The Eyebrow Chronicles

“Th’ whole worl’s in a terrible state o’ chassis,” says Captain Boyle in Sean O’Casey’s play “Juno and the Paycock.” But if you think that’s an excuse not to put your gladdest rags on this Christmas and/or New Year’s, you can think again. Now is the time for sequins, beads, sparkles, and baubles, for satin, velvet, and silk, for bold prints and big jewelry. Not, you will be relieved to hear, all in the same outfit.

In my opinion, there are two ways to do festive dressing, and no, head-to-toe fleece is not one of them (unless you’re a sheep). You can do all the drama with your dress and downplay everything else, or you can use accessories to liven up a simple base. If you’re going for the former, here’s some inspiration (from fantasy to reality):

Hanna silk and velvet dress by Christopher Kane

Beaded silk tunic dress by TIBI

Raindrop dress from French Connection

But if you don’t have a festive frock in your wardrobe, there’s no need to go out and buy one. You can take a simple black knit dress — one you might wear to work — and dress it up with a statement necklace, sparkly belt, or patterned tights. Start with something like this:

Sarafina knit dress by Trina Turk

And add something like this:

Sunken Treasure necklace by Subversive

Subversive has several highly covetable collections of jewelry featuring the brand’s signature tangles of chains and baubles. It’s easy to recognize and easy to rip off: J. Crew, for one, has comparable (though undeniably less fabulous) pieces for a fraction of the price.

Mint pearl mega cluster necklace by Subversive

Pearl and crystal avalanche necklace from J. Crew

With decorations like that, who needs a tree?

Etsy has some very cute offerings in the handmade hottie department.

It’s snowing in London. It’s too cold to snow in New York. It’s pretty bloody chilly in Dublin, where I’m going to be next week. At times like these, I fantasize about all things warm. Cashmere, cats, hot chocolate, saunas, thermal underwear, real fires, wool tights, big fluffy duvets … and hot water bottles. There are many new-fangled devices for warming beds, things like electric blankets and shapeless objects you put in the microwave. But I secretly wish I lived in the days when a maid would come to your room and run a copper pan full of still-glowing coals over your sheets just before you got into bed. Of course, if I lived in those days, I would more likely be the maid, who then has to climb a draughty staircase to a freezing attic where the wind howls all night long and fur-coated mice nibble frostbitten toes. But anyway. Maybe it’s because they were the stuff of my childhood, but I still have a fetish for hot water bottles. In fact, I’m quite sad that I don’t need one where I’m living now; the radiator squeals and burbles alarmingly and emits more than enough heat. But encased in a snug wool or felt cover, a hottie is the perfect bedmate: it won’t steal the covers or snore or wake you up to tell you its crazy dream about making sandwiches with Kim Jong Il. Find the one pictured here, or browse Etsy for other designs. Just make sure the top of your hottie is on tight, though, or it could wet the bed.

Lately, I’ve been seized by the idea that there’s not enough poetry on the internet. I don’t mean you can’t read poems online, I just mean that most of what’s on Facebook, Twitter, and, to a lesser extent, blogs like this one, is depressingly prosaic. This has already inspired some odd behavior on my part, including posting a tweet in Latin. I’m sure one could argue that social media sites have encouraged many kinds of creative, anti-utilitarian verbal experimentation. Rather than diving into that debate, I think I’ll just leave you with one of my favourites by the Northern Irish poet Paul Muldoon. A copy of one of his collections would be an excellent addition to any bookworm’s stocking.

Quoof

How often have I carried our family word

for the hot water bottle

to a strange bed,

as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick

in an old sock

to his childhood settle.

I have taken it into so many lovely heads

or laid it between us like a sword.

An hotel room in New York City

with a girl who spoke hardly any English,

my hand on her breast

like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti

or some other shy beast

that has yet to enter the language.

Behind every great woman ...

... there's a big bear giving her a hug.

Those who know me know I love bears. Those who know and love me tell me that I will never be tenderly hugged by a bear. I maintain a surface bravado but deep down I have a niggling fear that they might be right. With this French Connection T-shirt, though, all my dreams could come true. Safely.