This post is dedicated to a small and noble and utterly beloved beast who I have known since I was ten. Who would have thought such a tiny creature could wreak such havoc with a heart a thousand miles away? I wouldn't normally put this kind of thing online, but in this geographic inability to scritch behind her ears and will her through the night there's nothing much else I can do, besides dropping tears all over my essay notes.

Tatterdemalion

In honour of my newest favourite word, and of the sudden summer sun so recently unfurled from the steel-woollish flummery covering Melbourne for the past four months, and of all things superlative, I'm going to rip large and unnecessary holes in some old t-shirts and experiment with variegated sunburn all summer. Reason being, my very first day of not being cold has left me with an infuriating baby-pink bib around my neck and the same four options I have to stare down every spring: a) move to Finland until April, b) plumb a giant tub of sunscreen into the shower head until April, c) dress like a Mormon and endure heatstroke until April, or d) embrace the bib (and the sun-gloves, and the freckles, and the sandal-burn) until April. So this summer I'm going with e) carefully cultivate a collection of ripped t-shirts such that I am more or less evenly sun-kissed all over. Sun-kissed, not roasted: I spend most of my outdoor hours under umbrellas/parasols as it is (I'd rather be a mushroom than a spit-roast). I'm also kind of obsessed with fur at the moment (second-hand, before you start throwing things) which is somewhat unfortunate at this time of year; perhaps while I'm ripping the shirts up I'll make a dilapidated fur umbrella as well and start my own collection. Spring/Summer 2010: Tatter.D. by Penelop.E. Keep an eye on Vogue.