Emma Swan had had this job for just about four years now,
and she was fairly sure there was nothing more it could do to surprise her. She
had stopped being gobsmacked around the time, after just having taught a roomful of household staff
that the proper way to store caviar was in a champagne glass (because clearly,
a champagne glass) one of them raised their hand and asked what brand of
glassware it should be, because if there was a wrong brand and they used it,
their employer would be Very Unhappy at this dereliction of duty. Or when she
saw sixteen-year-olds who had as many therapists as they did extracurricular
activities, pouring into the International Young Achiever program to mingle
with their serried peers, so they’d be the better prepared to go straight from
Oxbridge to the Fortune 500 board room. The thought of working a starter job at
Primark or Caffè
Nero was a fate worse than death, and one which these people never had to
consider anyway. On the unlikely chance that they couldn’t get one of their
daddy’s rich friends to take them on, daddy himself would provide a monthly
allowance equal to the deposit on most middle-class homes.
For that matter, Emma had no idea how she’d ended up here. Debrett’s
was the oldest and most prestigious etiquette school in London – or at least
that was how it had started out. It had now evolved into a full-service
boutique firm for the really, obnoxiously, you-are-the-reason-the-economy-sucks
stupid rich. From teaching the subtle nuances between white tie and black
tie dress codes, how to properly address the Queen when she invited you to the
state dinner at Buckingham Palace, to arranging your personal shopping
experience in Paris (minimum one day) or Milan (minimum two days), to weddings
(you can only imagine how those went) to the events of the Social Season and
who would be at each, to dealing with nepotism at the office (really, that
would be a problem? Who could have seen that coming?) – she, Emma Swan, had
done it all. None of her clients knew she was actually American, as
she had perfected her Received Pronunciation, and of course it would never do
to have a Yank instructing them in
these time-honored rituals of expensive snobbery. Privileged bubble did not
begin to describe it.
Thus, Emma had a certain cynical outsider’s perspective on
the whole thing. She had not been born into money – quite the opposite, in
fact. Didn’t see this job as much different from a long-term acting gig, having
gotten hired despite her disgracefully un-pedigreed background by working hard,
being willing to put up with their shit as long as it kept the paychecks
coming, having a certain Look (here meaning thin, blonde, and pretty) and
allowing the bosses to feel as if they were doing a good deed and being
demographically diverse, down-to-earth, and relatable to the plight of the
common man by employing her. Besides, she was a living success
story. If an American ex-foster kid, who had never tasted champagne in her life
until her first day on the job when she was supposed to be advising a client
which one to buy for her society wedding, could learn how to do this, anyone
This, however. This might prove to be her white whale, the
final quest to trip her up just before the finish. Sir Brennan Jones
was one of the billionaires who turned up in the news for buying a private
island or being busted for tax evasion (once more, who could have seen that
coming?) or appearing at various red-carpet events with his equally handsome
sons (they were a good-looking family, she’d give them that) or writing self-righteous newspaper editorials about how they needed to fix the country, apparently with
zero awareness that he and his dipshit oligarch buddies were a big part of the problem with it in
the first place. That Brennan Jones. He had just engaged Debrett’s to give his
two sons a crash course in being successful rich people, as that was different
from just being rich people, so they could follow him into the family business.
And Emma was the lucky, lucky woman chosen for the job.
Sakura watched the slow rise of her baby’s chest. It rose in a calm wave like the ocean waters coming in at low tide. Watching her was hypnotizing and almost enchanting. Sakura couldn’t tear her eyes away. But she did because Sasuke had walked in with a blanket for Sarada and her as well.
“She’s so beautiful,” Sakura murmured to him. Sasuke smiles because she had been repeating the same thing over and over for the past hour.
“We’ll be able to leave the hospital soon. We have to sign a few papers and then I’ll take you two home,” Sasuke said.
Sakura nodded as she took the baby blanket and wrapped it around their daughter. They walked down to the lobby of the hospital as Shizune presented them with the papers. Sasuke took out a seal from his pocket as he stamped the Uchiha crest onto each paper and then his own seal with his name on it. Sakura followed with her seal as well.
The walk home was a quiet one as Sasuke did not speak at all. Sakura wondered if something was on his mind but she didn’t dare speak in fear of waking Sarada in her arms.
The transformation of Arctic Monkey frontman Alex Turner is truly something to behold. From his shaggy-haired, indie-rock beginnings to his emergence into true greaser/rock style icon that can also work a preppy button up and sunnies look (re photo above) he truly embodies the constant transforming fashion world while managing to somehow staunchly stick to a style very much his own. Although, for a man with such charisma and confidence (read: super cool and opinionated in a good way, but can come off as a bit of a cocky bastard) it isn’t too surprising that he works the pomade-soaked quiff and leather jacket look like he’s the first to do so. From his collection of skinny jeans, plain white shirts and ever present jackets (strangely reminiscent of Harry Styles, but the man are very clearly in opposite ends of the music spectrum, despite being nominated for the same award at the Brits and both being supremely attractive in a very British/musician way) …we can learn a lot.
Alex Turner in The Leather Jacket is the image of satan. Seriously. He is the boy you were warned about. While he already has his “Do I look like I care?” thing going on, the Leather Jacket (yes, it does deserve capitalisation) brings out his bad boy. True Greaser Style.
While I am abso-fucking-lutely loving loving 2014 Alex Turner, I do have a bit of a thing for 2012 Alex Turner. His cute mop top, one that only he could rock, was the signature mark on his era of polo’s, two piece suits and pea coats (although he does still don the occasional black pea coat, it no longer has its original preppy feel.) He no longer wears the once omnipresent chain around the neck, but rather than feel nostalgic, I feel I should embrace 2014 rocker/greaser Alex Turner before he turns his back on it and begins once again. With his track record (re: polo + chinos and sneakers to plain tee’s, shaggy hair and jeans to leather jackets and greased up hair) who knows what we’ll be seeing next.
‘We want to do things our way, and people think that’s arrogance, so it’s inevitable people will get tired of us.’
All in all, I really respect the Arctic Monkeys and Alex Turner for not only producing some damn fine music, but doing it by themselves. They don’t have a managing team sitting behind them telling them what to do and how to do it and who they should be doing it for.