Fancy Dress: A Harry Potter Party

I'm not alone in my friendship group with my love, nay obsession, with Harry Potter, nor my love of fancy dress. So it's a surprise that it's taken this long for one of us to have a Harry Potter party, or for us to dress up as characters from it. Last weekend my Harry Potter fancy dress party dreams came true.




Bella and the Birthday Girl: Vicky and Viki!

My fellow Harry Potter enthusiast, and younger sister to Bestie-Kim, Victoria chose this as a theme for her 30th birthday.

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee..... where's my broomstick?

A few months back we all received wax-sealed envelopes containing our personalised invites - "letters" from Hogwarts, welcoming us for our first day of school and a ticket for Platform 9 3/4. By personalised, I mean we were all allocated a character so there were no duplicates (you see now why we get on - it's not just the HP, or the YA fiction, the fact we've virtually grown up together, or the enthusiasm for party planning... it's the dedication to a theme and attention to detail. Amazing skills. Amazing). I was lucky enough to have been allocated one of my favourite characters (not to mentioned being played by one of my fave actresses) - Bellatrix Lestrange.

YESSSSS!

Itty, bitty, baby Potter.

Yesssss!!

I nabbed myself a faux leather basque from eBay (bad move - it came with a "bonus" free faux leather thong, and I now receive regular updates on their S&M gear as eBay assumes they are one ofmy "favourite sellers". Hmph) that wasn't dissimilar to Batman body armour, some whale-net tights, arm sleeve thingys, a wand, a replica necklace and VAT of hair products.

I tonged, teased, tore and generally abused my hair in to some semblance of a Bellatrix style, smudged the make up I'd worn to a day-party at another friend's house (yup - I'm THAT popular - two parties in one day. Yeah!), added some dark lippie and I was good to go...

... until I looked in the mirror and realised that if I broke down I'd be mistaken for a sex worker.

So rummaged in my cupboards and fancy dress box and came up with a strapless sundress which I wiggled in to as a slightly more demure skirt (the previous one had a split and with the thigh high boots, was wholly unnacceptable for "school") and then I was away.

Sadly, my "official" Bellatrix wand didn't turn up in time so I had to bluff it with a replica of Harry's wand instead. Don't judge me Potter-Purists.

Also don't judge me for not applying a temporary Dark Mark tattoo - I had a christening the next day, and I don't think it would have gone down too well!

So, anyway, here are some pictures of the amazing details and the brilliant, brilliant costumes...

A dark mark

Madam Hooch and He Who Must Not Be Named (who lost his mask!)

Harry and Ginny

Lupin and Luna

welcome to the party!

The Grey Lady (a.k.a. The Birthday Girl) in her Dia

Drinks in Diagon Alley

Dobby




Bellatrix and Fleur

McGonagall, Dumbledore and Moaning Myrtle

Enemies of the Heir BEWARE!

Snape and Fleur

Lupin, Harry and Fleur

Hagrid and Fluffy

Hagrid and Harry

Harry in Diagon Alley (looking for beers!)

potions, papers and horcruxes

Lupin got a bit wild after midnight!

Stay away from the dungeons... unless you're Slytherin...

Propoganda

Quidditch rings

Nice to meet you Sirius

This is strictly a non-smoking area.

Snitches

SORTED!

This way, sports fans...

Catching up on the news...

Tonks and Trelawney

The Tri-Wizard Cup

Oh how I miss Harry.

Oh, what's that you say? Another film in the pipeline, not to mention suggestions for my new fave YA-Fiction-Franchise boy crush to be included in the line up...

Waaaahoooooooooooooooooo!




We joined Nespresso club

It was BIZARRE.

We tested a few models at Selfridges and then purchased our chosen machine at John Lewis. We then trekked down Regent Street, lugging our cream Magimix Citiz complete with Aeroccino 3, to purchase some capsules (Dulsao do Brasil and some decaf for making espresso martinis) and to formally join Nespresso Club.

We arrived at the Boutique and it was like being welcomed in to first class or an Aston Martin show room. Soft lighting, stylish design and Nespresso brand ambassadors with breathy voices.

"Welcome to Nespresso. Can I show you through to the tasting bar?"

Crumbs! Mr G had pins and needles in his face from all the pre-purchase samples he tried and I'm coffee-free for the time being after an involuntary caffeine purge last week when I caught a stomach bug, so we declined the offer and got in the queue to register and to buy our first capsules.

A queue?!? For registration and coffee capsules?!?

Anyway, when we got to the Coffee Capsule Purchasing Desk we began our Nespresso Club initiation ceremony.

I think I lost points for not taking it seriously enough.

In her best breathy, welcome-to-first-class-madam voice we were asked: "would you like a leather key fob or a membership card?"

Uh... both, please?

She then swiped them like electronic hotel key cards to activate them... Really?  What am I supposed to do with an activated Nespresso card. What is is activated for?

Oh hang on. I'm about to find out.

(Breathy air hostess voice again) "Has anyone told you about The Benefits of Nespresso Club?"

I was then demoted to the bottom of Coffee Class for giggling during the speech about Nespresso Assistance which includes

• 3 year extended warranty
• 24 hour helpline with direct access to Nespresso experts in case of coffee-related emergencies
• Should our machine break they will collect/repair free of charge (under warranty)
• A courtesy machine will be provided in cases where the machine has to be taken away for repair, to ensure no interruption to our coffee schedule
• A first look at special edition coffees
• The card/key fob tracks our purchases so they can profile our coffee preferences and assist us in future coffee buying decisions (a-ha!!!)
• A recipe book, tips  and instructions for making all coffee related drinks, desserts and cocktails.

For. Actual. Real.

I shit you not.

....

....

.....

!?!?!

Then it was time to register the machine and get our membership pack, which was not too dissimilar to the manual I was given when I bought my last car.

Breathy Nespresso brand ambassador: "I see you bought the machine at John Lewis"

Me: "wow, that was quick - is that registered on our profile already?"

Breathy Nespresso brand ambassador: "No madam, it's in a John Lewis Bag"

Mr G: *snort*

I flunked Nespresso School. Big time.

But in all seriousness, we tried it last night and it's yum and fun! And, really, if you asked me to recommend a coffee machine/company/service now, the first thing I'll say? Get a Nespresso.

I have been assimilated.

Mr G loves it like it's our first born and keeps going in to the kitchen to caress it.

First rule of Nespresso Club? COME ROUND FOR ESPRESSO MARTINIS ASAP!!!!

31



Birthday cakes!

Last year I turned thirty. It was a big fat birthday. One I'd been looking forward to, genuinely, since I turned 26. 

26 is the end of your mid-twenties. All you have ahead is your late-twenties, your thirties (apparently "The New Twenties"), middle age and then a slide in to retirement while you save for a bio-degradable coffin and a sandwich buffet. Smashing.

My late twenties were a time I spent arguing with Mother Nature, Mr G, and myself. It was a "nothing" era. Well, ok, not nothing, beautiful babies were born (not to me), weddings were had (one by me), mortgages were issued (kind of to me), life plans were made (ish), amazing trips were booked and travelled (LOTS) and careers were defined (sort of), but still, I was itching to get to thirty. I couldn't wait for the cool stuff to start happening, you know – all that really cool stuff that happens to you after thirty... hmmm?



Cake for breakfast

For me, with the exception of a few killer highlights (that would be the weddings, trips of a life time, the arrival of some amazing kids, of course), I felt like I was living the second book in a trilogy: 

• First book/first 25 years: scene setting, intros and back story.
• Middle book (or in the case of the Harry Potter series: Order of the Phoenix)/25 – 30 years: filler stuff and a time to get impatient before the good shizzle gets started.
• Last book/30+: the climax and the happily ever after.  

**Let me remind you here, I've always been massively impatient (I want it all and I want it NOW), have always believed that "something amazing" is on its way (it's not – what it is, is amazing now and I should learn to appreciate the now a bit more) and I never learn that the grass really isn't greener (my grass is pretty green)**

Looking back it was all pretty good actually. I do love a bit of hindsight. I should have paid more attention.

But anyway, turning thirty was ACE! So ace it's ok to use the word "ace". I'm so cool. It's because I'm over thirty. Cool doesn't just happen to you, after thirty, you become it. Fact.

So I did a little "life review", it got mushy. I did a lot of celebrating, it got messy. I did a lot of planning for growing up, it got, uh, waylaid.

But from that point on, basically everything felt ok. Everything was going to be ok. Everything was a-ok. I chilled out a bit more about stuff, stopped being so stress-heady and got a bit more settled. Felt more comfortable about who I was, what I did and with whom I did it. We sold our flat and bought a grown up house, I started saying "no" a bit more, I stopped whinging about everything I didn't have/own/look like and realised it's not really that important anyway (Chanel handbag, anyone?), started appreciating what I do have and my FOMO started to dissipate. It's like my birthday and new year all merged in to one and I made life resolutions, not just new year resolutions.

Group phone chat with our buddies in Oz

30 was the new 21 in my mind. There's so much build up to 21 but really, like new year's eve, there's no big deal after all the fuss. 30 was where it was at. Apart from the car insurance reduction (nowadays not so much though - sorry younguns), 21 was merely symbolic. 18 contains the only actual life defining moment - legal adulthood.  Drinking without lies. That's what 18 is, really.  

So if 30 was the new 21 - symbolic - it was all about the party, the life story, the thank yous and the "Oscar" speech.  The “So far…” list, and the future plans. Excellent.

What does that make 31?

31 is the realisation that you're a proper adult now.

OLD.

Grown up.

A grooooown up.

But it was actually pretty good.





It’s been ten years since my 21st birthday. What was I doing ten years ago? I was working on my internship year and trying not to think about returning to university for my final year (I hated uni). I was avoiding responsibility at all costs. My biggest, most stressful decisions involved Miss Sixty jeans or Guess jeans with my birthday money, I was celebrating my 21st birthday in Paris (in a way more civilised manner than I celebrated my 31st let me tell you!), and drinking Apple Sourz at least four nights a week. I was planning holidays, parties and experiences with my friends and family. I was having fun being single having come out of a rather unpleasant five year relationship...

I was meeting ensnaring my future husband and making plans to explore our the world together, one luxury hotel at a time...



Birthday outfit



Although my birth and wedding certificates say that I’m a proper grown up now, you can forgive me for not really feeling it. When you describe my life ten years ago it like that, it's really not that different!

 

So, back to the present, what did I get up to on my 31st birthday weekend? Well, with a busy year full of big expenditure ahead, I planned very little. Unlike the last ten years. I didn't feel the need or the want. I just wanted to go with the flow.



Birthday bellini at lunch



Oh good lord – did you hear that? "Go. With. The. Flow"

 

You see... I really did change. I like it. 



Anyway, I purchased cocktail ingredients, reserved a table, planned the top half of an outfit (with the bottom half rushed together in the hours before going out) and booked a taxi. That was it. It felt good.

Pre-birthday celebrations on Friday included cake for breakfast at my desk, some birthday bellinis and bresaola salad with one of my besties (all the Bs) and then back at the office: champagne, chocolates and a cheese buffet with my colleagues (all the Cs). Followed by haggis, neeps and tatties, cranachan  (made by moi - check me out all grown up and making stuff for guests!) and whisky-based cocktails with some friends to celebrate Burns Night and a long distance group catch up with some buddies Down Under, oh, and lots of cocktails!

All very grown up and (mostly) civilised.



Presents in bed!

Then, B-day hit on Saturday which involved presents and cards in bed, a mild-hangover brunch, a full body and scalp massage, my girls coming over for some pre-party bubbly then in to town for drinks and dancing… and ended the day crashing in to bed in full make up. Not grown up, nor civilised.

Sunday we spent the morning recovering, sending apology texts, laughing at some utterly disgusting and hideous, but equally hilarious photos, wallowing on the sofa and eating left over cold sausages straight from the fridge. We then made ourselves look presentable (ish) and headed to my parents' for tea and lemon drizzle cake, more pressies, a game of Trivial Pursuit: Bet You Know It (a birthday gift) jammy lamb and sticky toffee pud (my Birthday Dinner 2013 choice) and mini birthday cakes, before chilling on the sofa and watching Call the Midwife. 

Big fat birthday win!!!

Trivial Pursuit: Bet You Know It!

Birthday Suit

No, I'm not talking about being naked, nor am I referring to that famous Rimmel lipstick from the nineties that we all wore with Number 17 "In the Buff" lipliner.

I am referring to what I wore for my birthday drinks this weekend.

The whole outfit revolved around a black and white Zara shirt, that encouraged much posing in front of the black and white stripes in my bathroom, many shouts of "Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice" and a few dagger-looks at boys who asked if I'd come straight from the football stadium.

Whatevs!

I intended to wear it with my black tailored shorts and some Henry Holland suspender tights, but I couldn't find them in the disaster that is my wardrobe (and when I say wardrobe I mean three wardrobes, across three bedrooms, and a few suitcases full of stuff I forgot I had until I went looking for the shorts. Time for a wardrobe clear out!) so purchased a p-leather skirt from Miss Selfridge (It's been a long time since I shopped in there, let me tell you - everything is so teeny) as a back up plan, but ended up just opting for some black skinny jeans. Standard.

I wore my new shoes from Dune, purchased in the sale reduced from £90 (no way hose!) to £45 (maybe) to £36 (ok) to £28 (MINE!), my minty-green Lulu Guinness bag (more stripes!), a pop of pink lippy and attempted some big hair, which just went flat as soon as I started flinging myself drunkenly around on the dance floor.

It all started out so well.

I did not end well.

RIP birthday outfit.

 

Goodbyes

This weekend was a weekend of goodbyes. Not bad goodbyes, but emotional ones nonetheless.

First off, on Friday night, we said goodbye to our local steakhouse. I’ve always said that, despite sampling fish and chips on a variety of continents, the pub at the end of my road serves the best in the world. Made even better by the fact that they also serve cocktails not to menrion that it’s stumbling distance from my bed (and i have stumbled it many, many times). I will still be able to eat the fish and chips, but now that we’re about to move out of our flat, it’ll no longer be as locals. It was a sad time when we walked out of there for the last time. From now on, we’ll be taking taxis or arguing about driving detail…

Last cocktail as locals

On Saturday, Mr G said goodbye to his twenties with the last celebratory event for his birthday (he celebrated for almost as long as me!). Twenty four of us set up camp on a large table at Zenxi and ate our fill of Chinese, drank cocktails and champagne, had a few cross words with an aggressive waiter and welcomed Mr G in to his thirties with a Sponge Bob Square Pants cake, a sparkler and a hideous cocktail of epic proportions (nice one Lucy and Neil).

The hideous cocktail from Lucy and Neil

Sponge Bob cake!

Lucy and Neil's "revenge" from the barman!

We reigned in the post-dinner drinking though, as on Sunday we said goodbye to most of our furniture, white goods, food, clothes, electronic equipment and ornaments as we packed up our flat and prepared to make ourselves homeless. This is a whole other story.

The empty lounge

We spent Sunday night sitting on our one remaining seat, with our two remaining cups, watching the telly (now propped up against the wall) and saying goodbye to Homeland as we’ll be away when the last episode is aired.  

Am feeling very, very ready for some Hellos, specifically, “Hello bedtime”…