Strictly Come Skating

The first step is the worst. Ice, freshly polished, looking for it's first slippery victim. And boy was I going to make sure it wasn't me! I grip onto the sides praying to stay upright, fellow skaters wimper and wobble around me as they do their best new baby lamb impressions. In a bid to not be pulled down by the Bambis amongst us, I let go of the hand rail sooner than desired and seized Will's hand, refusing to let go.

We were at Somerset House, carrying out our annual ice-skate. Every year as a Christmas present, Will takes me ice-skating. I guess it's become somewhat of a tradition that once a year we adopt our best Torvill and Dean personas and tackle the ice, usually bum-first. This was our first time within the historially impressive scenery of Somerset House and I can't help but imagine the past Kings and Queens, Servants and Saints that have graced the ancient Tudor grounds. The Tudor era is the period of History that I find most captivating, much of my interest probably owed to the fact that when I was 8, I dressed up as a Tudor Servant for a school trip to a place called Kentwell where you were transported back to a time of Jesters, Corsets and where men wore codpieces to accentuate their own Crown Jewels! And let's face it, who doesn't love a bit of Henry VIII and his headless lady drama.

Anyway, my yearly ice-skating practice was proving beneficial and despite spending much of my time dodging nifty thirteen-year-olds and precarious old men, my confidence was growing. In fact, after busting some questionable skating pair work with my occasional wobbler of a boyfriend, my confidence soon meant I was happy to let go of Will's hand and zoom around the rink all by myself, imagining I was the latest cast member of Dancing On Ice, (A massive improvement from last year let me tell you!). I don't envy those celebs mind you. Every time I managed to build up the slightest bit of speed, I pictured myself toppling head first into the blades of the person infront of me. And those upside down lifts! I'm a liability in heels let alone ice-skates. Good Luck Lauren Goodger that's all I'm saying.

"5 more times round then we'll go in", I said to Will as he checked his watch. So around we went 5 more times.

"Ok, just 1 more", then another and another.

It was only until my confidence became a cocky attempt to swerve from side to side, hands behind my back battling with my balance so as not to face plant the floor, did I realise it really was time to stop. Maybe in another 10 years of Christmas Ice-Skating will I be able to master that!

GIVE AWAY!

HI GUYS!

So I mentioned a few days ago about a Give Away that would be coming to Charlotte's Web in the form of a Tom Daley 2013 calendar! Whilst I love him in an adorable younger brother kind of a way, understandably therefore, he's not really my cuppa tea in a naked kind of way!

It's also a fantastic way to get my blog out there a bit which is always helpful as a newbie! So here is my gift to you, in return if you wish to enter you have to complete One simple thing!

Follow my blog!

It's that easy and this delightful young man could be all yours for 12 months!

Good Luck!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

'Twas the morning of Christmas day, 9 O'Clock to be precise. Not a peep can be heard from the Turner household. Band Aid were right when they asked, 'Do they know it's Christmas time at all?' I poke my slightly disillusioned head above and out of my quilt. He's been! Santa has been!

Traditionally I have always been the first of the Turner family to rise on Christmas morning, opting as a child to camp out on my sister's bedroom floor in order to ensure I had a partner in crime to wake up my parents with come 7 O'Clock (one year by dancing to 5,6,7,8 on their bed, Steps being the CD Santa considered appropriate that year, I'm sure 'he' regretted that later). 2012 was no different although thanks to the two Pinot Grigios consumed earlier that morning, I'd awoken later than usual without any excitable breaks in sleep but with a slightly sore head (lightweight I know) and with less inclination to bust out the boot scootin baby. 'I guess I really am growing up', I thought to myself. I no longer felt the need to hover outside my parents door, willing myself to go in and see if it was time to open presents. You see that was always my job. Despite deploying a partner in crime in the form of my older sister, it always seemed to be me carrying out the crime itself! Me the one having to barge in on my parents at half 6 to wake them up. Me the one rummaging under beds or on top of wardrobes for not very well disguised presents whilst she kept watch. There's always a dodgy dance that comes with such activities too. There's the overactive head bop when searching for presents and the tentative two-step when debating the right time to wake the parents, hovering back and forth over that one squeaky floorboard trying not to make a sound. Then once I'd built up enough courage to bravely enter, I'd be told that it's too early and I'll have to do it all again in half an hour!

Years may pass but the surge of butterflys I get when seeing the Christmas tree surrounded by sparkly wrapping paper, bows and gift bags remain. Don't get me wrong, the thought of receiving presents in the shape of cosy jumpers, shiny jewellery and tickets to the NTA Awards (erm, hello Derms O'Leary), is enough to rival Buddy the Elf, the excitement of giving gifts to others you'd agonised long and tirelessly over is what I really look forward to. God I really am growing up! Saying that however, me and my soon to be 26 year old sister, still receive stockings from Father Christmas. As usual Santa was very generous to me this year, gifts including a Snowman Pandora charm, lots of Topshop favourites and Boo the Cutest Dog in the World (if only he was real). Some less so desirable presents included 'plop' trumps which consist of, well you can guess what it consisted of, and a Tom Daley calendar, whom whilst adorable in a 'ahh look at you in your little speedos' kind of way, I cannot have pinned half-naked on my wall all year long. Sorry Mum but bloggers, look out for a Tom Daley Calendar giveaway coming soon to Charlotte's Web!!

Now after pigging out and stuffing my face all day yesterday, I have to go and polish off the mountain of profiteroles left festering in the fridge. They go off tomorrow, it'd be rude not to!

Hope you all had lovely Chrimbo festivities!

P.S Check out one of the right royal guests who made a brief appearance at dinner, well atleast when we played 'Who am I?' anyway.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

Having got the need to hunt down some bargains out of my system (slightly) with a spot of online sale shopping this morning, I am eagerly anticipating the arrival of Mr.Claus. I was obviously channelling the dark, wintery gothic look when I opted for these items below, both Topshop, midst in panic. Although the satisfaction of finding bargains is great, the process in which I do so, I find extremely stressful. Online sales means a lot of faffing and I usually end up making horrendous decisions under the pressure of wishing not to miss out, yes last year's wax fur jacket horror I am talking to you! This year however, I feel happy in my buys, both of which I've been eyeing up a lot during recent shopping trips. The playsuit could work wonders with a chunky sparkly necklace and the sequin top is timeless. Just need some fancy nights out in which to sample them!

Now after a couple of festive drinks at our local, I am tucked up, slightly tipsy and ready for the festivities to begin! I guess there is nothing left for me to say but

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
 

Now maybe just a little bit more sales shopping before bedtime...

Shhh...Not So Secret Santa

Every year me and my three favourite little elves do Secret Santa. Well I say 'secret', whilst there was an attempt to begin along those lines during the first pressie exchange 3 years ago, it wasn't long before the secret aspect of Secret Santa went well, right down the chimney! (har har) So now it's merely Santa or not so Secret Santa as I like to call it.

 

Usually we hijack a restaurant in order to trade gifts but this year due to lack of funds, we opted for a night in surrounded by your traditional Christmas dinner (a Curry of course) and some cheap and cheerful Cava! Digging out our favourite Christmas jumpers or in some cases, interpretations of such (X stands for Xmas duh?) with a dash of tinsel and a festive red lip, we were ready to go! Ho Ho Ho!

 

Although a budget of £15-£20 is placed on present spending prior to present buying, budgets tend to go well, right down the chimney! (I know I made that joke already but it's a Christmas cracker!) In my 'not so Secret Santa' stocking this year, lucky me received some truly festive-inspired Elmo PJs which I've been living in ever since, ginger-bread patterned socks perfect for people obsessed with ginger-bread men, i.e. ME and a pair of deliciously scented bath bombs from LUSH. Other recipients of their not so Secret Santas were treated with pressies such as leopard print cat slippers (Topshop £14) and Bruno Mars' 'Unorthodox Jukebox' album (HMV £10). Whilst the list doesn't end there, it does get progressively wierder, items including undergarments, a YOLO jumper and a tarot card table scarf were also unwrapped!

(Don't you wanna be in our gang?....)

P.S. I thought I'd share with you some shots of before and after pictures of us we found when a little too much wine inevitably became nostalgia city!

 

 

 

Mission: Christmas Shopping Impossible

"Erm, excuse me love, can I get to the machine?"

 

It's 5:30 pm and I'm sitting on a 'do it yourself' photo developing machine stool in Boots, Covent Garden, applying blister plasters to my ravaged feet. Onlookers snigger at the sight of my swollen battle scars; socks, boots, shopping bags afray. At that moment in time I gave the saying 'shop till you drop' whole new realms of meaning and yet I was merely adjusting my armour, preparing to march on, choosing to rejoin the thousands of other last-minute shopping soldiers (or morons, you decide!) to continue on in our quest for the perfect gifts. Why do we do it?

 

From Marble Arch to Covent Garden, Tottenham Court Road to Carnaby Street, me and my comrade in arms (my Mother), set out around midday to brave the battlefield of London and did not cease until 9 o'clock later that evening. Our battle however, was not in vain. After procrastinating in Marble Arch drooling over some beautiful items in Topshop (See previous post), we fought through the crowds of hungry elves in Selfridges to reach the maze of confectionary, the perfect supplement to those presents, i.e. those singing reindeer socks for your Dad, that need just that little something extra. Here we met our first enemy. A woman attempting to sell gourmet jelly beans in the most underwhelming manner imaginable.

 

"Get your Jelly Bellys, everyone loves a Jelly Belly, it's not Christmas without them!"

 

Firstly, I am allergic to jelly beans so a tip for you my dear, KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE! Secondly, I thought Selfridges was a high end, posh totty kind of place and yet, here this lady was, sounding as though better suited on a stall at Romford market. Third and finally, I think Jesus would disagree with you when you say the gourmet jelly bean is a traditional Christmas dish. #justsaying

 

Next we moved through Bond Street halting at Fenwicks, Calvin Klein and back to Oxford Street, sauntering into the passageway of 'blink and you'll miss it' St Christopher's Place, opting to re-fuel in the form of a very large and very tasty American Romana pizza at Pizza Express. Here we met our second enemy and he wasn't an unfamiliar one either. We'd met before. He'd waited on me and my cousin only weeks previous and taken a fancy to winking and deeming me his senorita. Today was no different.

 

After trekking to Covent Garden, bandaging my wounds and returning to Oxford Circus, bumping into Mike Barnes from Hollyoaks/that guy off Corrie along the way, we collapsed in the EAT armchairs at the bottom of Topshop. Here we met our third and probably worst enemy of all. Ourselves. As a sucker for a stud, sequin and sparkly number and that's just my Mum, even 7 hours of shopping couldn't stop us from running ragged amongst the festive inspired rails.

 

By 9 it was mission complete! Only as I slumped into my seat on the tube did I realise it was back to duty the following day having to wrap it all! Sigh.

 

Same time next year?

 

 

Charlotte's Top Tips for surviving the last minute Christmas rush

 

1. To burst (yuck!) those blister blues, make sure you pack some plasters!  

2. Re-fuel at every 2 hour interval. The amount of time re-fuelling can largely determine one's willingness to proceed so be careful not to rest for too long!

3. Don't do it. And if you do do it, don't waste valuable shopping time trying to persuade a lady that you really don't need any jelly beans!

 

 

Top of the Shop

 

Aside from talking... a lot, my obsession with Topshop is also reaching dizzying heights. So I thought I'd share with you some of the items I was drooling over during my recent (hellish!) trip to their Oxford Circus branch (Post coming soon!).

 

Santa knows what I'm wishing for this year :)

 

 

Knitted Embellished Ray Jumper £50
This was one of those rare pieces that you spot and hope that it is everything you've already cracked it up to be in your head. As soon as I laid my eyes upon this pastel coloured blue number, I felt drawn to it. The stud detailing gives the cosy knit a slight edge whilst the colours ensure its still feminine and not TOO rock chick as I just can't pull that off. I'm hoping this means that pastel colours are on their way back for Spring/Summer as the sweetie palletes are right up my street! 

 

Plain Fedora in Oxblood £25

Hat person? Not a hat person? I'm still trying to work that out whilst taking some risks in the process of doing so. I originally took a fancy to the camel coloured version of this hat but since sampling it upon thy head, I felt a little bit like a cowboy (yeehar!). Then I discovered this beauty. I love the oxblood colour as its very versatile, great for winter and works particularly well with the overwhelming 'creamness' of my wardrobe. (There's nothing quite like a good crispy cream, top that is!) I also think it could give a dash of colour to the outfit below...

 

Oversize Monochrome Spot Shirt £38
This spotty piece I tried on in a size 6 as it is extremely oversized but I loved its simplicity (like this description of it) and thought it could work really well with a red lip.





 

Chiffon Double Sleeve Playsuit £46

Meanwhile I'm in the hunt for an outfit for New Years Eve, you know that dreaded overrated night of the year that you spend months leading up to telling everyone how ridiculously overpriced and a waste of time it is but yet you still want to look fabulous for. Yep that one. Whilst I loved the colbort blue colour of this playsuit, that being the reason why I was attracted to it, this isn't something I would perhaps usually go for. The arms are very batwingingly 60's and felt I needed to give it more consideration. Maybe with a chunky sparkly necklace it could look great.

 

What do you reckon?

 

 

Las Iguanas - "Would you like eyes with those prawns?"

"Here are your prawns Miss" said the Waiter who I later discovered was called Felix.

Felix was from Scotland. I only knew this because earlier that day I'd watched a repeat of blubbering Andy Murray's speech (if you can call it that) at this year's Wimbledon final and of course, me being me believed it necessary to ask, "Are you from Scotland cause you sound just like Andy Murray?" thinking it would be a fantastic conversation starter. Although the comment fulfilled its purpose, the content of said conversation became inevitably awkward.

"Yeah I live on the border, you know the border between Scotland and England?"

Alright Felix, I know I'm blonde but really, please enlighten me as to which other border Scotland shares? Understandably the conversation came to abrupt end with Felix scuttering away most likely confident in the fact that whilst he'd had to make small talk with a bunch of cocktail-tipsy 22 year olds, he'd just successfully managed to pocket himself a nifty little tip. Little did he know that he was serving 4 students who would later struggle to pull 80p together.

And then there they were.

They were facing me.

I was facing them.

Our eyes met.

Four of the biggest prawns one will ever see. (An exaggeration...probably). They're eyes still firmly in place. The eyes that once looked lovingly into those of their Mother's. The eyes that gazed hopefully towards the misty ocean unknown. The eyes that stared frightfully into those of the fisherman's net.

Those eyes were now looking deep into mine and it wasn't a welcomed sight. If pupils could talk, these most certainly did.

Considering my love for food that are, at best, extras from the Little Mermaid, began no longer than a year ago, my experience of consuming fodder with facial features were little to well...none. You see I don't 'do' things with eyes. Or heads. Or anything that looks like it could jump right up off of my plate and saunter away with an attitude that better belongs on a Marc Jabob's catwalk. (FYI I also don't 'do' baked beans, onions, pickles, olives, basically anything in a questionable looking sauce).

It was my first experience at Las Iguanas, a Latin American restaurant and I'd been enjoying my first of two Happy Hour specials 'Iguana-Wana's', chosen simply because of their name. After about an hour of attempting to determine the difference between burritos, enchiladas and quesadillas and Felix's fourth attempt at which to take our order, I'd decided to opt for the Tapas option, Albondigas (minty lamb meatballs), Chunky Fungi Champinones (mushrooms) and of course Gambas (very large prawns), opting also not to attempt to the read the dishes given names which prompted our dear little Felix to comment upon my non-existent attempt to read in Spanish.

Soon enough however, our food arrived and wishing not to cause a scene that would rival Helen Flanagan on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, I held my breath and began tackling the fishy fodder. And do you know what? I liked it. I really really liked it. Once I'd pushed aside my fear of prawns with eyes (literally to the opposite end of the plate), the whole tapas experience was truly delicious. The food, whilst somewhat mouth-wavingly spicy, was full of flavour, I liked that I could fuse all my favourite dishes into one. I didn't know which plate to jump to next!

My visit to Las Iguanas will be the first of many although admittedly, I may think twice about ordering the Gambas in the future. Or maybe I'll just make a request as to how I'd like my prawns.

"Without their shell, limbs or eyes that scream 'I died tragically in an under-water warfare! Thanks Felix.'



The Girl Code – One theory of equations we SHOULD have been taught in maths!

If X = Boy + Boy’s ex-girlfriend’s best friend (got that?) then X must stand for …

*WARNING POTENTIAL GIRL CODE RULE BREAK!*

If X = Boy laughing at Girl’s best friend + Girl saying nothing then X must stand for …

*WARNING POTENTIAL GIRL CODE RULE BREAK!*

If X = Girl A leaving Girl B on a night out for Boy then X must stand for …

*WARNING POTENTIAL GIRL CODE RULE BREAK!*

You get my drift.

Sadly, the occurrence of actions X are all too frequent within the realms of sisterhood and the bonds of said ‘hood’ that those platform-wearing, lycra-loving Spice Girls used to bang on about in the 90’s are now well and truly pledges of a much simpler, far less girl on girl crime filled past. 'I had a friend who used to leave me on nights out to sleep with a guy she was seeing on and off' said one source, 'then one night at the pub he started saying the horriblest of things to me but my friend just stood by and laughed along with him.' Sigh.

Now I was no maths whizz at high school, often sat with my hand waving frantically in the air for hours before accepting my fate as the annoying number pitching neighbour but it doesn’t take an A* student to work out that clearly the Girl Code is one algebraic equation best avoided. Come on ladies, it’s no Pythagoras theorem that all those involved are heading for disaster, or worse, Jeremy Kyle’s STI ridden sofa. "And the lie-detector results say you were lying you rotton filthy git!" are not the words anyone wants to be hearing at half past 9 on a Monday morning! Only recently as I awoke swimming in my own despair did I experience first-hand the real necessity of abiding by one of the golden rules that comprise the Girl Code: do not hook up with any of your best mate’s back catalogue of exes.

OK OK OK, so whilst you’ll be thankful to learn that in reality, this did not happen and the despair in which I was swimming in was merely fluid of a bodily sweating-nature (phew!), I am however, admittedly guilty of one thing – dream cheating with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. What does this mean I hear you ask? Despite what you are all thinking, I am not in love with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend (Sorry *George) nor does it mean I have fallen out of love with my own (Sorry Will!). Perhaps, as thorough consultation with one friend has suggested, (we're an odd friendship group consisting of a tarot card reader, a dream analyst and a plain old realist) I expect to be cheated myself in some way, who knows. What I do know is that the experience was enough to make me count my luck I wasn't a regular in Hollyoaks!

But let's face it, we're all guilty of a Girl Code rule break here and there. You see, being a girl is tough. It's as much a Girl Code to let your best mate ditch you on a night out for their long time loving, 'Peter Andre' looking crush than it is for your friend not to ditch you. Confusing I know. I once trawled Facebook for hours in my desperate attempt to prove to a past fling that in some way or another, I was connected to his new girlfriend, i.e. that she was my sister's ex-boyfriend's best mate's dog walker. Not very Girl Code. So why are we all at it? And is it ever OK to fall for your friend's former flame?

Maybe this wasn't such a simple equation after all...





 

"How did I end up here?"

Were the words I found myself uttering as I’m ushered by security into the BT Tower lift only to be met by another stony-faced attendant and asked to display my name badge. Ears bursting as we soared 7 metres per second to the top of the tenth tallest building in London, I nervously flashed my ID card that read, ‘Charlotte Turner – Closer Magazine’.

Usually about as unspontaneous as Katie Price is orange, this was so unlike me. Only one month previous I was training to be a primary school teacher, playing ‘sticky sticky glue’ with 10 snotty nosed six year olds hanging off my fingers like the 21^st century Pied Piper. Whilst this may sound like to some i.e. Father Christmas, what dreams are made of, I had other ideas, ideas that would see me sipping complimentary white wine, scoffing miniature portions of Fish and Chips and staring at the Female Boss herself as an intimate audience member of BT Infinity presents, Tulisa Live on the 34^th Floor.

As the lift doors to the 34^th floor open, so too did my mouth. Gobsmacked, I casually selected my drink of choice that was offered to me upon entry with my best, ‘yes, free alcohol is served to me by a man in a penguin suit on a daily basis’ swagger in tow. In reality, I’m sure my unemployed, £30,000 quid in debt Essex girl grin told another story. I couldn’t believe my luck. The 360 degree panoramic view of London that stared back at myself and my boyfriend who I’d earlier made an SOS phone call only hours previously desperately trying to rope him in, was enough to give me butterflies, not merely because of the height in which we were viewing it. At 9:30am earlier that day, I’d stepped through the doors to a world where what Cheryl Cole eats for breakfasts is front page news as a 22 year old wannabe writer beginning her career like thousands of others as an unpaid intern at Closer magazine, happily legging it through a torrential downpour to collect the Editorial team's morning sausage sarnies. Now, here I stood only hours later representing one of the most popular gossip magazines on the planet surrounded by the biggest in the journalism business and I was loving it.

Admittedly, whilst I can’t claim to be Tulisa’s biggest fan and walking past a clan of anxious fans eagerly clutching ‘Tulisa’ memorabilia in the freezing cold gave me flashbacks of my 7 hour stints as a 15 year old obsessed with McFly hanging outside venues wishing for nothing more than to catch a glimpse of my idols only to be barged to the back of the crowd (never underestimate the actions of crazed teenage girls!), made me feel extremely guilty, I found myself bopping along to the X Factor favourite’s latest tracks. The lyrics of her new single ‘Visa’ played repetitively over and over in my slightly tipsy head until it hit the pillow later that evening. It wasn’t too difficult mind you, the song went a little along the lines of ‘Check my visa, check my check my visa’ x10. (I urge emigration to please put Tulisa out of her misery and check her bloody visa.) After lining up unashamedly for a picture with the singer, alternating with my ‘pretending not to care’ boyfriend in order to take it in turns posing next to FHM’s sexiest woman of the year, my first ‘perk of a journalist’ had come to an end.

My return to Closer HQ however, saw me quickly return back to earth, my intern duties of distributing post and making endless cups of tea reminding me of how far I have yet to go if my writing was ever to make such a glamorous lifestyle reality. Whilst this might not seem like to some, i.e. Father Christmas, what dreams are made of, seeing my first piece of writing published on closer's website made the trips to the local cafe in the rain seem well and truly worth it. And let’s face it, it beats having billions of kids hanging off of every last limb!

 

p.s.

Note to self: Never, under any circumstances approach security and claim, “I’m with Tulisa”. I was flustered OK!!