interview took place immediately after my Connoisseur shoot on the eve of my flight to Rome, it just slipped through the cracks of the blogosphere somehow.

Anyway, as I reflect back on this past hectic month, having just submitted the last of my work for my various publications' December deadlines, in the spirit of the season into which there's no more pussyfooting around that we have indeed entered (Christmas tunes in every Starbucks!) I thought now would be a good time to revisit it and its subject saintly message.

For Sketchbook's upcoming sophomore edition, yours truly has profiled and interviewed the one and only Johnny Blueeyes and gotten the lowdown on how the House of Blueeyes came to be, what it believes in and where's its headed (i.e. the stars). But whilst Johnny arrived to the interview, not only feeling the love but also avec illustrated paper masks as per Bert of Bert Industries (the poison pen behind the sketches set to accompany Johnny's interview in the magazine) for a bit of fabulous in-front-of-camera silliness, the cafe in which conducted the interview was certainly not feeling us.

Hesitant whence we arrived with Gothic-black clad Johnny, Nedim the photographer and Joseph the cameraman, the staff looked at us as if we were some sort of destructive fashion cloud merging from out of the blustering evening, destroying the tranquility of the cafe. It certainly did not help when Johnny was touching up his black nail polish and smudged a little bit on their white table. Then when we went to momentarily unplug the downstairs speakers so as not to mess with our audio, the manager nearly had a heart attack. Half convinced we would be tossed out to conduct our interview in the rainy alleyway, before you could whip out that self-righteous New York attitude, Johnny had already worked his magic, shook off the unpleasantries and got the vibe back on track.

So be sure to check out our interview in both the next print issue of SKETCHBOOK and the live footage online!

"LOVE+ART+FREEDOM=HEAVEN ON EARTH"--JBE

photographs by Nedim Nazerali

NY Mag's Short Lived Trends: Back off My Balenciaga

Blink and you missed it indeed. Having your pic snapped for street style during fashion week is kind of like blowing a dandelion into the wind--those style seeds are gone to the four corners of the earth, my friend, and god only knows in what magazine or online manifestation and de-then-recontextualized circumstance they will resurface to haunt or delight you months after the fact.

Case in point: somehow, a pic of me from NYFW made it into New York Magazine's decade-end trend roundup: "Thirty-five short-lived looks from an attention-deficient decade."

I must say, NYMAG, you are way off base with this one. Amongst the RIP short lived trends of the decade, they have listed: logo bags, face hiding sunglasses, skinny jeans and BIRKINS. BIRKINS? Are they barking? Sure crocs for all ages should fade quickly and painlessly into a grimacing noughties dusty fashion yearbook not ever to be reviewed again, but the Birkin? I know we're bucking the luxury trend and New Yorkers sometimes have their heads so far up in the tightly wound regions where the sun-don't-shine in attempt to affect a sort of too-cool-for-school-and-that-means-anything-mainstream. To that I have two retorts: 1) just because Victoria Beckham may have a collection of Birkin's tipping the scale at $2m, doesn't mean its a "trend" of the post-Spice decade. It merely means that a former wag is trying to Grace Kelly-ify herself by reviving a surefire thing, not that the classic glory of the world's most iconic and timeless accessory has fallen by the wayside of an ADD generation. And 2) It is precisely this attitude, this flippant disregard for all walks of the fashion industry--from Uggs to Louboutins--that is poisoning the industry, particularly the retail sector. We can't, on the one hand, with projects like Fashion's Night Out, come down on the consumer for protecting their pennies at home, but then come out with lengthy editorials like this which put down nearly everything worth buying on the market. From cheap trend update like black nail polish to major investment purchases, such as a Chanel suit, this article poo poos them all. So what are we supposed to spend our money on then, NY MAG?

Yours truly, with her bulging Balenciaga, is a stand-in for the biker bag, to which they assigned the shelf life of 2002-7. That was a sound investment, and I stand by it. Sounder than anything trading on the NYSE, if you ask me.

On annoyed reader put it best when he commented: "When are you guys going to give up publishing this kind of pointless list of pointless things that may or may not be correct? 99% of people, even in New York didn't notice and still don't care." By saxon212 on 12/08/2009 at 7:21pm.

Click here to read the NY MAG article

STYLE WHISPERING: Foxy Knoxies, the Mother/Daughter/Dog Vintage Extravaganza @ Notting Hill's RELLIK

Thanksgiving, that somewhat pointless holiday for intercontinentaled diaspora'd families sans-hearth round which to gather, but still necessitating some semblance of display of familial sentiment. Thus was the reason that the Mamma Whisperer, for the hefty sum of two weeks' time, had descended upon Londontown in a blaze of trendy Tokyo glory, invading my flat and settling in only as a mother turkey can do. But Mother in your mist or no, the Style Whispering must go on. So in the spirit of the season, rather than gathering round a frozen turkey from the one Whole Foods in London at my little fold out table and making a stymied attempt at American "normalcy," we decided instead to do it our way. And our way, from day one, has meant one thing and one thing only: shopping.

She is the Dr. Frankenstein and I her little monster, she often declares with mixed pride and fear. The trouble is, my wardrobe (in quantity, not quality) overtook hers around the time puberty overtook me. And while, at the time, this amounted to a fateful teenage mother/daughter dynamic of her yelling at me for my excess and the mess that it inevitably accrued and me, in an attempt to stage sartorial revenge, creeping into her closet during the wee hours of the morning to pinch a Christian Dior bag or the like from her closet sanctuary and slip off to school without mummy any the wiser til breakfast time.

All grown up and squarely situated within the fashion world, when mum comes to town, we can now turn those bickerings into full blown blogging playtime. Enter Rellik at the top of Golborne Road. What better venue for a glorification of mother/daughter fashion playtime than the prize of London's supreme vintage eye? With their selection of dream stock--ranging in style and content from the 20s to the mid 80s, designers include Westwood, Alaia, Comme, Christian, Pucci, YSL, Chanel and the rest of the gang, its fashion history unplugged, and I'm there to shoot with the woman responsible for unplugging me. 80s Chanel blazers and 60s leopard spotted caps, the Mamma Whisperer was in her element, reliving her stylish years prior (this is a woman, after all, who purchased her first car at 16--a yellow convertible--because it matched the cardigan she was wearing on the day of), with me lecherously lurking behind. I remember watching mom go off to work in the late eighties in NYC, Christian Dior hot pink shoulder padded power suits proudly strutting out the door to hail a cab. So I pulled one off the rails and tried to recreate. A futile effort. Some women, namely five foot three Japanese with platinum locks and an attitude to match, can pull it off. Others, such as my meek self, simply cannot.

So we plundered and ravaged, three generations of foxy non-criminal Knoxies (Butters representing for the granddoggiess) committing the crimes of shopping so deeply embedded in their genes. Shopaholic family much? Guilty as charged.

RELLIK
Holmefield House
8 Golborne Road, North Kensington, London, W10 5NW
020 8962 0089

Photos by PAT LYTTLE

Look One: Bitches in time
On me: jacket-no label; white top-Kenzo; black skirt-no label; shoes-Westwood; belt-Thierry Muglier
On Delphine: jacket-YSL; black dress-Chanel; shoes-Ossie Clark

I loved the feel of this theatrical jacket, and felt it needed some volume to go with it in order to prevent myself from looking like an extra in the Nutcracker. Hence Issey-esque skirt with enough fabric to drown a small child and funky Westwood boots complete this just-emerged-from-grandma's-closet-and-aren't-I-fab-look?

But when you lose the jacket, the look has a totally different feel. The look over all is SO Yohji...reminds us why we should rally behind the man and pull him back from the brink of bankruptcy!

Look 2: Ladies Who Lunch Circa 1986
on me: silk check blouse-YSL; blazer-Moschino; gold skirt-YSL; bag-Westwood; pearl choker-Westwood; shoes-Westwood
on Delphine: dress-Christian Dior

This look was all about the power woman of the 80s, the ladies who lunch with a vengeance. I went for a sort of New York Upper East Side Gossip Girl gone 80's feel. Lots of layers, with preppy accents give just the right amount of snooty feel. Hiding behind my massive sunglasses and floppy hat, Fifth Avenue better watch itself!



Delphine's look, on the other hand, was ready to do some pocketbook damage on the Champs Elysees after a quick cafe au lait and a macaroon or two. Suited up in her Christian Dior frock and fedora, Delphine's is the perfect time frozen mirror image to my Fifth-Avenue stalker. Le Gossip meets le girl.

Look Three: Sparkle Fest
Delphine's ensemble and my dress are by the same designer...shamefully I cannot remember the name! Check back later for those deets :(

Look three was all about party party party, sparkle sparkle sparkle. Think New Year's Eve 1988: belles of the ball, looking like the disco ball. Whenever I think of New Year's in the 80s, I think of that pivotal scene in the film When Harry Met Sally, and remember watching the ball drop as a little kid, itching to break out of my apartment prison and take to the streets of Times Square. In this look, Time Square comes to me and I AM the ball.

Delphine's look is a bit softer, a bit girlier, a bit sweeter. More Parisian off to sip champagne like a lady at a reasonable hour on New Year's Eve than New Yorker looking for a bumpin party to crash. The look is very classic because of its matchy-matchy nature, but that golden cone cap really funks it up, takes it out of the 60s and into the 21st century.

This look is all about layering on the sparkle factor. Sequin jacket worn over metallic dress with the bling piled on: you've got to have somewhere to go in this outfit, preferably with a cocktail in hand. But while the overdone bling factor may make the look seem a bit outlandish, I think layering mix-n-match sequins upon each other is actually a great way to reign in the trend without going for the obvious. A sequin blazer is an unexpected alternative to a black one, keeps the look young, fresh and personal.

Look Four: Daytime Divas
on Delphine: shoes and gloves-Gucci; dress-no label
on me: vest-???; skirt-Yohji; shoes-Doc Martins

Delphine's look here is very buttoned up and coordinated. Red gloves, red hat--she is the quintessential put together Parisian. Prety as a picture.

I, on the other hand, feeling the stress of the holidays slowly wrap its cold fingers around what's left of my meagre sleep time, felt like going for the edgy grunge look that gripped Manhattan around the time I escaped from the womb. the Docs went on (unlaced of course) and I worked a full length houndstooth Yohji skirt with a ??????????? jagged tooth-fringed vest. I'm a lean, mea, downtown early 90s Andy-Warhol lovin' vintage machine.

Mamma Whisperer arrives...
on Mother: hat-no label; python jacket; plaid coat-Westwood; gold chain-YSL

She came (late), she saw (the same hat I had already shot) and she conquered. At first, given that the shop's heating seemed itself to be something of a relic, she refused to whisper anything other than outerwear. But my obsession with coats does come from somewhere, and this would be it. Guess which of these two little gems will be trekking back across the pond with mother, joined for ever in holy vintage union?

Look Five: Frankenstein and her little monster
on me: shoes-Doc Martin; feather jacket-no label; sunglasses-Stephen Sprouse Runway
on mother: orange jacket-no label; floppy hat; chain necklace-YSL; clutch-no label

This look is strictly fun only. Ok, I'd wear it out, but only in New York, and only if Lady Gaga were my plus one to some fabulous event (what is: Marc Jacobs' after party?). This coat, i.e. my "big bird" look (thanks mom) is a statement in and of its self. Cinch the bad boy with a belt, pull on the docs, and let the feathers do the talking. The Stephen Sprouse glasses--produced exclusively for one of his few runway shows--were a purely cheeky touch. Completely unable to see through them, I now understand that Sprouse's models must have been pretty damn high on their 80s fabu Soho selves in order to strut down the legend's catwalks without crashing down face first.

Mother's look, on the other hand, to me, is very Japanese-y. This printed bright orange unstructured coat is sort of Kimono-esque, and those gold accessories really pop against that vibrant hue. Accessorized to a tee, this is what Tokyo style is really all about. And despite her multi-decade tenure as a New Yorker, you can take the girl out of Harajuku, but you can't take the Harajuku out of the girl.

Look Six: Brown Classics
on me: tweed blazer-YSL, shoes-Westwood
on Delphine: finged leather cape-no label
on Mother: shearling-Nicole Farhi

The classic hue reworked a la vintage in three ways: fringed and funky on the Parisian, furry and accessorized on the Tokyo maven, preppy school boy with a twist on the American. This look was all about the hats, leopard cap for mother and Delphine to share and a little dunce cap for the misbehaving clothes whisperer. No one puts the whisperer in the corner. Except her mother.

Vamanos a Espana 3: Thai Massage and a dash of Mrs. Tiger Woods

Day 3. No blazing ball of moonset glory out my balcony to herald the morn, just the grey calm of the Mar Menor lagoon in the late morning. After a hearty breakfast (somehow we'd missed the man frying up eggs and omelettes the day before), and a quick stop off at the seaside for snappy snaps, we packed ourselves into trusty ol' Scooby Doo and made our way back to La Torre not to further our investigation into the carbonated wonder that is cava, but to probe the innermost recesses of its sanctuary, the Thai Room Spa.

But not before we combined air musical forces and formed our awesome air band comprised of 1 pianist, 1 recorder-player (do they have a proper name?!) and 1 violinist. Journalism was so last year.

It was only in the daylight and with minds liberated from copious amounts of cava that we could really see La Torre for what it actually was: a small little city unto itself of condos, casas and a sprawling hotel resort with golf course to match. With a slightly more corporate feel than its Moroccan-themed sister, La Torre's rates are somewhat more reasonable--a two day luxury break starting from just £160 per person during off peak season.

After a quick peek round the premises, it was off to the spa. I arrived at the Thai Room Spa bubbling with excitement for my vedic massage. Yesterday had relaxed my spirit, today would do my body. With much smaller facilities than Mar Menor's ESPA, La Torre's spa facilities were coed, and after a dripping speedo clad Englishman and his girlfriend went giggling into the steam room after a quick dip in the pool, I decided to opt for the sauna, ever-conscious of what was happening on the other side of that toasty wall.

After a quick cat nap by the pool (was unable to overcome fear of frolicking English in steam room so settled for a dip instead), we were summoned by three very authentic looking Thai technicians for our Vedic massages (from 78€). Other options on the menu? The scrumptous looking Thai Yoga Massage (from 78€), which passively reproduces the asana movements of yoga with an emphasis on stretching and a Banana Creamy wrap (78€) consisting of a mixture of banana, rice flour, milk and honey.

Back to our treatment. Of Indian origin, the Vedic treatment was allegedly an "evocation of the Ayurvedic massage. A delicious massage in which light pressure is applied to the whole body using warm or hot oil." Now, while the warm oil felt lovely, as a veteran-New-York-City-Chinatown-trained-goer of Thai and Chinese massage, I have to say, I was a little disappointed. She didn't straddle me and violate my shoulders, she didn't climb up on my back, dig her knee into my lower back and pull. She didn't even walk on me at any point. In fact, she spent a fair bit of time on my inner thighs...hmm...I really hope that wasn't a subtle message about some incoming cellulite.

It wasn't that she didn't have the technique. When she started in on my neck, I could have sworn those were the fingers of an iron-fisted angel wrapped round my throat...if only she had gone on that way. In the end, it was still a terrific massage, as evidence by the fact that I fell into a deep three hour sleep beside the pool as soon as I managed to crawl out of the treatment room.

Then it was time for lunch. Paella....mmmm




After lunch, it was back in the Scooby Doo van for the second to last time...we were to make a little unscheduled stop. Astute journalists that we are, the antics of the straying king of golf splashed all over the television (which we had been diligently watching from our jet baths) had naturally, permeated a joke or two along the way. So, that first night, Jennifer from the Times had piped up about us taking a turn on the golf course. And take a turn we did.

The belles of the ball, our instructor Javier was a charming Spaniard with the patience of a saint. He graciously took us through "ejercicios 1-3," everything from how to swing to how to putt. I must admit, after many years of decrying the pastime (I will still not grant it the word "sport"), I had a whale of a time. No spa retreat should be complete without a stint at the driving range--it's perfect for working out those last bits of tensions your masseuse may have missed. There really is nothing like swinging a club full force with an immense spread of emerald green grass beneath your feet and an open blue sky ahead. I get it completely, Mrs. Tiger.

Javi demonstrates for Sophie

Ejercisio 4: the Mrs. Tiger Woods

And then, just like that, the press trip was over. But like when summer camp comes to a close, while the experiences themselves were great--whether you learned how to make a tipi out of a sheet or the difference between Cava Brut and Cava Reserve--it's the people with whom you shared them that make it a summer worth remembering.

So to conclude my three-part Spanish blogging extravaganzo I will digo una cosa: if six strangers gathered in the back of a Scooby-Doo van for three days can make a great escape and memorable mini-holiday out of a two night press trip, how much fun do you think you'll go whence you boogy on down with your man, mates or mum?

Click here to find out more about InterContinental Hotels and Resorts

and here to find out a bit more about Murcia!

El Fin

Adios Amigos!

Vamanos a Espana 2: ESPA and CAVA

Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba, Sithi uhm ingonyama...

No it's not the Lion King, but my first full day in Murcia began thus: I rolled over in my delicious bed post disruptive wake up call from the obliging concierge, opened my eyes and saw what, in my as yet uncaffeinated pre 9am daze, I mistook to be a full on Sahara style, Circle of Life changing blazing sunrise shining out through the clouds amidst a flush pink sky. So sure it was actually the moon setting--moon, sun, same thing--but still, a pretty unbeatable start to a day promising everything from massage to cava uncorked.

It began with the ESPA. A Moroccan-themed tranquil recluse complete with mosaic steam room, sauna, ice fountain, lifestyle showers, a "vitality" pool as well as a gorgeous properly heated indoor lagoon perfect for a post-treatment dip. Split into two groups of three, we descended to the minus 1 level of Mar Menor and braced ourselves to make the ultimate decision: massage or facial? Three massages assigned later, we found ourselves, whisked into the locker room so as to tuck into luscious terry cloth robes and peruse the spa's offerings before our masseuses came a-calling.

The first feat of relaxation which greeted us (myself newly changed into "Auntie Rita" i.e. the PR's bikini which she had to lend to me on account of my foolishly neglecting to pack one) was the "vitality pool:" aka a jacuzzi with a vengeance designed to "cleanse the body and skin, relax and sooth aching muscles." Indeed. Basically akin to a stove top in which you are supposed to immerse yourself, whence fiddling with the buttons to activate the various cavities meant to pump water strategically aimed at particular body parts in need, poor Sophie had the misfortune of standing beneath this previously unnoticed enormous spout which, when activated, essentially sent forth highly pressurized and particularly violent deluge, knocking the unsuspecting journalist right off her pretty feet. There was also no obvious way to shut it off.

An hour or so later, when we were in our massages and group two was investigating the facilities before their treatments, we heard an explosion of water and the shrieking of writers reverberating through the spa. Giggling to ourselves, I know what's going on, we all thought. One girl later described the experience as a "rhinoceros pissing" down on her. Pretty close.

Ice fountain: you're meant to crush ice in your hands to cool down your body temperature in between sauna/steam room stints. Improves circulation

Upon escaping the violent pool with our vitality still somewhat intact, we fled for the sanctuary of the steam room and/or sauna. Unfortunately, the steam room was fairly un-steamy, so sauna it was. But what a sauna. The light in the delectably hot wooden box morphed from yellow to blue to green to red...color therapy, allegedly. Whether or not it worked? I can't say for sure it was the color flicking sauna or the fact that my email had remained unexcavated all morning, but whence I emerged from the treatment area post-massage, my spirits were undeniably elevated.

Then the clock nearly stroke midday, so it was back to the locker room to prepare for treatment time. Going into our lockers, we pulled out our intended outfit change--a lovely paper half thong. And just to make you feel extra special, the lovely folks at ESPA found it in the goodness of their fashion conscious hearts to add a frilly little ruffle trim round the edge of said offending paper garment. Not one to bite that hand that massages me, I slipped it on with pride and made my way back to the waiting area.


Treatment time. Beckoned down the dimly lit corridor, I soon found myself sitting in a chair in a sort of patio area outside my treatment room being given some serious reflexology, complete with warm and fragrant foot soak. And I have to say, being Asian and addicted to Tui Na and rest, this was the best damn reflexology I have ever had from a blonde haired and blue-eyed technician. "Are you having problems with your tummy?" she asked me. Yes, yes, a few days earlier, I'd come down with some form of stomach flu. You're good, you're very good.

Then it was time for the true magic to begin. Headed back inside, I climbed up on that table and allowed for an hour of complete relaxation to ensue. Medium pressure, the technician was skilled and soft-handed, and the treatment a traditional massage with the odd Asian twist thrown in (i.e. a pressure point here, a bit of head scooping there).

And while she didn't mount me and begin to violate my spine the way I like it in Chinatown, I have to say, when I felt the treatment was moving towards its closure, and the technician leaned over and softly whispered to me that now it was time for the "specialty," that she would just go and prepare it and then return, I bristled with extreme disappointment when she returned bearing a small tray con tea cup. Oh, I thought. Special tea.

Good thing there's also a massage in store for tomorrow.

Me and my "special tea" post massage

Post treatments, special tea and the rest, it was time to emerge from the soft tune-filled and gently lit spa into the glorious Spanish sunshine. Sandwich lunch in the hotel's Club House to be followed by a trip into the city of Murcia for site seeing (i.e. shopping).

View from my balcony

So we loaded our relaxed selves into the back of the Scooby Doo van and trekked into Murcia. To our delight, upon arriving in la ciudad, it was smack dab in the middle of siesta (god I love a country that siestas in the winter when the heat can't be claimed as explanatory) and, sadly, the cathedral was closed.

Despite Auntie Rita's best attempts to make a special exception in the case of the "British Press," walking up to the enormous (not to mention fast-bolted) double iron doors and banging on them, God did not fall victim to her PR moves and his house remained shut to the British press until after siesta. Por favor, he has three incarnations, after all, let the Almighty have his midday nap.

I guess that means we have to go shopping! Conjectured the six fashion journalists. And shop we did. Though we had to circumnavigate this whole siesta thing (convenient for avoiding cathedrals, not so good for exercising the wallet), we managed to unearth a few gems from the city's local shops. The triumph of the excursion was a quaint little boutique called Bimba & Lola. Though closed when we first walked past, what I saw in the window spoke to my gut and I knew we had to return whence they reopened at four. And return we did. And shop we did. I, in particular, took home a sweet little shaggy cream cardigan with black piping and a little bow. Kimberley from the Telegraph scooped up a massive black cocktail ring.

Eliisa and Sophie

Then it was off to another one of Intercontinental's massive properties in Murcia: La Torre. Whence we arrived at Mar Menor's slightly more corporate hermana, we were greeted by smiling sommellier Jose Carrasco of the restaurant La Vinoteca with five bottles of Cava lined up juicily in front of him, just waiting to glide down a journalist's throat.

Jose explained to us about how cava is made, what kind of grapes, the process--what makes it different from Prosecco or Champagne, how to drink it, with what kinds of food to prepare it and so on. When Jose asked what we smelled in the fifth and final cava, which was a strange hue of orange, Sophie piped up: you know when you throw all your veg and leaves into a pile outside and let them rot? Eeeew, it did smell like compost. Can we switch to wine now? Jose, more than happy to oblige, rolled out some tasty riojas to accompany our ensuing four course meal at Vinoteca.

Considerably stuffed, cava'd and ESPA'd, it was time for six sleepy and content journalists to Scooby Doo it back to Mar Menor and back into that jet bath from which you can watch tv. Another day's hard work.

Jennifer and her adorable little vintage-esque camera

Sally scopes out the cava's bubbles whilst we explore the importance of yeast

mmm, mmm tasty. Kimberley takes a big whiff.

I match the cava!

Vamanos a Espana 1: The Journos Arrive at Mar Menor Golf Resort & Spa

Buenas dias muchachos y muchachas: we have officially arrived. Six lovely beauty and fashion writers, two 5 star hotels in Murcia, Spain and one devastating cava tasting later, you had the perfect recipe for two full days of spa-time summer camp for grown ups.

It began at Gatwick. Me and my bright green car print Orla Kiely wheely were subtly checking in at the Monarch counter when the tightly suited woman asked me if I was traveling in group. When I promptly answered, "um, yes, I guess," she gestured to the woman checking in at the counter next to me whom I' d never seen before and said, "oh aren't you two traveling together?"

"um....." awkward.

Forty-five minutes later, I am seated next to said woman on the flight to Alicante, who turns out to be the lovely Jennifer Howze from the Times, the super mom behind hit blog Alpha Mummy. "So we are traveling together."

Indeed. From that moment on, it was literally take off, as all the journos one by one realized who each other were and introductions ensued. Two and a half hours later, we landed in a balmy evening, caught our first glimpse of palm trees and eased into our soon to be dubbed "Scooby-Doo" van for our hour-long sojourn to Intercontinental's Mar Menor Golf Resort and Spa. True to Spanish form, we six lovely ladies are greeted by a full on nativity adorning the Spanish traditional infused with a Middle Eastern twinge themed lobby.

We score our room keys (Eliisa from the Independent gasped with horror when given room 333, momentarily thinking she'd been housed by the PR in the room of the antichrist. We soothed her with the mistake of telling her that 666 was the accursed number, which must make 333 somewhat ultra godly. She didn't let it go the whole time) and race up to the third floor. Glorious five star, glorious five star. Two enormous fluffy beds, clothed headboard to toe in sumptuous sheets whose thread count I don't even want to fathom. Little name cards and cubes of Manchego welcome us (after a cava in the lobby, of course) and beckon towards the sweeping views from the terrace of the enormous pool below and dusky horizon.

And then there was the bathroom. Mother always said, you must determine the quality of a hotel by its bathroom--crappy bathroom, not coming back again. Enormous jacuzzi bathtub--check. Simu-rain style shower--check. Excessive freebie toiletries including toothpaste which three of us had forgotten to pack--check. But the best part? A shuttered window, which, when opened, could be swung back to provide a jacuzzi-bathing blogger with a clear view of the TELEVISION. Luxury at its finest.

Then it was off for a tour of the hotel's facilities, including a sneak preview of the spa facilities and the "J-Lo" suite. I ain't fooled by the rocks that she got, that room ain't nothing to do with no block. Enormous wrap around terrace, there was a dining table large enough to feed all the little Marc Antony's out there and a bed, well, you get the picture...

Kimberly from the Telegraph gives the ESPA products a little sniff

Room 400: the J-Lo Suite

Don't want to know what happened in there

Sophie from Style Bible and Sally from the Sun scope out J-Lo's bathroom

Jenny's terrace and view

Then it was time for dinner. In these sorts of situations, always something of a dreaded affair for myself, one of the world's pickiest eaters. So when a bowl with two little shrimp nesting in the bottom waiting for their drizzle of incoming gazpacho was placed in front of me, I found myself suddenly in good company. Turns out, Sophie, the writer from Style Bible, has taste buds identical to mine. Closeted vegetable hater no longer, the two of us proudly requested meat options and forewent the foie gras.

Sophie suspiciously eyes her amuse bush. Amen sister.

Jennifer from the Times leans in for a good whiff

Pleasantly stuffed after three courses and ever-flowing cava and now well acquainted, the six sleepy journalists trekked back upstairs to snuggle into our delicious beds and feast on television and the joy of knowing that tomorrow's work day would begin not with frantic email checking and deadline rushing, but our first spa treatment. Buenas Noches Murcia.

The Stylist & The Sommlier: Behind the Scenes at the First Ever Connoisseur Magazine Shoot

The Stylist & The Sommelier. A series of shoots contrived by yours truly for Connoisseur Magazine, for whom I am the first ever Fashion Editor. Simply gastro and wine no more, my concept integrates two akin sectors of luxury--fine dining and high fashion, which, while seemingly partners in crime (can't eat in a Michelin 3 star without the duds to match!), in reality, interact more along the lines of oil and water. ie in the case of the fashionista, water in lieu of anything with oil, or calories of any kind! Five course meals and sample size gowns are not exactly birds of a flat tummy feather.

For our first ever shoot, for which I recruited fellow Style Whisperer Delphine Hervieu as model and Nicholas Elliott as photographer, was shot at the glorious gastro pub conveniently situated just across the street from me, Commander Porterhouse & Oyter Bar. DKNY, Collette Dinnigan, Munchu's, McQueen, Manolo, fine jeweller Dean Davidson and more provided the fodder for our playtime and sprawling art deco bar, roaring fireplace and a visual feast of a deli, the backdrop. The story? As the issue is Dec/Jan and focuses on champagne at the holidays, I shot champagne two ways, for Christmas and New Years and will run specially created tasting menus alongside the images.

A bit of a madcap Saturday, with less than two weeks to plan this shoot all by my lonesome, at one point during the six hour photographic marathon, I wound up on the floor as far from the luxe white rabbit fur shawl as can be with a bloody nose. But in the end, thanks to a great team and an exceptionally obliging managerial staff at the Commander, we wound up with a series of strong images, a story from start to finish of a girl and her bubbly out on the town looking fab during the holidays.

The issue of Connoisseur will be out next week, be sure to check it out to see Nick's final images!

behind the scenes shots by Chun Lin and Marina Scukina

Models can be SUCH divas sometimes

The lovely Sunshine arrives with her arsenal of Dean Davidson goodies

Bloody nose!

I didn't realize how Sex and the City this shot was at the time...Carrie le Bradshaw does London

And scene. Even teddy is tired.