Lucire Update

The juicy diary from my recent trip down to Dunedin for the iD Emerging Designers show is up on Lucire. Check out:
http://www.lucire.com/2009/0423fe0.shtml

Fashion Crash-test Dummy - midriff bares all

This isn't Zara Mirkin. This is Rumi from Fashion Toast

This is Zara Mirkin

Thanks to Zara Mirkin, belly baring is back. With fashions’ current obsession with the eighties, it was bound to happen sometime soon. While Zara has been hanging about with her belly out for a while now, this is a look that we are expecting to explode onto the streets come summer 09/10.

The last time we saw a bit of mid-section flesh flashing was when jeans had low waists – wow remember that? All those seasons ago when the phrase “muffin top” was commonly used. The current tummy trend however, is of a different variety. This time round the trousers are higher, and the cropped tops are generally worn loose. It’s a difficult look, and one that has to be pulled off with attitude and abs of steel. I don’t have abs of steel, but attitude is something I can do.

I attempted a dress rehearsal of the cropped top after getting inspired by some of the American fashion bloggers. Lucky for them it is spring over there at the moment. The great thing about this look is that you don’t have to buy it – in fact the coolest looking crop tops are made from grotty old cottons. I stood in my plain white singlet (an old goody from Jay Jays if you must know) in front of the mirror and gleefully hacked at it with scissors. It was very liberating to slice at something with such reckless abandon, it felt like being a teenage punk again.

Feeling brash, I pulled on a pair of until then never worn high waisted red skinny jeans, and, with attitude in mind added my sky high bogan ankle boots with studded harnesses attached. I went out. I was cold but I felt hot. I got a lot of stares and a lot of comments. I also got tired stomach muscles from sucking it in all the time. Does Zara get a sore tum I wonder? Or does she just give up worrying and let it all out? I should interview her and ask.

I’m a bit hooked on my white rag of cropped cotton now; tomorrow I’ll be trying it with high waisted skirts. Stuff winter, I’ll just wear tights.

Su-gah

I have what I suspect to be a sugar hangover. Granted, I was drinking the night before, but not enough to warrant feeling this lousy. And it’s a different sort of lousy than your usual “my guts are churning my head is throbbing” type that is the aftermath of a serious night on the juice. This sort of lousy is – well, just gross. In fact it’s possibly worse than the R18 variety. This is serious R8 stuff, the last time I remember having a sugar hangover was after one of the regular pre-teen sweet laden sleepovers we used to have.

My sugar hangover arose from a night on the town with the girls (grown up now). After a bottle of champagne or two my stomach and I realised I had missed dinner, so we grabbed an emergency bubble tea. For those of you who haven’t discovered bubble tea yet, it is a must try for anyone interested in a strange Asian textural experience. Now the problem with bubble tea – or should I say the brilliance – is the cup sizing in that the end comes too soon, leaving you wanting more. So after a few more bars I found myself wandering home past the bubble tea shop again. And so again I went in. They looked at me very strangely in there, having seen me just a few brief hours earlier. The second bubble tea never tastes as good as the first, and halfway through the second you are feeling slightly ill, the precious pearls at the bottom have lost their lustre and are not nearly as precious or appetising as they used to be. By the time you get three quarters down you’re battling, the pearls reveal themselves as the stodgy mess they are, and the sweet milky flavour cloys the throat.

Feeling full of regret I sodded off to bed, only to wake this morning with more feelings of regret – in my head, gut, and depleted energy levels. I feel like a limp carrot – you know the one that’s in the back of your vegetable drawer? My skin is much like a limp carrot too, grey, dry and slightly wrinkly on the surface. Fast tracking my memory back I try to recount how I coped in those pre-teen days. I seem to recall that the “day after” was always spent much like it is these adult days, flat on my back on the couch recovering. While couches are lovely, I have decided a detox will be instigated to flush my poor body from those sugary bubble tea toxins – vegetables, fruit and herbal tea will be the order of the day, and lots and lots of water. I’m definitely not about to overdose on sugar again in a hurry, I’ll stick to the other hangovers thanks.


Image from agapetea

Where's My Service?

photo: Grant Kennedy


Bron Williams contemplates the beginning of a new era

Written Christmas 2008


Arriving at Wellington Airport for a flight to Dunedin recently I was unnerved to be greeted not by smiling airport ladies, but by two monstrous space-like rounds in the centre of the departures terminal. A big sign screeched “Welcome to the new Self Check-in!”

I cowered in the corner awhile, observing others as they fumbled their way through the automated check-in before finding the courage to tackle the beast myself. After a few false starts, I managed to blunder through the ticket printing part, but got completely wrapped up in my sticky luggage tag. That was when I admitted defeat and walked, baggage sticker tangled in my fingers, to ask assistance from a not so smiling airport lady. In a few swift moves, she untangled me from my mess, printed off a new tag, applied it correctly (giving me a few steely glances while doing so, just to make me squirm), took my bag and swept me on my way. With tail between my legs I sloped off to recover with a coffee.

Some time later in the herding pen that they call boarding gates, I met an old acquaintance of mine, also Dunedin bound. After relaying my tale of anguish, he nodded vigorously in agreement and confessed to how he too had been bewildered by the new check-in. He had stood dumbly at the self-drop conveyor belt until someone had come to his aid, prying the bag from his hand and placing it for him on the belt. “I couldn’t do it – it felt naughty to be doing it myself” he explained.

The airport self check-in is just the beginning of a new phenomenon sweeping our cities. 2009 will be noted as the year of The Death of Service. Wellington public transport has caught onto the self service trend, introducing the Snapper card. Pre-loaded with funds, the snapper card allows the bearer to “Snap on and Snap off” city buses by simply swiping their card over scanning machines situated in the doorways of each bus. No contact with bus driver necessary. Originating in Hong Kong and London, the re-loadable transport card has made its’ way to our capital, and soon will be taken up in Auckland. Obviously aware of the major profits possible in such a scheme, large companies Infratil, ANZ, National Bank, NZ Post, Eyede, Unisys and Beca Group are all getting involved in the Snapper card. With the GPS traceable snapper card soon to be usable to pay for your morning coffee, it may be possible for others to track your every move. Snapper Services general manager Charles Monheim comments on the power of the scheme: "Not only will it be used for small value purchases, parking and public transport, but it is our expectation it will be used in various ways for access control and loyalty schemes.”

Tracking forward to Christmas Eve, I was lined up amongst the madness of last minute shopping in New World supermarket to try out the recently installed self-service check-out system. A total of 16 self check-out machines were supervised by two young staff members whose duties were to support shoppers through their self-purchasing experience, and to supervise our honesty. There definitely is a certain degree of trust involved in the self check-out procedure. Shoppers can take advantage of the system in many ways, from incorrectly naming an item ($8.99/kg button mushrooms in place of the actual $11.99 flat browns), to scanning one cheese and placing two in your bag.

While there are precautions put in place to minimise this sort of criminal gallivantary in form of cameras and bag weighing stations, the financial risk analysts would have surely taken this all into account. They must have concluded that, customer dishonesty put aside, they still made profit. And what a profit it must be. Where I usually have time to skim read both Woman’s Weekly and New Idea in the time it takes to get from the back of a pre-Christmas queue to the check-out, this time I had barely picked up my first gossip rag of choice before the polite coughs of a customer behind me alerted me to the empty self check-out machine in front of me. We positively whizzed through that checkout line, with minimal waiting.


On board our flight, my acquaintance and I reminisced about a certain café that opened on George Street in Dunedin about 5 years ago, attempting the then unheard of approach of self-service. The café consisted of a number of holes in a white wall into which you posted money, and after a bit of button pressing you were presented with your order of burger or fry, which popped out of a small microwave sized door beside you. Apparently there were actually people behind the mysterious white wall making your food, but no one knew for sure. The whole structure had the feeling of a public urinal, the fluorescent signage overhead being about the only thing alerting you to the fact that it was not.
[I understand that the café was often mistaken for a toilet by students on their late-night stumbles home - but then most shop fronts look like urinals to a drunken Dunedinite.]

As you can imagine, the hole in the wall café didn’t last two months. This could have been partly due to the unappetising food on offer, but most likely because its’ self-service idea was just way ahead of it’s time. Five years ago in Dunedin nobody accepted an impersonal machine in place of real people, but today this development is taking over our airports, buses and lives. It is only a matter of time before our old friends of the urinal café dredge up their business plan and re-presents it to New Zealand with great success.

With more and more people in the service sector losing their jobs to machines; our future may be one where café culture and smiling service people are but a fast fading memory. Sounds over the top but you better believe it. The next step is to replace all the waitresses at your local coffee joint with robots…

Intense Violent Pornography

Gee, well that really gets me going. I wonder about the little rebel who tagged it on my fence. Great speller. In my early days, the closest I got to graffiti was carving “School Sux” into the slide at the school playground, then as an afterthought scrubbed out “Sux” and put “O.K”. What a sop.

Years later I experienced graffiti again, this time as an art school kid in Dunedin. My buddies had got into graf art in a big way, and soon the city was overrun by Lichtenstein-esque and film noir characters. I was often roped in as the transporter, holder or runner (often running away from security guards). Many Monday nights were spent shimmying up fire escapes and dangling perilously from the edges of two storey buildings in order to access the blank concrete walls that were our canvases. During the day we would scour the streets for previously untapped real estate, venturing down back alleys and sneaking up lifts in office blocks to get to the rooftops. Once a potential hit site was spotted, we would huddle in coffee shops and plan our attacks in whispered voices, sketching detailed plans onto paper napkins. Often our work was painted over by humourless building owners, but mostly it was accepted and enjoyed.

Pretty soon after we got into the swing of things, the graffiti trend picked up in Dunedin, and kids of all ages and skill levels were spraying paint onto concrete walls. When one of the local skate shops cottoned onto the trend and began selling spray paint cans, we knew our prime time was over. So we packed away our cans, craft knives and rolls of rubber stencil, and scattered – some to Melbourne, some on their big OE, and some, like myself, up to the big capital. Those that stayed round Dunedin are now shuffling round behind coffee bars, or making pictures in their studios to pay their way.

But the graffiti trend lives on. On a recent visit to my hometown, the walls of the alleyways were awash with colour, and strange creatures scaled shop fronts, hung from windowsills, and crept their way out of the guttering. Statements, quotes and poems wormed across the pavements.

Usually thought provoking, often humorous, and sometimes sad, these works of street art reveal the passions, concerns, and inspirations of the kids who make them. Back at home I check my fence daily, eagerly anticipating the next instalment from my local pornographic tagger. Who knows, he may become the next banksy, in which case I’ll be sawing up my fence and taking it with me when I move house.

Bloody Heel! (the end)

It was a relief to climb into my chucks the next morning, and I kicked about the day quite happily. This week of practice seems to have paid off though, because by nightfall I was getting withdrawal symptoms from the heel, and had a sudden urge to put a pair on to go to my social engagement that night.

Two weeks on, I am proud to say that I have happily incorporated high heels into my everyday life, slipping into them most evenings and at least a few days a week. I have even managed to wear in all of my previously unworn shoes. Now that’s an achievement.

Bloody Heel! (day 7)

DAY 7

It’s the last day already, and despite the injuries I acquired, I’m rather sad to see my week in heels come to an end. I must go out with a bang on my final day, but as I am playing with children again today I choose a “sensible” orange Brazilian snakeskin wedge (I am keeping away from spindly heels as I anticipate a park visit or three). It is put together with a leaf green silk dress and dark rinse denim (the chicken in me added the jeans. Damn.) A glorious day, chased down by an equally glorious night spent with an even more glorious man. The heels stayed on of course.

Bloody Heel! (day 6)

DAY 6

Sunday bloody Sunday. Still half asleep I stumble and re-stub my toe this morning on the corner of my desk. The red splodges on the carpet will be there for many years to come. I bandage up my feet the best I can and jam them into gold Karim Rashid for Melissa works of art that up until now have taken pride of place in the centre of my bookshelf, unworn. The shoes are a statement in themselves, so the rest of my outfit is simple, and simple to choose: black cigarette trousers, fake Chanel T, flannelette check farmer shirt and a tuxedo jacket.

I join a friend for a mad jaunt across town in search of pearl tea – a mysterious Asian concoction of flavoured milk, tea, tapioca pearls, and garnishes of sugary syrup. It is textural heaven. The rest of my day takes me through the Cuba/Newtown districts, where I manage to meld in successfully with the bohemians, and in comparison feel comfortably conservative…

A boozy picnic in the park follows, and I am thankful that I didn’t choose stilettos today; the thought of sinking into the ground at every step terrifies me. I imagine getting stuck and never making it out of the park, condemned to be frozen forever like a Greek statue, to be shat on by pigeons and grow lichen on my nose until I finally crumble away to dust. As it happens I make my way home safely bundled in the back of a Green Cab, and climb into bed with an environmental do-gooder grin plastered upon my face.

Bloody Heel! (day 5)

DAY 5

Bar the slightly tired balls, my feet seem to have righted themselves over the last 24 hours, and I can fit into closed toe shoes again. I wriggle into some thick heeled black ankle booties with glee and feel like I am walking on marshmallows – oh the comfort! A blissful day spent swanning about town, drinking coffee and catching up with friends. 8 hours on my feet and not a pinch, so feeling indestructible I accept offers of entertainment and go out. Another 8 hours later I fall into bed and sleep deep and painlessly.

Bloody Heel! (day 4)

DAY 4

My room is a bomb site. Shoes are strewn everywhere as I hunt for a pair that will be kind to my wounded feet. I finally find a pair that I can wear, though they are entirely inappropriate for the event of the day. Surely originating from the same family as the Perspex hooker heel, the items of offence on my feet today are reflective silver soled stilettos, with blue, aquamarine and white glossy straps. And the item in the diary today is entertaining children; two to be exact, girls aged 2 and 4.

I decide that the only way to make my appearance excusable is by hamming up my outfit to out-do the footwear. Thinking Carrie Bradshaw slash Angelina Ballerina, I rootle a voluminous tutu out of my dress-up box and slip it over blue jeans and a mad flower print singlet by Cybele. It painted a great picture - arriving at the family home on my red scooter, small dog in a pouch on my front, leather riding jacket, shiny heels and sprays of white tulle flying in the wind.

Bloody Heel! (day 3)

DAY 3

Oh the pain. I cannot see my feet for the multitude of band-aids swaddling them. Somehow the soles of my feet have developed blisters – I didn’t know it was possible. Thanks to my grossly stubbed little toe, my feet will not fit inside shoes today. Even slippers are a no-go. Time spent sleeping is legally heel free time so I stay in bed the entire day dozing. What a write-off. This is the time in my life that I need Hermione Grangers’ quick healing spell.

Bloody Heel! (day 2)

DAY 2

I had a dream last night about running a 30km marathon in high heels, and wake up feeling invincible. Choose 4 inch gladiator sandals with huge buckles, and bravely team them with thigh skimming floral mini, waist cinching fetish belt, and sack forming stripy grandpa top.

My entire day is devoted to shopping for someone else’s wardrobe. Walk 6 hours on asphalt and my calves are tired from being flexed all day. Apart from the legs, I was doing great until the crucial last hour of the shop, when the side of my foot decides to slide off in a circle of popped blister. Have to taxi to my dinner destination, as taking steps brings on yelps of agony.

7pm: God is watching. I remove my heels in the restaurant for 5 minutes reprieve and immediately stub my toe on the way to the bathroom. Blood everywhere, I have to grovel at the waitress for an embarrassingly large blue plaster. Cobalt blue is so Fall 2007.

Bloody Heel! (day 1)

DAY 1

Dilemma of what to wear. I stare at my rows of footwear with a lost expression. Choose tan MiuMiu inspired wedges with gold hardware (never been worn), then pull the lame card and play it safe with cuffed up dark denim, plain white T and my signature leather jacket. Look in the mirror, like what I see, but all the time kicking myself for being conservative. Oh well, I tell myself; it is early on a Tuesday and I have a whole week to be mad. Leaving the house I have a last minute stress about looking contrived, so dash back inside and swathe myself in a massive tie-dyed muslin scarf. Now I’m rock and roll.

Tottering down the road for my first coffee of the day, it takes a bit of practice to eradicate the giraffe-ish lope that goes with wearing high wedges. After some rehearsal down a back alley, problem solved. Solution? Tight tummy, long strides. I feel sure the eyes of everyone on the street are burning into me. The coffee is lovely, though my paranoia endured, and I get a few prolonged glances at my feet.

By lunchtime my feet are killing me, toes have been all but severed by the too tight top strap of my shoes. My lunch date scoffs; saying it serves me right for trying to break in new shoes on my first day of a week of heel wear.

End of the day. In the privacy of home I inspect my war wounds and discover three small blisters. I prepare myself a peppermint foot bath and sob into the hot water.

Bloody Heel!

Lordy Lordy, I own 15 pairs of heels. That’s 30 single heels, and 15 pairs I never wear. Plus the 3 pairs I bought on my recent 3 week holiday – that’s one pair for each week I was away.

I am in love with heels, and with the idea of wearing heels, but can never bring myself to actually leave the house in a pair. I have a mild phobia of looking too “done”. I gaze at casual heel wearers in awe, but I myself am always afraid of looking overdressed. But after unpacking the three latest purchases from my holiday luggage and discovering that I have no room for them to live - despite my entire bookshelf devoted to shoes – I decided that this silliness had better stop. For a while I excused my obsessive heel buying as “like buying a piece of art”, but 15 unworn pieces of art lying around is a bit ridiculous. Wearing my flats all the time is a bad habit, and wearing heels is a good habit. I just have to force myself out of my bad habit and into a good habit. My theory is that practice makes perfect.

Over the course of a few late hours and a few too many glasses of Riesling, I hatched what I thought at the time to be a cunning plan. I would endeavour to wear high heels for all of my waking hours for the next week - A: in order to get into a habit of wearing them more often, and B: in order to get some cost-per-wear out of my shoe collection. Up until now I’ve been practically losing money.

My week begins on Tuesday, as the post-unpacking from holiday brainwave struck late on Monday night. My only quandary is how to get around the dog-walking chore, as it is more like dog running, and ladies never run in high heels. The dog must be exercised, so if you will allow me a brief daily reprieve, I promise to make it up to you by spending an entire night until morning in my stilettos.

How To - this is the new self help 3

How to make yourself (believably) presentable in proper company

Be it your Grandmother, your boyfriends’ grandmother or the Queen mother coming to tea, sometimes you have to pretend you are not a wanton hussy with an empty fridge and an un-emptied rubbish bin in order to be accepted in life. Here’s how to do it right.

Do tidy your house, empty the rubbish, and scrub the dried toothpaste dribbles from the bathroom sink.

Don’t be tempted to fill your house with pink peonies, or any other effeminate blooms.

Do hide away your massive collection of spirits, but leave out your interesting collection of books/music to show you have a personality.

Contrary to popular belief, high neck sweaters, cardigans, and demure cotton day dresses are not convincing. Toned down versions of your usual style are.

And one more thing – do not, I repeat, do not attempt to lose your nerves by drinking wine at the first formal event. I know from experience that the results are far from desirable.

How To: this is new self help 2

How to get a kick when you’re bored of life

Head down to the two dollar shop and choose the ugliest shade of nail polish imaginable. Take it home, apply to coats and snigger at yourself in the mirror. Then imagine the breed of person who actually likes that colour and snigger some more.

Ask the guy in a random shop/café for his number. Act entirely confident and most likely he will be so blown away by your boldness that, stammering somewhat, he will dutifully hand it over. Give him a smouldering look and leave, never to call him. Then you will know how guys feel when they never call you and say they will. What a fantastic power trip.

Call up your most rock and roll of friends and get hammered on a Monday night. Rebel.

Buy a two dollar scratchy, scrape away at half the card, and then throw the entire thing into the fire to burn. The frustration will make you feel alive.

How To - this is the new self help

How to feel good about yourself when you’re not feeling good about yourself:

Have a backup “bad day” outfit on hand that you know makes you look great, for those heavy period days, hung over days, or boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-you days. Wear the outfit only when you are in your most dire of straits. My bad day outfit looks like this: my best bum jeans, comfy wedges, slim-fit singlet and a blazer with the sleeves rolled up. Chic, but relaxed. If I’m having an entire bad week, I simply change the singlet daily, so nobody guesses that I’m secretly falling to pieces.

Cull your wardrobe. It’s a double whammy in that it is like an emotional detox, and you get that warm fuzzy do-gooder feeling inside when you drop it all off at the Sallies.

Book yourself in for a massage. Sounds overly self indulgent I know, but half an hour spent with a masseuse in training from the school of massage does wonders for your stress levels and self esteem, and not much to your pocket. If you are flush enough to go to the established pros then by all means splash out, but $15 at the school of massage is pretty hard to pass up.

Run away on a wet afternoon to the local library and immerse yourself in unusual hobby magazines – the more bizarre, the better. It can be highly amusing and escapist to explore other peoples’ strange obsessions, and who knows – you may be sufficiently inspired to take up crocheting picture frames yourself.

Fashion Crash Test Dummy - part 2

BODYSUITS - "Bodysuits are yeuck!" I used to say. Bringing to life images of sweaty crotches and those dirty domes between the legs, the bodysuits that festered in my mothers' drawer in the early nineties still haunt me. So it was indeed with challenge that I took it apon myself to test drive the trend this time around. In my research I found out that no one knows who invented bodysuits, but Donna Karan made them hip back in '85. If Donna Karan can do it, so can I.

I picked up a cute black number by Federation For Good, with what you might describe as Mickey Mouse-earred epaulette details on the shoulders. Slipping it on, I realised how great it really is to have a bodysuit under your pants. The look is clean-lined, wrinkle free and fits perfectly with this seasons' tucked-in and body-con trends.

On my first day of the bodysuit challenge I went a bit rock and roll, wearing it with some dark rinse slim denim, tough heeled sandals, and new necklace hardware from Ksubi. My mother saw me like this and let out a gasp "You're not wearing a bodysuit!" she exclaimed. After years of us kids badgering her to throw the dirty things out, she couldn't get her head around seeing me in one. "I should have held onto mine so you could have them" she said.

After a couple of days, I began to realise the practicality of the bodysuit, and found myself virtually living in it. I dressed it down in high waisted jeans (my other new love: see part 1) and preppy flats, and dressed it up in thigh skimming waisty skirts and boxy jackets. It worked a treat under my sheer tops, allowing me to experiment with layers without getting to bulky. I even tried to leave the house in the bodysuit alone, tights and boots but my conservative self wouldn't go that far. (For those brave enough to pull it off though it definitely looks cute).

To come to my conclusion I am sold on this trend, and a very happy customer. To try this look at home you don't have to buy the designers versions, although they sure are cool: but rootle around in the Sallies and find a (not so sweaty) retro number, or alternatively slip on your cutest vintage one-piece swimsuit and wear it out for the night with cute bottoms and a statement belt. Done and dusted.

Fashion Crash Test Dummy - part 1

I had a great time during Fashion Week this year. While I wasn’t one of those important enough to actually be in front row, I kept up with the shows from the comfort of my couch daily via the internet. Each day of Fashion Week was a bit like a birthday – the hours wouldn’t go fast enough to the end of the day, when I would charge through my front door, dumping bags and tearing at shoes to get to the computer for my daily fashion fix. All too soon it was over, and out came the reviews, the hits and misses, and the summaries of key trends for the season ahead.

HIGH WAIST, WIDE LEG - Summer may be wonderful, but with a new season comes new fashion trends, and the dilemma of how to wear them. And so, for the greater good, I decided to test run some of the key trends for the season ahead and let you know just how wearable they are. First to go into the lab was the high-waist flare trouser trend.

I admit I was slightly sceptical of this trend and not quite brave enough up until now, but I had to see what all the fuss was about. And fuss I did, when I slipped on my first pair of high waist flares by Lee.

Coming out of the changing room I was confronted by a startling sight - the slimming and bottom lifting effect was astronomical! Not to mention the new length of my legs. Because the jean starts at the top of the waist, it gives the illusion that your pins start there too.

I wore the jeans to work on a busy Monday, when my day evolves around running after small children. The high waist meant my tee stayed in and I never needed to re-tuck, and best of all I got no butt-crack when bending down to pick up screaming child, collect dropped toy, or wipe sick off the floor.

Monday night was 1+1=1 at Chow, famous for the delicious modern Asian food and equally famous for its stylish patrons. After a quick wipe with a damp cloth to remove the food, paint, and sick of the day (god bless dark rinse denim), I wore my jeans with a sheer Cybele top tucked in, and my highest wedge heels, and felt suitably dressed for the part. My friends oohed over my new physique, and I’m proud to say my rear end got a lingering look from the cute waiter!

All in all I would have to report that this is a trend with serious staying power. If you would all get brave enough to try it, you too may be converted. What sight it would be to have a nation of lovely elevated butts this summer!

To be continued…

Oh, for Christmas' Sake!

The people of this world can be divided up by those who can roll their tongues, and those who cannot. (There are also those anomalies that have no tongue, though I suppose they would fall into the “can’t roll their tongue” category). Likewise, there are also those jovial folk who “do” Christmas, and the grinches who despise it. I sadly fall into the latter of both categories - hours of my childhood were wasted before the mirror, forcing my tongue into all imaginable shapes with my fingers before realising I was one of the condemned, born without an acrobatic oral muscle. While I may have given up on the contortionist training, my poor tongue is still put under stress at the end of each year, when it is forced – many times daily it seems in the lead up to Christmas – to utter those dreadful words: “I’m not really doing Christmas this year”.

Much to the horror of my peers and colleagues, my idea of a perfect Yuletide is to be in some godforsaken place where no one can reach me, to hopefully be forgotten by the world. This year I am doing just that, and escaping to a powerless hut in the middle of the Maniototo. It will be sheer bliss.

As far as the gift giving bit goes, my perfect gift is something that can be consumed, and I recently cottoned on to the fact that many others agree with me. So my festive phobias will be soothed this year by the fact that my presents will all be made in my kitchen. In fact the only Christmas shopping to be done this year will be a trip to the supermarket to stock up on baking gear, dark chocolate, liquors and seasonal fruit. I will then lock myself in my house to concoct gastronomic delights, and package them up in swathes of sparkly paper. I admit this is an event I am looking forward to, and so I suppose that I’m finding a way to navigate through Christmas, thus on my way to becoming cured of my Grinchey ways. If so, I may have to believe that anything is possible. I’ll head back to the mirror and re-attempt my tongue roll.

Here are some of my favourite recipes for Christmas gifts. Wrap them with as much flounce and flair as humanely possible. Just don’t give them to the same people that I do.

Decadent Chocolate Tart

400g short pastry
1 ½ cups cream
½ cup milk
½ cup sugar
300g dark chocolate
1 egg

Roll out the pastry and line a shallow tart case. Cover with a sheet of baking paper topped with baking beads, and bake the case blind for 15 minutes at 150°C.

Heat the cream, milk and sugar in a saucepan until boiling. Add chocolate, broken into chunks, and mix till blended. Allow to cool, then whisk in the egg. Pour chocolate mixture into the cooked tart case and bake for 20-25 minutes or until set. Dust with icing sugar – or, if you are really festive, place a cardboard Christmas tree stencil over before dusting to get a little picture on top of the tart.

Poached Apricots in Dessert Wine

This is lovely served warm with ice-cream, yoghurt, or lumped over simple cakes.

12 ripe apricots
¼ cup sugar
A third of a cup of cup water
1 ½ cups dessert wine
1 vanilla bean

Place apricots in a bowl of boiling water and stand for 4 minutes. Drain water and peel apricots. Make a slit in their tummies and remove the pips. Place sugar and water in a saucepan on low until sugar has dissolved. Bring the heat up to simmer, and then add wine and vanilla bean. Simmer for 5 minutes before putting in the apricots, and simmer for a further 5 minutes until soft. Ladle into sterilized jars and seal. Tell your loved ones to refrigerate after opening.

Orange Biscotti

1 ½ cups raw whole almonds
2 ½ cups flour
½ tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
1 cup castor sugar
3 eggs
1 Tbsp orange rind
1 tsp orange juice

Dry roast the almonds in a 180°C oven for about 7 minutes, tossing occasionally. Be careful not to burn them. In a bowl, sift the dry ingredients. In a smaller bowl, whisk together the eggs, orange rind and orange juice. Add to dry ingredients and mix until a dough forms. Add the whole almonds, turn out onto a floured surface and give it a bit of a kneading. Shape dough into sausages about 3cm across, and flatten a bit with your hand. Bake the sausages at 160°C for 30 minutes until set. Allow to cool, and then cut into 1cm slices. Return to oven and cook for about 5 minutes on each side until toasted.