For anyone that loves cocktails and resultantly, regularly sounds like a wanker. Great video.

Today was my first official day of work for 2012. For the past five days I have done nothing other than read books, eat fruit and lie on Melbourne’s inner-city beaches working on my tan. Aside from a few days spent in Turkey and the odd weekend in Europe, I feel like it was the first time I switched myself off since long before I moved to France. It was a triumph of early nights, early mornings, no emails and book after movie after book.

But today it was back to emails, back to curating news, writing interviews, proposing features, updating social media, organising calendars et al. In short, overloaded multitasking whilst attempting to concentrate and not be lured into the mass of unnecessary information that is the internet.

Today was interesting to me because it was the first day back at work since I have officially been “off” Facebook. A decision I made early in December because of the sheer amount of time I seemed to be wasting on the bottomless pit of ‘I blinked’ information. I have frequently shared information akin to ‘I blinked’ so I am in no way excluding myself from that observation, I just decided that if I blink and anyone really needs to know about it, I will inform them myself.

Working from home, when home is on the other side of the world to the office, is a pretty good determinate of ones self-motivation. Paris starts its day circa 7pm here in Melbourne, giving one seemingly endless opportunities to waste their own time before anyone comes online to notice. I feel like I can say things like that because I am motivated and I do get my work done and hopefully my bosses agree.

All that said, I know first hand how difficult it can become to manage time when you suddenly have so much of it, and I’ve come to a realisation that the less obstacles to efficiency in your way, the quicker and more insightfully you can put together your thoughts. Obviously Facebook was the first thing to go, followed by windows of time in which I answer emails, and times of the day set aside for writing – with no music, internet or mobile phone.

I know I sound like a self-important wanker now, but I am willing to wear that.

I also kicked Facebook because I want my family and friends to have my full attention, and I also want to have something to talk about when we catch-up. I am officially done with going out and socialising with other people’s iPhones. Call me old-fashioned but I find it really rude when you are sitting at a table with someone, attempting to have a conversation, and they can’t tear themselves away from their mobile-optimised notifications page.

I understand that social media has become a powerful tool for time-centric marketing and as a way not to ‘miss out’ on anything ever again, but when people are constantly trawling social media to find something more interesting to do – and then check-in to – it makes you wonder why they bothered catching up with you in the first place. That was the rant part of this musing, you will be pleased to know the rant is over.

All these thoughts came from reading an article entitled “Recovering from information overload,” which suggested that always-on, multitasking work environments are killing productivity, dampening creativity and making us unhappy. Ironically, I received an email from The Outnet as I was reading it, and ended up looking at a selection of discounted ankle boots before I realised I had forgotten to finish the article. Case in point.

“We tend to believe that by doing several things at the same time we can better handle the information rushing toward us and get more done. What’s more, multitasking—interrupting one task with another—can sometimes be fun. Each vibration of our favorite high-tech e-mail device carries the promise of potential rewards. Checking it may provide a welcome distraction from more difficult and challenging tasks. It helps us feel, at least briefly, that we’ve accomplished something—even if only pruning our e-mail in-boxes. Unfortunately, current research indicates the opposite: multitasking unequivocally damages productivity.”

As far as I’m concerned, they hit the nail on the head. Social Media is the ultimate tool for procrastination, wasting time, avoiding important deadlines or challenging work. I’m not by any means suggesting a withdrawl from all such things will make you more productive, but I have noticed that now, when I wish to procrastinate, I read through the articles on my Google Reader, hang out the washing or seem to exhibit other behaviours that make me more informed and/or organised.

2011 was my year of information overload. Too much information, not enough authenticity. Whether it be rolling over in the morning to check Facebook – before one has even showered or had coffee – or having a Twitter conversation with someone you then don’t speak to when you see them in a bar. What has the world come to?

My attention is thoroughly fragmented and I no longer see as much value in social media as I once did. Instead I am hoping 2012 will be the year of phone calls, personal emails and remembering peoples birthdays without a mobile-optimised notification page.

In a bid to somewhat justify the expense of eating out every night for the past two months, I’ve decided to share some of my thoughts on Melbourne’s restaurant scene – the one I complained that I missed so much whilst I was away.

It turns out I was justified in my grief, and there is many a shack turning out some great dishes, at reasonable prices, with little carry-on or fanfare. The prices seem quite incredulous coming from Paris (Hi Illona Staller), but the quality is high and the wages of staff probably higher too. The wine is expensive and the cheese isn’t raw, but all that is to be expected.

The thing that I have found reasonably horrifying upon my return, is the hype. And the wide spread virus commonly known as a ‘no bookings’ policy, useful only for further perpetuating said ridiculous hype.

I don’t know exactly who started the new go-to accessory for restauranteurs, but I think it could have been Cumulus that somewhat put it on the map. It certainly feels like it became more prominent after the cherished Flinders Lane eatery made it chic. The differentiating factor about the McConnell sans-bookings camp – which now also incorporates Golden Fields – is that they know how to manage this phenomenon.

A particularly recent experience is testament. Five people at 7.30pm on a Wednesday night, looking at a minimum one hour wait. I suggested a bottle of Champagne at Siglo, as the Cumulus bar was rammed, and they were more than happy to let us meander and give me a call when our table was available.

When we returned, they were still waiting for a group to vacate our space, who had apparently been sitting on an empty round of desserts for half an hour. But instead of unceremoniously removing them, they set us up at the bar with a bottle of wine and sent out some Charcuterie to keep us occupied.

The key thing for me, was not so much looking after us whilst we were waiting, but having enough respect for the previous group to let them leave at their leisure. Never at Cumulus have I ever been rushed off a table, I’ve even sat in the same spot from 11am – 8pm with not so much as a snide look from any of the staff.

And then you go to Mamasita. A wildly overpriced take on real Mexican food, where the only thing reliable is the wait. First my friends arrived at 4pm on a Monday, when the place was empty, and were refused a table because I was running late. They were seated at the bar, and moved not once, but three times before I arrived at 5pm, at which time they seated us all at the other end of the bar. I assumed this was some kind of April Fools joke re-imagined for November.

In this hour, my friends had already spent over $150 on drinks. In the proceeding ten minutes after being semi-seated and held at gunpoint to order, another $300 worth of Mexican fare was on the table. Everything came out quickly – and at once, which it didn’t need to be – and we did our best to navigate the small piece of real estate we had been appointed, that was now obscured by food and elbows.

Once we had finished, it was made clear that if we didn’t want dessert, it was time to get off the table. Fair enough if we had just bought McDonalds, not fair enough considering we just parted with $500 to eat hipster Taco Bill in a space smaller than my Parisian apartment. When you talk about value for money, Mamasita is up there with Louis Vuitton dog carriers.

The thing that annoys me the most about all of this table-turnover rudeness, is that the general public seem not only to put up with it, but encourage it. This was all over by 6.30ish and there was already a line forming well down Collins Street, full of wide eyed Masterchef fans eager to throw their dollars to people that are, essentially rude.

Yes the food is decent, but it is not worth what you pay for it in my opinion. Especially not now that Melbourne has gone mad for fresh mexican food and the options have tripled since I left. And I will never understand people supporting a restaurant that treats you like cattle, prodding you out of the joint when you are barely finished eating.

A no bookings policy isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It works for Movida Next Door, when you might spontaneously want a night with Camora but haven’t the occasion or foresight to book in at the flagship. It worked fine last night at Illona Staller – but we had to get there at 6.30 – and it works at Bar Lourinhã, when all you want is some gambas and a glass of Sherry.

But is it really necessary? What does it actually achieve? And what is wrong with waiting a few weeks for a reservation at a truly phenomenal restaurant? The experience I had at Cutler & Co, after waiting for five weeks to get a table, was so much more memorable than being cattle prodded at Mamasita. Yet the morons keep lining up…

The Parisian is interested in everything and, in nothing…

Intoxicated as he is with something new from one day to the next, the Parisian, regardless of age, lives like a child.

He complains of everything, tolerates everything, mocks everything, forgets everything, desires everything, tastes everything, feels everything passionately, drops everything casually

his kings, his conquests, his glory, his idol, whether made of bronze or glass

Nothing like a crisis to kickstart your blogging ability.

After over a year of living here, I thought I’d pretty much been through a lifetime’s worth of uncertainty and that everything was starting to fall into place. However yesterday, as I rode my Velib down Boulevard Saint-Michel, with the sun shining brightly and Paris looking early morning stunning, I thought to myself things have been a bit too smooth lately, something must go wrong soon.

And right on cue, 11am, shit happened.

So now I find myself two days away from leaving again for Melbourne. Something I am moderately mentally prepared for, but simultaneously terrified of, as whilst applications have been lodged and my heart says stay in Paris, nothing is currently given, and realistically I have no idea what the next few months hold.

If there is anything I have learnt in my time away, it is that nothing in life is controllable and if a bomb is going to drop on your head, a bomb is going to drop on your head. Speculating will make no difference either way, all it will do is hinder your ability to enjoy the things you have in the present. Deal with the bomb after its exploded, don’t spend time trying to forecast when it will detonate.

So despite the not so lighthearted circumstances that will now mark my return, I couldn’t be more excited to drink proper coffee, lounge around the house with my cat. Catch a game of football with my brothers, drink a bottle of wine with Mum and David in the backyard and just sit and talk to my Dad. Eat Viet Rose with the girls, drink Coopers Green at Section 8 with the boys, throw on some heels and make eyes at skilled cocktail bartenders.

I am completely terrified that I won’t be able to ride my Velib to work again, or have an impromptu bottle of Quoi du Neuf at l’Avant Comptoir or have a grey H&M shorts party in my apartment with my roomy. Let alone walk down Rue Montorgueil to buy duck, wander onto the terrace of le Coeur Fou for an apéro, hit Le Bellevilloise for a night I don’t remember or eat slabs of pizza at Al Taglio. There is so much to this city that I complain about but faced with leaving, the idea of missing out on life here makes me feel physically ill.

But Paris, just like Melbourne, will always be here. Should I not be able to come back and call myself a local, I always have a beautiful couch in Denfert-Rochereau to sleep on and a blackbook full to the brim of cocktail spots, restaurants and tapas bars to spend all my money. Most of all I have an amazing group of friends whose expiry date goes well beyond commercial aviation tickets. It’s really hard not to sound trite but Paris has played an incredible part in shaping my life, my aspirations and my abilities to cope with uncertainty.

But learning how to deal with it doesn’t mean I like it. And to Paris I say: A bientôt j’espere

I couldn’t write it. Not in real time. It’s like commenting on a football game. There is too much detail, too much noise. I’d come up against a truth of travel writing: you need distance, and you need to know how it ends.

Every journey happens twice. First in your experience, and then as you remember it, and it’s the remembrance that is the most profound. Travel really only comes together as a coherent plot once you stop doing it.

- AA Gill for Gourmet Traveller, July 2011

Un dessert sans fromage est une belle à qui il manque un oeil - Brillat Savarin

Recently there has been an influx of  luxury brands entering the childrenswear market.

Ralph Lauren have been doing it for fashion ions, Stella McCartney did it with with GAP. Burberry made its mark when Katie Holmes put Suri Cruise in their signature tartan for a day in the park. Gucci hired Jennifer Lopez’s infant twins as duel brand ambassadors. Chloé, Marc Jacobs, Fendi and Dior all do it, Lanvin recently joined the fray.

The only person I have heard publicly confirm their disinterest is Balenciaga CEO, Isabelle Guichot. She seems to have the idea that designer fashion, which wishes to be taken seriously, should probably leave childrenswear to the aforementioned GAP. She revealed the brand had investigated it, but felt there was no credible link between Balenciaga’s heritage and designing clothes for kids, therefore they decided not to pursue it.

Smart woman? I think so. But maybe all the poorer for it.

Designer childrenswear, from a purely emotional standpoint, makes me furious.

Between Facebook, the iPad and Google, millennial generations are already going to be lacking basic social skills and fundamental survival skills like using a phonebook. Is it really necessary that we add image complexes to their list of potential ailments? Should 5 year olds really be brought up with a value system that dictates it is more important to keep an expensive dress clean than it is to have fun in a sandbox?

This is me making sweeping assumptions. I am assuming that these parents in question, buying Dior for their children, expect the kids to keep it intact – as I would expect of any adult to look after anything of signficant value. But maybe this is a peasants attitude towards clothing? Maybe Dior is for the mud and Chanel Haute Couture is for formal events?

Clearly I digress from the objective and factual.

From a business standpoint, this is an area of great opportunity. In 2009, childrenswear accounted for 5% of Burberry’s £1.28 billion revenue. As the luxury industry grows and recovers from the GFC, new types of consumers have emerged. Younger, more confident in their spending, from India, China and the Middle East. Consumers that are super wealthy, driven by family, driven by gifting cultures, people that want the best for themselves and those close to them. If this means a Burberry bib for $200, who am I to judge?

But where do you draw the line?

Obviously these kids collections need to be presented, by kids. Fendi orchestrated an entire runway show, just like an adult ready-to-wear extravaganza, sending 4-10 year olds shimmying down a catwalk. During the Smalto menswear show in Paris, a kid walked the entire length of the runway crying like a baby, probably because yesterday, he was still a baby.

And when there are laws in place about not being able to hire models under the age of 16, isn’t it slightly hypocritical that as long as they are pre-highschool, it is fine for them to strut? I’m not going to assume that the fashion industry is ever going to make sense, but I would prefer if it stuck to ruining adolescent self confidence and adult bank accounts. Kids have no place in a world where adults barely survive.

The major hole in my high-horse standpoint, regarding what kids should and shouldn’t wear and whether or not kids should be allowed near a runway, is that it is totally irrelevant. At the end of the day there are people that want to buy their kids expensive, branded, clothing. If Dior don’t do it, realistically, potential clients will just go to Gucci or Stella or whoever else is getting involved.

In a world where designers report to CEO’s and Shareholders, those that choose not to capitalise, will realistically, get fired. Unfortunately this is just another case of Chicken or the Egg.

What fashion was all about. What fashion should be all about.

Another incredible collection by Riccardo Tisci

Everyone warned me I would fall in love. And I did.

Perfect in all it’s imperfections.