Tag Archives: romance

Happy Valentines day, kids!

14 Feb

I don’t really believe in Valentines Day, but I do believe in love. More then almost anything else, so this year I am going to go with it. But only just a little bit. Here are some of the ways that remind me that love is alive all around us, where ever you are in the world..

Love-locked: padlocks of declared love on the ‘Carrie and Big’ bridge over the river Seine, Paris.


LOVE: in the big apple.


At home: all is fair in love and wallpaper prints.


Wherefore art thou: love letters plastered on the wall at Juliet’s balcony in Verona, Italy.


Hopeful street art: Soho, NYC.


Prague: snow covered padlocks hoping for love that lasts for all Winters to come.


Love is all around us: necklace by Naomi Murrell, wooden heart by Typo.


All photographs and content is property of Crystal Kruger, unless otherwise stated.



Tigers wood.

6 Apr

Today we wake, to be once again faced with an onslaught of media coverage obsessed with documenting the minute and trivial details of the Tiger Woods saga. Just when it all seems to have died down… boom! It hits us all over again. Flipping channels on TV this morning, Tiger tales were running on pretty much every station, leaving me with no other choice but to turn it off all together. Sorry, but I don’t want a double shot of sleaze with my morning coffee. But thank you.

So this prompts me to ask a question of you all: who cares? No, really. I want to meet someone who is actually loving this protracted mess of a story. Who are you, where are you? It’s just, I just don’t know if I think Tiger is that much of a celebrity. And I certainly don’t think I know anyone who is interested in hearing about his sordid affairs.

I get that he is a brilliant freak, God’s gift to golf, but beyond that? What is the appeal? Both in the sense of the media, and the women who he had affairs with. See, as far as I am concerned, golf is a pretty naff sport. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, is going to impress me with their golfing prowess. Not even R-Patz, if he deigned to play. Big call, right there. And more to the point, I don’t know any women under the age of about seventy who actually follow golf. Or who could name another golfer, aside from Mr Woods himself or their father.

So this leads me to wonder, just what is the allure of the golfing man? A sport I associate with pants as high as Harry, and knee high socks laced with neutral-toned argyle, I do understand that this is very much a stereotype that Tiger does not perpetuate. But still. And golf is far from being a strenuous sport, so forgive me if I seem a little skeptical about those polo neck tees concealing some fabulous ripped-abs-of-steal. Or whatever. What about good looks? I guess he’s not ugly. Not really my type, but whatever floats your boat.

So, just what is it that all these promiscuous little ladies found so alluring about Tigers wood? I want to say fame, but he is only really famous in the golfing world, which is hardly the glittering high society of Manhattans elite. I also want to say fortune, which could be a plausible drawcard. My only query here is, were all twenty-something of Tiger’s supposed lovers, all so incredibly naive that they truly believe he would leave his wife for them? Thus getting in on a share of said fortune? Come on girls, really! When do cheating men ever leave their wives? As He’s Just Not That Into You taught us all, girls, you are not the exception to the rule.

Today, as Tiger returns to the circuit, I vaguely wonder, which one? Not because I care, but because I can’t escape the all-encompassing media blanket coverage of it. I also vaguely wonder about a future, where real news stories, about national disasters, wars of ideology and environmental legislation make the headlines on the evening news, ahead of Lara’s loss or Madonna in Malawi. Things that you know… kind of matter.

And yes, I am completely aware of the irony of this piece.

Pant suit, skirt suit.

5 Apr

An elderly couple, dressed in cream: pant suit, skirt suit, shuffle painfully to their seats on this slow and dreary intercity train, matching silver hair, sunspots and smiles. To see them, to watch them talk, interact, be one together so completely, you’d believe it was a love of a lifetime. To look, who would, who could possibly know that she was beat by her first husband, that she lost her first child to his battering? Who would, who should know that he spent the first forty years of his life, being too afraid to actually go after what he wanted, not even knowing what that was, after spending thirty-five of those years being given orders. First from a cold and precise father, followed by a callous, calculating Lieutenant. A war on the frontline and back home – a wife lost to another man, one unfit to fight, who offered nothing to his country, nothing to the cause, but who was simply just there. Convenient.

To see them, this smartly suited pair, how could you know, that their redemption was each other. Displaced childhood sweethearts, she learnt to trust and believe again, he realised what it was he’d been fighting for all along. They hold hands, and spend their concern on one another, laughing in unison, both trying to hide the fear that lies within their eyes. A fear of the day when they will no longer be together, when one will be left behind, bereft of their soul and their purpose, their salvation. Each others saviour in lives that didn’t seem salvageable, reflected in the well worn wrinkles of their smiles, their hearts aching, ¬†etched on to one anothers sleeve. To see them, is to cry. Doomed by time and inevitability, it is a tragedy.

They are so beautiful.

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