Jewellery Bar

Since my return from overseas, I’ve been working away on a new collection of jewellery…

Inspired by the marriage of hard and soft materials, the Jewellery Bar collection draws upon geometry and boho-chic to create an eclectic range of statement pieces for the girl of contradictions; the one who curates her personal brand as a fusion of contrasting elements.

Jewellery Bar by Irninology

This collection, alongside many new pieces of jewellery, will be exclusively available for purchase at the Sydney Etsy Xmas market this coming Saturday, November 28th 2015.


Halloween Poems. Part 3

Tricks and Treats

Trick or treat, hear my heartbeat
Speeding, but I’ll be discreet.
When you’re near, you commandeer
My breath til I’m in disrepair.

Treat or trick, my heart you flick,
To the beat of your drumsticks.
At me you’ll glance, I’ll be entranced,
And daydream our entire romance.

Trick or treat, hit the streets,
If my fondness for you will make you retreat.
When you leave, I’ll clutch at air,
But I’ll know we’re not to be a pair.

– Irnin Khan

Trick or Treat
image source

Halloween Poems. Part 2


I don’t wish to be the candied apple of your eye,
It’s too high a pedestal for your affections to climb.
Instead, carve my nose with the tips of your fingers,
Shape my eyes with a gaze that lingers.
You can trace the scars and ridges of my shell,
As long you’ll have me, I’ll sit under your porch bell.
Wearing nothing but my widest grin,
I’ll be your pumpkin.

– Irnin Khan

image source

Halloween Poems. Part 1


Every time I begin to think I see you, in your eyes so blue,
I find myself suddenly hurled down the slopes of Kathmandu.
Even when it turns my world askew,
I remain waiting in this endless queue. For you.
How many times must I unmask you until I reach your core?
I have to tell you that my hands and my heart are starting to feel sore,
From engaging in this dance of yours.
After it all, when you find yourself swaying alone on the dance floor,
Know that you won’t ever find me forlorn.

– Irnin Khan


Single and Fabulous. Exclamation Point.

As we end the month some refer to as ‘Sextember’, I wanted to reflect on what it currently means to me to be a single girl. Various books, articles and Instagram feed scrolls later, I began to collate words of affirmation for myself, and this is what eventually came of it.


Moodboard: The Spring Diaries


the birds and the bees are pleased as peas,
as they spy fields of daisies, swaying with ease.
tees and frisbees, floating through the spring breeze,
out with the onesies, in with the posies,
tis the season of follies, whimsies and that springtime chemise.

*image credits (clockwise from top left)
Image 1, Image 2, Image 3, Image 4, Image 5, Image 6


My father has forever been known as the funny man. He’s a treasure trove of stories, jokes and hearty laughs. I know he thinks it’s his sense of humour and jokes (most of them borrowed from his hero, my uncle) that everybody loves, but I know it’s much more than that. You can meet him once and be infected by the joyous, unadulterated spirit he exudes. It’s easy to miss the nuances that make up the rest of his character because his charm is so loud. When the words on a page are scrawled in a bright orange marker, you don’t glance between the lines.

I’ve heard stories from my mother about what he was like when they first married. There are things about the man she describes that I don’t recognise as traits of my father. Not because he was awful or anything like that. He was just different. What I hear not in her words but in the melodic tones of her voice, is that after my sister was born, my dad was a changed man. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I don’t recognise him from before- because I’ve only ever known him as a doting and overprotective father. Not as a “bachelor”, or as a bachelor who is adjusting to suddenly married life. For as long as I can remember, my mother, my sister and I have been at the epicentre of his universe. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for any of us.

I was a very sick child. Not the conventional cold and flu kind of sick either, but scaring my family into thinking I was dying every other week kind. I don’t know if this is why, for someone with crazy levels of memory retention, I can’t remember very much from my earliest years. One of the few memories I’ve preserved is resting my head on my father’s shoulder as he carried my fever-ridden body, marching around the flat and reciting poetry from Bangladesh’s greats. If you ever had the honour to listen to one of his recitations, you’d understand my lifelong love of poetry and language.

My father is also a man who is dedicated to his career. His ambition to constantly better himself and achieve greatness as a teacher, has no doubt rubbed off on both my sister and I, as we nurture bordering-on-unhealthy relationships with our work. Sometimes I will meet him in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and ask what he’s doing up. He’ll tell me he’s looking into a great job opportunity in Kazakhstan or California. I’ll reply that I’m putting together an application package for a job in Johannesburg. He’ll tell me not to move so far away and ask if I’ve given any more thought to teaching, reminding me of his notebook full of contacts and friends who are apparently just waiting to make a lecturer out of me. He will insist that if I just say the word, he’ll do all the legwork to make it happen. Anyone could tell you that my father was made to be a father. He’s funny, an entertainer and full of warmth. But he’s also a person of great value and character. I adore him and I thank him. Because I turned out to be a dreamer, just like my father.