A couple of weeks ago it was my birthday. I hit the big 2 8 which isn’t a million miles away from the big 3 0. A September birthday, a step towards thirtydom and I’m full of new term promise. The next year (or two) is stretched in front of me and presented with the metaphorical timetable; I’m ready to make plans. I love a list and coming up with 30 things I want to do before I’m 30 was just about the perfect way to christen the new chapter. Now I don’t particularly want to be flung out of a plane or get a tattoo. I’ve seen the generic 30 lists telling me to hop on the property ladder, fall in love and have a run in with the law. But what about the really important stuff, like where I should make reservations and who should do my nails? Being grown up and sensible is all well and good but I’m more interested in slightly more tailored (shallow) goals, that way I can plan exactly how one day soon I will get my nail arted talons on a pair of pirate boots.
Buckle Up. Own a pair of Vivienne Westwood Pirate Boots. Whatever the style, season or outfit, these iconic bondage beauties kick arse. Simple as that.
That wasn’t good, that was great. Hug Simon Cowell. Who wouldn’t?
Ice ice baby! Learn to ski. Well, give it a go. I don’t like the cold, I don’t like exercise, and I’ve been blessed with little to no coordination. Alas, he loves it so I suppose one day I’ve got to bite the bullet / eat the snow, as I invariably will be face first in it.
Willy Wonka. Have lunch at Dinner. One of the bitterest life pills I’ve had to swallow is that Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory (the original, none of that Johnny Depp nonsense) isn’t real. So, the next best thing has surely got to be Heston. I of course would love to go quackers and spend 180 spondoolies on a gold pocket watch of mock turtle soup at The Fat Duck. Alas, since its contemporary has been awarded number 9 in The World’s 50 Best Restaurants, I want Dinner. And a double portion of Tipsy Cake.
Wide load. Quit worrying about the size of my hips / thighs / arse. As my doctor once shouted at me, “of course you have hips Amanda, you’re a woman!” Oh, oh yeah. Wide shoulders and narrow hips? I should probably leave those to the boys. I have a curve and I’ve got to learn to go with it.
Britain’s got talons. Get Wah nails. When it comes to fancy fingertips, these gurls have got it nailed. Would it be worth a trip daan sarf just to get Wah’ed? I’d say so.
Haute to trot. Wander the streets of Paris. In a big netty froth of a creation. It was Carrie that first planted this dream of a thousand layers into my impressionable fashion mind. My wardrobe has since been blessed with many a layer and the frothiest, most frivolous are waiting patiently for their chance to grace the chicest of Parisian avenues.
Make stuff, sell stuff. Start my own business. I’m not talking Apple or Amstrad. Yet. But fling some fabric my way, arm me with a sewing machine and I can knock up a cushion or two. Hell, I once embroidered an armchair, I’d even go as far as to call myself a designer (get me!) and someday soon getting my arse into gear and harnessing this skill to fund the boots would be pretty rewarding.
Absinthe minded. Know my drink stuff. I grew up in a pub, I’ve worked behind a bar and I’ve sunk enough cocktails to know a thing or two when it comes to booze. Except I don’t. Recently I went wine tasting, the wine man (probably not his actual title) asked what I liked. My reply was simple, “white”. Not sure that’s what he had in mind. God forbid I’d ever be the next Jilly Goolden but if I could be a little savvier when it comes to the hard stuff, that’d be grand. A cool signature cocktail would be amazing, but for now, I’m going to borrow these icy green fairies and pass them off as my own.
Be the kids of America. Drive across the US of A. Two months, Cadillac, New York to LA to San Francisco and everything in between. It’s probably my greatest dream and something I just gotta do.
Shoe do you think you are. Design my own Oxfords. Or ankle boots. Or party heels. Three little words: pink glitter leather. Shoes of Prey, I am coming to get you.
Water baby. Learn to swim. I can just about pull together a doggy paddle in an ungainly, about to drown, splashy kind of a way. This is embarrassing. What Phoebe Buffay is to running, I am to swimming. I want to glide through the water like Ariel. Not sink arse first. Or drown.
(Not a) nice day for a white wedding. Don’t have the “big day”. Married? Yes. Definitely. But the big white wedding with obligatory meringue, bog standard reception, family speeches, three tier cake and disco? God. No. As I’ve discussed before, I don’t have that gene. And no matter how many friends / bridal brainwashers offer me their services as wedding planners and bridesmaids, I will not be swayed.
Dippy with soldiers. Boil an egg. I cannot bear the neck blotching, face burning, teeth grinding, bum clenching shame of admitting it but I’ve never boiled an egg. Ironic, as without make up I resemble one. So, yeah, should probably do that.
Alice? Who the…is Alice? Wear Temperley. Personally I think there are no dresses as beautiful as those blessed by Alice Temperley’s fair designing hand. Timeless, ultra feminine and often cocooned in lace, stitch, embroidery, oh my!
Plan B. Nail the She Said rap. Everyone needs a party trick and obviously I can Fresh Prince of Bel Air with the best of them. But I’m upping my game and when it comes to pesky Plan B, I lose it. I’ve learnt the words and I practise. A lot. But as soon as I get to ‘got bigger than I ever could have planned’ I trip over my words and make a tit of myself. ‘Cause before that, I looked cool.
New York, New York! Visit NYC. For as long as I can remember every fibre of my being has yearned for a hungry bite of the Big Apple. I want to channel Carrie Bradshaw; I want to eat a hot dog walking through Central park clutching a Big Brown Bloomingdale’s Bag. I wanna do New Yoik and do it good.
Gilt trip. Eat at Gilt. Whilst nibbling at the Big Apple, I also want a taste of Gilt and their cola caviar. A two star Michelin restaurant in the heart of Midtown Manhattan, this golden nugget has a rather impressive 86 page wine list (and that’s not including cocktails) YES.
Think pink. Have a pink kitchen. Apparently the heart of the home, my heart is probably pink, therefore, so should my kitchen be. You can’t argue with that.
Get the hump. Ride a camel. I’ve never yearned to travel to any destination by big smelly mammal before but I’m going to Morocco next week (this may have influenced the entry) and I assume this may be a possibility. There’s only one thing I love more than a list and it’s crossing something off said list.
RED. Buy a pair of Louboutins. A touch obvious maybe but look! They’re just so very pretty. The sole man has a penchant for studs and leopard. I have a penchant for studs and leopard. My lips are red. The soles are red. Consequently, a match made in tootsie heaven.
The way you make me feel. Walk the Moonwalk. In a bra. At night. With approximately 17,000 others. Walk the Walk, uniting against breast cancer; have found the very breast way to raise money for a cause quite literally close to my heart. Before 30 I simply must walk half-dressed around London under the stars. And for a more worthy reason than last time… 26 miles is a long old way but luckily they encourage power walking opposed to any of Jacko’s fancy foot work.
Alohomora. Tour Warner Bros. Studio. I’ve got to get in this quick before I have to borrow a child and pretend I’m there for them. I love Harry Potter and I want to tread the cobbles of Diagon Alley. I’m not proud.
Frankly my dear. Watch the classics. Forrest Gump, The Wizard of Oz, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Indiana Jones, Singin’ in the Rain, The Godfather, Star Wars, Back to the Future, Toy Story… I could go on and on. And on. The list of films I haven’t seen prompts gasps of shock, horror and disappointment.
London baby! Be a tourist. I’m about an hour away from the capital. The last three trips I’ve made (hen do, wedding, fashion week) I pop on the train and I’m there. I head straight to the bar, restaurant or venue, do my thang, and then back home on the train. Whilst I’m there, I never do anything remotely touristy. I don’t see the sights or visit the landmarks. I’ve never rubbed shoulders with a T-Rex nor gawped at the Queen’s jewels. I’ve never seen the lions in Trafalgar Square; I’ve not had afternoon tea at The Ritz or crossed Abbey Road. It’s on my doorstep, so I really should.
Delia-ightful. Cook. Just now and then. Let’s not go crazy here but if I could combat the rise of bile in my throat at the very thought of it, that’d be an achievement.
You’re my best friend. Own a diamond. One must always remember the 4 c’s. Contemporary, cutting edge, classy and of course, cool.
Sack it off. Do Christmas. I’ve never had a stocking ergo, I’m practically Tiny Tim. Christmas had always just been mum and I, whilst lovely, it missed the vital ingredient. Family. In the last few years, since I became a twosome, we’ve shared his amazing family Christmas’s complete with massive tree, drunken grandparents and my body weight in Quality Street. I’m getting the hang of this festive lark; therefore I’d bloody love a Santa sack.
Rocket Man. See Elton live. Knowing every word of every song on The Greatest Hits 1970 – 2002 I am poised, ready to sing Something About The Way You Look Tonight at the top of my voice along with Sir Elt.
He’s big, he’s red, his feet stick out of bed! Watch a live football match. Because apparently the atmosphere is indescribable, something everyone must experience. Might as well get it over with.