The High Mountains of Portugal is comprised of three stories whose connection become clear throughout the book: the first, and strongest in my opinion, features Tomás in 1904 who discovers a journal, untouched since it was written by a Father Ulisses in the mid-seventeenth century, which details an object that he has made. Tomás makes it his mission to find the object. It chronicles his journey (in one of the very first Renault cars) through the high mountains of Portugal.
Can we talk about skin please? Dry skin? Because my hands really struggle in February. Each fingertip hosts a small and painful skin-split that usually takes ages to heal. Continue reading Quick Beauty Fix
I often have to provide grovelling apologias to my well-worn purse strings, and recently these have become risible palimpsests. So enough is enough! I am going to embrace high-street beauty with open arms (in the hope that my purse will soon greet me in a similar fashion).
Evelyn Waugh looks, frankly, like he’s just read a line from one of his own books in the silent section of the library, and is relying on his bracing hands on his knees to give him the strength necessary to resist the inevitable eruption of giggles from within. Waugh’s gaze seems past us, slightly over our shoulders, in Irving Penn’s square photograph from 1952. His thick wool suit is more creased than his forehead, near where the top of the photograph ends.
Snowdon’s verbose (can we use that word to describe an image?) photograph of Salman Rushdie in his London home shortly after he won the Booker Prize for Midnight’s Children shows Rushdie in a Windsor chair in the corner of the room, head turned towards us, chin in his hand, bathetic.
Continue reading ‘Vogue 100’ at the National Portrait Gallery
I hope that nude makeup remains the unchallenged face-fashion champion, at least until I finish typing this blog post.
I was pulled by a sheer magnetism of love into Fortnum & Mason.
And went for a spin around the food hall.
