Earlier this year Sindy said she wanted to see the snow. So we took her to Switzerland with us.(http://www.indiahicks.com/blog/2011/3/6/come-out-come-out-where-ever-you-are.html) What was most poignant for me, was seeing Sindy dressed in her cloak. My childhood was littered with memories of cloaks. When my mother was eight years old she did not go to the King's coronation. Too young, she was told. Her older sister joined our present Queen and Princess Margaret, in the Abbey, to watch the ceremony. My mother was left at Buckingham Palace, fated only to see the procession leave and return. Dressed in a green velvet cloak. Which my sister inherited. Much to my annoyance. I longed for that cloak. I prayed for that cloak.
Each summer we would stay with my grandfather, in his castle, in Ireland. A country filled with the romance of fairies and leprechauns. Each summer the leprechauns pushed our car up a certain track and we squealed in delight. It never occurred to us that we didn't actually see the leprechauns doing this. And every summer we peered into the damp, dark, rock holes at the bottom of the drive, where the fairies lived and danced. The summer that I turned eight I was told to peer into the rocks and found, to my astonishment, that the fairies had answered my prayers. A red cloak. From Harrods no less.
My father, a great showman, would shoot in the Oxfordshire countryside, dressed in a tartan cloak, of his own design, complete with over sized velvet collar. Inspired by an admiral's boat cloak, my father also designed himself one for town, fastened with an elaborate gold link chain around the neck. The only concession to not actually being an admiral was that my father's cloak was black, not navy. In London he would theatrically stride down the quite Albany Rope Walk of his London residence, the full length cloak and scarlet satin lining sweeping out behind him.
As Sindy had not really been out and about much, during the thirty odd years she had been staying with my mother, we decided to show her a good time on Harbour Island. Our pink sand beach, Queen Conch, and Daddy D's.
Disappointingly we found that Sindy was a really shit boat driver.
And even though Sindy's 1960's wardrobe has a certain charm I am trying to persuade her to update it just a touch. The tribal swim suit on my site for instance: http://buy.indiahicks.com/1s1corodm.html
One afternoon this year when I was back in England my mother called me into her sitting room and with hushed ceremony handed me a purple plastic box. On the top were the words SINDY in white 1960 swirly letters. Sindy. My God the memories came flooding back. Sindy was the fresh-faced-pony-riding-girl-next-door. Unlike that little slut Barbie. My mother had perfectly preserved my Sindy doll complete with her groovy 1960 clothes. I carefully carried Sindy and her perfectly preserved wardrobe back to the Bahamas where I called my 4 year old into the sitting room and with hushed ceremony handed over the purple box. With in Minutes Domino had Sindy and her trousseau out. Running delightedly from room to room introducing Sindy to her new home.
Within minutes one of Sindy's teeny tiny scarlet high heels went missing.
"No body move" I screamed. The entire house hold came to a stand still. Even the parrot was silenced.
"Every body down" I continued "Every body down. Sindy's shoe is missing" we fell to our hands and knees and began to search.
How was it possible that my mother had fastidiously guarded Sindy's ant sized shoes for over forty years yet on her first outing in our home one was already lost?
Miraculously our Top Banana Claire discovered the shoe inside an empty bath. Of all places.
Seen here Sindy is kitted out in her velour flouro jump suit modernized only with an India Hicks Love Letter. and before you ask 'F' is for Flint Wood. Sindy Flint Wood. (And because my licensing partner felt Sindy was not enough of a household name to warrant a freebie. What a meanie right?)
'S' for sexy Saffron.
We met on a modeling shoot a long time ago. Before kids, before coke zero, before Labradoodles were cool. It was in some horrible studio in south London. Saffron was THE RALPH LAUREN GIRL. I was no one. The studio smelt of damp. And there was a really nasty scuzzy rug, that looked like it had been thrown out of an abandoned Hilton hotel. The creative director thought we should roll around on it, rubbing our cheeks gently and seductively against the rug. That's how we met. To see the rest of my alphabet click here.
On our way back from St. Vincent and The Grenadines we had to travel through three different countries to get home. The good news is we did not cross any time zones. Times zones and I not getting along. Not at all.
The bad news is when we finally got home and unpacked we discovered in the 4 year olds pencil case a tiny tortoise. More bad news. He was alive. (What were those sniffer dogs doing in Miami?)
So now we have two big dogs, one small sausage dog, a cat, a parrot, a tortoise, three teenagers, one 9 year old and a Domino. Oh yes and a transvestite bunny in England. (HTTP://WWW.INDIAHICKS.COM/BLOG/2012/7/1/BUN.HTML ) (David just glanced over my shoulder read this and said its pretty D.O.A as far as blog writing goes. Unlike the tortoise)
Vincent's new home was designed by David Flint Wood, although not quite as fancy as Brooke Shield's. HTTP://WWW.INDIAHICKS.COM/BLOG/2012/2/9/THE-BROOKE-SHIELDS-PROJECT.HTML
Having spent 16 years living on a tiny out island in The West Indies it felt a slightly odd choice to be taking two days and several small airplanes to get to another post stamp sized island in The West Indies. With, of course, five moaning kids. When you live in paradise why leave?
Because " Travel is the only thing you can buy that will make you richer"
and because that is one fantastic landing strip, yes that little thin line between those two hills.
And because every body on the island of Canouan is having fun. Everybody.
And because when I travel I get inspired. The next India Hicks Fine Jewelry collection is going to be a blast.
Canouan is 14 miles from Bequia so on two boats, not much bigger than these, we crashed through a roaring sea (If you don't have 5 kids and do have a spare moment don't spend it on doing your hair when traveling between islands in the Grenadines, you arrive alive but soaking wet. Head to toe)
Leaving the strange deserted hippie settlements of Bequia we passed by protruding green breasts (I live with 3 teenage boys) swam with turtles, sunbathed on deserted beaches, picnicked in caves, jumped from cliffs and admired the unspoiled waters where Johnny Depp and Keira Knightly tussled with cutlasses....
.....before arriving in time for lunch, one dazzlingly hot afternoon, on the island of Mustique.
A very eccentric friend of my parents Lord Glenconner (also known as Colin Tennant) bought the island many years ago....there is a spine chilling but highly amusing documentary on him and the island. The Man Who Bought Mustique. In one scene Colin prepares a lunch in honor of Princess Margaret, and decides to dress the miniature temple below, where lunch would be served, with embroidered pornographic Indian panels .
There are only two places to shop on Mustique. The Pink House and The Purple House. With out a doubt you should go Pink over Purple. Because they stock India Hicks Crabtree & Evelyn Island Living
and once you've been shopping water ski home. Your hair will already have got wet.