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Monthly Archives: August 2012

La Wrapalista

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Here we go again — all the goods you need to be the most popular personista in the room this weekend.

Neil Armstrong Embarks on the Eternal Moonwalk. What a classy man he was. Vale Neil. And let’s all admire the fact that he didn’t give in to the siren call of cosmetic intervention, unlike his former Apollo mate, Buzz Aldrin.

“Hmm, what is that we spy on the surface of the moon? The Sea of Tranquility or the Bride of Wildenstein?”

Rupert Murdoch Takes to Twitter to Defend Harry’s Nudey Rudeness. “Prince Harry. Give him a break. He may be on the public payroll one way or another, but the public loves him, even to enjoy Las Vegas.” And Rupert loves to be able to print — and profit from — los picturos that result from the antics of that poor motherless child.

La finds the concept of Rupes tweeting an hilarious one. Would love to be his ghost tweeter. Do you think Wendi does it? Guess as long as that’s keeping her so busy she no longer has the time to implore him to dye his diminishing locks a rusty hue in the manner of a fuller-haired Chinese man, we should all be grateful.

“Loving those glow-in-the-dark stars we popped on the ceiling — aren’t you?”

‘Hope Springs’ the Fillum to See. Meryl and Tommy Lee getting plaudits from discerning viewers for this alleged gem. Can’t wait to see. Ye gods we love Meryl here beneath los dusty rafters. And by ‘we’ La means ‘I’. (La is aware that the first person pronoun is a hard one to get your noggin around on this blog.)

Legend Live Venue the Sando Bites the Sawdust. Poor old Sando in Newtown. Yet another victim of the march of the pokies and the opportunity cost associated with retaining space for live music. Many an afternoon / evening was whiled away by La, Miss A and Lady Dublin, swaying away to the highs: Whitlams (Tim *swoons*), Black Eyed Susans, Bean…and some of the lows: Cosmic Frontbum (yes, really). Sad, sad, sad. There’s nothing that’s good for anyone — whether you go and see it or not — about the demise of live music in inner cities. Bah grr.

Charlotte Dawson Calls Out the Twitter Trolls. Good on her. Good to see too that there are some real-world consequences for some of these abhorrent people. God knows, La gets montanas of dodgy comments that end up being blocked by the cyber guard dog*.

TomKat Officially Neutered. Yep. it’s all over in a formal sense. And Katie will be forced to subsist on no more than $400,000 a year in Suri support. Exclusive of school fees. Hardship times in Chelsea. Oprah, please come back for real, deploy your most amazing powers of mind control and will-suppression, and convince her and Nicole to plonk on your couch and diiiiiiish. We need it.

It was a quiet night under the rafters. Signor Seriousimo was stuck at work on a conf call. How uncomfortable. Anyway, his absence could mean only one thing:

Yep, a guilt-free night of “Girls.”

Have you watched this show? It’s GENIUS . And here’s the genial anti-heroine of whom La speaks:

Lena Dunham. This 26-year-old (!!!) New Yorker created the show, and writes, directs and stars in most episodes. She — and it — is a revelation.

Okeydoodle. Have a great, and well-informed, weekend.

*Not really.

Kiss the girls

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Still slightly sickialista, so here’s another raid of the Mobile Media Control Console and various Trivtastic observations that could end up teetering on the brink of rants.

First off the rank:  copycat fashions. Note to Karen Millen:  Peter Pilotto called…

20120829-204803.jpg…and he wants his print back.

And French Connection:  Missoni called…

…and they definitely want their print back.

Never let it be said La holds back from letting you know exactly how things really are beneath the dusty rafters — warts and all.  In that spirit, here’s a current vignette from La Fridgialista.


On La left is some crazy canine from a doggy dental care ad which the JCCs spotted in a magazine.  They giggled like drains, so he made it onto La Fridge.  And on la right is a Captain Underpants ‘Wedgie Power’ sticker.  Yep, here it’s all highbrow, all the time.

(Astute readers will observe the sticky tape holding Crazy Doggy Fangs in place…why the hell aren’t ‘stainless steel’ fridges magnetic anymore?  And… there’s the rant.)

This came from Fishpond today. Those campers are cheap but boy their books take a looong time to land.

Can’t wait to read it.  JL has been writing some amazing stories on the consequences of the GFC for the Troubled Eurozones and those Great United Kingdoms.  La’s a GFC junkie who also loves a good parable that sees avaricious chalk stripe-sporting types brought low by their greed and dicky moral compass.  Will report back.

Little male JCC announced to me a couple of nights ago that he’s been kissing the girls.  I asked who and how many.  He began counting them off and — worryingly — ran out of fingers very very fast.

Lock up your daughters

 Time to go, Go Back to Where You Came From is making me teary.

La Sickialista

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La Triv is crook. So crook that the entire Trivialista-Seriousimo caravan schlepped off to the local a&e early Saturday morning in an attempt to alleviate the teeny problem of, ooh, LT’s inability to breathe. This is what the nurses gave me. Then they packed me off with La tail between los legs, shouting unsympathetically, “Suck it up, princess! It’s VIRAL!!!”


As a result of sub-prime health, today’s despatch will be random and visually-driven, with the odd raid of the Mobile Media Control Console (i.e. iPhone)’s archives.

In the first of our “Omelette of the Day” features, here’s what the female Junior Cost Centre broke the fast with this morning. A basic model, good organic googs with a teeny splash of milk, cooked in lovely Lurpak butter and filled with a good old Bega slice. (It’s worth pointing out that the omelette is actually TINY — it’s being cooked in a frypan barely 15cm wide. Unrelatedly — one of the female JCC’s eight-year-old “friends” last week told her she was “fat”. Can you believe it? Girls, I tell you…)


This, apparently, is a man called Lawrence O’Donnell who hosts a program on MSNBC in the US. An anchor from central casting if ever there was one. Can you believe his manly square jaw? You could go fracking with that bone structure. Do you think he’s stored nuts in his cheeks for winter?


A while ago I wandered past the new Pushmatahaa shop in Paddo.


They make gorgeous earrings. Last year, before the era of frugality set in, I bought myself not one but TWO pairs. They lay beneath the marital bed of deceit for the requisite cooling-off period before being unveiled. Believe me, unless I want my children growing up in a broken home, it’s best that way.



When I wondered into their store recently, though, there seemed to be a lot of skulls. Skulls on rings, skulls on earrings, skulls on skulls. Look, I love Alexander McQueen’s work as much as the next duchess, but what the hell is it with skulls? I just can’t force Laself to see the appeal.


This ad caught my eye last week — it’s for an alternative financial services institution (which we should all support — say no the Big Four and their stranglehold on Wide Brown Land retail banking!). But not for obvious reasons. This man says things like, “I’m on your holiday”, “I’m in your plunge pool”, “I’m getting your spa treatment” etc. He also says, “I’m eating your crustaceans” as he glares at you over a massive platter of juicy pink prawns. No sirree bob, no-one would be eating my crustaceans. Sr Seriousimo often jokes there are probably thousands of Wanted for Genocide posters beneath the deep blue seas in areas heavily populated by prawns, plastered with the smiling face of La Triv.


You probably can’t read this, and my photo edit thingo isn’t working, but it’s the New Yorker review of the fillum Magic Mike, and it says of Matthew McConaughey, “now in his early forties, [he] looks like a muscular Peking Duck”. I think they have a point.

“Would you like hoisin and spring onions with that?”

Now, what do you think…a twist on the urban public space vertical garden, or just ivy growing up a lamp post?


Still not sure where I stand. Oh, that’s right, I barely can. I’m sick. Back to bed *sniffs*.

Navy: A Love Story

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Black may well be the new black, but for La lira right now, there’s nowt as superior as navy.

My good ladyfriend, Brunswick Browser, would say there’s never been anything but navy — her loyalty to this royal shade has never wavered.

Mine, on the other hand, has waxed and waned over the years — but right now I’m cottaging and frottaging up to navy like there’s no tomorrow, and La Closetta Trivialista is all the richer for it.

Take this:

My very favourite Skin and Threads longline navy cardi — slim profile, great colour and provides fantatsic buverage (bum coverage).

And this is semi-permanently affixed to La noggin.

Especially great for the school run when tonsorial care duties have been neglected (i.e. hair’s oilier than the North Atlantic).  Thanks to those clever folk at Elk.

Mind, both you and I would prefer to have this permanently affixed to our noggins…

…but until La Mamma Seriousimo rekindles her friendship with the ex-Crown Jeweller, he comes out of retirement and resumes his old job, and Seriousimo and I renew our vows (unlikely, as we can barely get organised enough to renew our drivers licenses) it’s probably not happening *swears*.

Love this handy hold-all from my friend Marc by Marc Jacobs.  Take it from La, it’s srsly difficult to find a good navy handbag.  (I know, penthouse problems…)

But Marcola has come through for me twice now:


The man is undeniably a genius.  Even if he frocked up thus for the Met Gala.

“Do my boxer shorts look big in this?”

This is an old faithful from Jiggy Jigsaw, when it was having one of its slightly less catastrophic seasons.

Then there’s this — a Trivtastic navy bracelet given to me by my friend Yankee Doodle, from Jim and Jane.  Thanks Miss Doodle!

These lovelies were organised for me by the wonderful Miss Jo — the infinitely clever and talented creator of Piamento. She asked the nice people at Vickies Shoes in Hong Kong to whip them up when she was passing through on a buying trip.  Thanks again, Miss Jo.

Then there are these flowery trews from Whistles, which La loveloveloves, but hasn’t yet had the ticker to wear.  What’s with that?  And did you know Whistles does ten quid shipping to the Wide Brown Land?

And, yes, you would be right in thinking I’ve neatly folded in the edges to make La waistline and trouser profile appear slimmer

And another Piamento treasure, the Cashmere Mini-Cape.  You can wear this wonder of nature five different ways.  It even comes with steak knives and a built-in iPod*.

And finally, my all-time favourites, the kind of shoes people stop you in the street to comment on.  The kind of shoes that make complete strangers actually want to talk to you.

Readers, meet Christa.

“In these shoes? I don’t think so…”

La’s giving her to you extra large, because both you and she deserve it.  If ever you’re in the market for a completely transformative clodhopper experience, you need look no further than the amazing creations of Natalia and Jennifer at Bionda Castana.

Get your calf muscles in training now.  Oh, and prepare to tell your bunions, “Suck it up, Princesses.”

*Not really.

Yo! La Wrap

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Prepare to be armed with all you need to know to be popular at this weekend’s events.  Seated comfortably at the Triv Media Control Console, I scan the big issues so you don’t have to.

Harry… Say No More.  Feel free to read the tawdry details elsewhere.  But La Triv’s meta-analysis of Harry’s alleged expolits in Vegas is this:  we will soon see a situation of wedge politics emerge between him and his straighty-180 bro.  After all, the latter is now ensconsed in domestic bliss, happily fulfilling his King-in-waiting duties.  And Harry’s still with the wild oats and the barley seeds.  Didn’t he know what happens in Vegas never stays in Vegas?  Does he care?

Kidman Booty Covers V Mag.  Do you think it’s been photoshopped?  Or is it really just down to jogging and Pilates?

You know what?  I could insert something here about Wide Brown Land politics or our role in South Pacific security or offshore processing of asylum seekers, but frankly, right now I’m watching paint dry and it’s much more fun.

Think I’m bored of the wrap for today.  And I’m sick *sniffs*.  So let’s move on to photos of my Junior Cost Centres when they were bambinos.

This is my female Junior Cost Centre — cute, huh?  I miss my Bugaboo, I miss being off work and walking with her through parks and just staring at her, for hours and hours and hours.

And here’s my male JCC, in all his chubtastic glory, albeit drooling.  Miss pushing him around in prams too, though he wouldn’t object if I offered.  And he’s almost five.

So there’s all you need to know for the weekend:  babies are cute.


For Rake’s sake

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Happy, happy days here beneath the dusty rafters — twirly knob-twiddling last night at the Triv Media Control Console yielded much longed-for news.  That old cad and bounder,  Rakey — Dickie Roxburgh at his impish best — is bed-hopping his way back into town.

Here he is deflowering a Wide Brown Land television sweetheart / girl next door / butter wouldn’t melt type

Honestly, for my lira, the first season of this ABC effort was among the best progs ever to shimmy their way across our Wide Brown Land TV screens.

If you’ve not met our beloved Cleaver Greene, here’s the wrap:  he’s a barrister d’un certain âge (i.e., old enough to know better) who lives in a divey flat in Kings Cross, and cavorts with ladies of the night, friends’ wives and occasionally clients, but all with a smile and a heart that’s sufficiently well positioned to ensure he comes off as the good guy.

To his 15-year-old son, he’s the living embodiment of the other day’s George Bernard Shaw quote that it’s better to be a horrible warning to your kids than a good example.  (Must consult the Deity Google at some stage on how that worked out for GBS and his Junior Cost Centres.)

“Wasn’t me didn’t do it can’t prove a thing”

And you know how the world really is nowt but a spooky exercise in prescience and serendipity?  Well, on Saturday night La was driving locally and stopped at a pedestrian crossing to let a woman traverssimo.  And guess who it was?!?

“You’re beautiful, but you might benefit from some ear candling..”

Missy!  Or, rather, the actress who played Rake’s prostitutional love interest — you know, the damaged hooker-with-the-heart-of-gold type.

So it’s all meant to be.  Can’t wait to see Toni Collette let loose on Cleaver in season 2.  Don’t miss out come 6 September.

Enough froth.  Onto serious matters:  raincoats.

Boden’s latest offerings are lovely.  Get in fast as these puppies go like the clappers.  Whenever I wear mine to collect the female JCC from school people mow me down with inquiries as to its provenance.  Despite that, things are pretty relaxed at our school gates on the fashion front, thank the gods.  Unlike elsewhere in the world:

Yep, a feature on a UK website called “School Runway”* that solicits information from school mums on who they’re wearing and who their style icons are.  La is in several states of disbelief:  there is a corner of a foreign land where women dress this well for drop off?  Some women are actually willing to throw some posey shapes outside the school gates?  Said women are happy to namecheck the elements of their ensemble:  Dries van Noten, YSL, Chloe, Mulberry etc?  They wear these labels to school?

Everyone knows Dries should only ever be worn to the GP.

It’s this quote from one of these women that worries La, though:

“When my eldest daughter started school, I felt scruffy compared with other mums in designer clothes and bought myself a few new outfits. I felt I had to up my game. Now she’s in year three, I think I’ve chilled out.”

La Triv is all about making an effort and feeling good about Laself.  For me, this has meant ditching the Havaianas, slopping on some slap, buying less but buying better and washing La locks more than once a week.

We often say women are hard on each other, but now I’m over 40 35, I’ve come to believe no-one’s harder on you than you, or me than me.  (Suspect web features like School Runway don’t help.)  Time to cut ourselves some slack.

After all, no-one’s more rumpled, scruffy and down-on-his-game than Rakey, nor more lovable.  That said, he’s a bloke and the world cuts them a hell of a lot more slack.

*Thanks to our woman-on-the-ground in those Great United Kingdoms, Miss A

Sparkle puppy

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A few years ago, just before we became marito and moglia, Signor Seriousimo and I travelled from our practical home at the time, Londra, to our spiritual home, La Costa Amalfi, for a long weekend.  That weekend lives on in the mistiest, dreamiest recesses of our memories.

What’s that got to do with a lime spliced g+t on a Tuesday night, I hear you ask.

Well, everything.  On that minibreak, we stayed at the Santa Caterina, and had drinks and dinner at the divine Sirenuse hotel in Positano (where Miss A had her honeymoon, cow), and these were the vessels from which we sipped.  Amazing Carlo Moretti glasses, produced especially for the hotel.  We called our bank, extended our overdrafts and bought two.  Somehow, though, that never seemed enough.  So on our return to London, we instigated a signficant capital raising, headed to Selfridges with the proceeds (us to puchasers of our debt paper:  “we promise you’ll get your money back — and more!”) and bought a further six.  All different, all hand-blown and coloured.  Ye gods how I still love them.

Nearly had a cardiac infarction when a friend housesat for us once and we arrived home to see they’d gone for a spin in the dishwasher.

Speaking of los nuptialos, here’s what I wore on my noggin.  Feast your eyes.  Gratuitous pics of this will appear from time to time here at La’s virtual home, because — let’s face it — they can.

Yep, seriously.  La Mamma Seriousimo happened to be friends with a man who was very Plugged In in the jewels world, and very generous with it too.  To cut La long story short, this sparkly puppy winged its way to me pre-nuptials in a Tesco bag just in time for the big day.  Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what gave me more joy that day:  snagging Seriousimo or wearing the tiara.  (Just as well Signor Seriousimo still doesn’t believe in blogs and will never read this.)

Sometimes, like now, I think about La Tiara and wish I could wear it every day, everywhere.  To the Wordporium, to the bath, to bed.  Til death or an over-zealous metal detector do us part.

“There’s some rich pickins here for a couple of cougars like us, Nola.”

This is La Nonna Joan and La Aunty Nola at the Trivialista-Seriousimo nuptial celebrations.  Neither is with us anymore, and the world is infinitely poorer for it. *Sobs*

Tets, I bet you offer one of those to all the girls

It’s coming up to La wedding anniversary, and ritual dictates we head to Tetsuya.  Generally, we eat our weight in bread rolls smeared with truffle and parmesan butter, then battle bravely through 11 more courses.  La normally opts for the extra oyster course too.  The jovial sommelier, Stuart Halliday, always pretends to remember us and welcomes us like old friends.  We love this; I lap it up like oyster liquor.

Have a sparkly Tuesday.