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Hello Schadenfreude, Old Friend

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On Saturday, I sat down to read Monica Lewinsky's excellently written essay in Vanity Fair. Lucidly detailing the struggles she has faced since being dubbed American's premier BJ Queen - arguably also "the most humiliated woman in the world, in 1998" - the whole thing made for an interesting read, there's no doubt. But there was one line which stuck out at me. 

"We have, to borrow a term from historian Nicolaus Mills, a "culture of humiliation" that not only encourages and revels in Schadenfreude but also rewards those who humiliate others".

Schadenfreude, I thought to myself, long after I finished the article. S/he's a wily old beast, isn't he? S/he's the devil on our shoulder when we LOL at the poor chick whose skirt flies up in the street revealing a particularly unedifying wedgie; or when we read a tabloid exposé, indicting the latest serial cheat. S/he's the powerful mafioso that motivates us to read The Mail Online, Perez Hilton, The National Enquirer. S/he's the part of us who cheers, when some reality totty gets a drink poured over their head, or when the annoying drunk guy in the bar, or restaurant, is finally - and with much pomp and ceremony - shooed out of the venue. That guy got what was coming! We think, gleefully - though we are not entirely sure why. 


For a supposedly empathetic species, it's extraordinary that schadenfreude has grown like it has; both untamed and more worryingly, nurtured. It has become so engrained in our culture that we look upon it as some sort of justice keeper. A way to balance the right and wrong. In Lewinsky's case, she gave the president head. So it is, of course, totally OK that she had to read a The New York Observer piece, a group discussion comprising New York's leading feminists, about how she had "third-stage gum disease". They pointed out that she "was not that pretty" and as for future employment, she could merely "rent her mouth out". She was systematically destroyed, via national media, by the very group of women who claim to bolster other women up.

The literal interpretation of the German word 'schadenfreude' into English, is 'harm joy'. In harming others, we derive joy. In its most crude, essentially harmless form, it is watching a hapless little boy fling himself over the handlebars on You've Been Framed; or enjoying a Jilly Cooper-style anecdote about a vengeful wife making her loathed husband eat dog food, in his meat pie (true story. Heard it from friend of friend of friend of - oh.) But in it's most disturbing guise, it is a collective culture breaking down a person's psyche. Most notably, it is that of pop culture's youngest celebrities and most worryingly of all, it is often young women, being derided by other women. Three years ago, for example, it was Mischa and Lindsay (Li-Lo's antics continue, but we've already grown bored) then last year it was Amanda Bynes - who had us laughing at her random Twitter abuse of Drake and double cheek piercings far more than it had us concerned that this was a 'Hollywood pop princess' suffering an obvious mental breakdown.

Now we find ourselves busy jeering at Justin Bieber; as he is videoed peeing, or being sick, or being questioned in custody. Can you imagine if you were arrested, aged 19 and everyone got to watch a recording of you being questioned? Being an arrogant asshole, sure, because you are not yet 20 and you're probably terrified and too immature to deal with the situation at hand. And let's take Miley - 2015's most enthusiastic case study. The fact that Miley happily owns her 'wild' persona enrages conservative culture. They want her to be embarrassed about the fact that she is writhing on a gold car with her bum on show. Because they would be mortified to do that, they feel that she should be (I am not including 'we' in this, as I do not have issue with Miley.) Until it is proved that she is, in fact, damaged and out of control and gets her comeuppance, popular culture will not rest. It won't be satisfied, this churning schadenfreudian beast, until Miley has submitted herself to public humiliation and embarrassingly, fails to rise out of its ashes.

Ginghamitis: It's The New Tarty Party

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Have you heard, have you heard? Gingham is THE NEW TARTAN. And I'm wearing this camisole over everything. It also allows me to do 90% monochrome without feeling like a fraud (happens if I don't have some colour on my person). The tasselled suede was doing its thang, so I thought black and white was the way forward. Oh, and I packed for Copenhagen at 6am and my suitcase was small - is probably more to the point.

Gingham checks make a nice riff on monochrome stripes - which, incidentally, I haven't been wearing in their pool slide form for the last 6 months, because I was miffed that having scoured eBay high and low for them, a year ago, resorting to a size-too-small vintage boy's pair, that they are now so readily available on every e-tailer out there. 

But y'know. I got over it.





I'm wearing a Vintage Jacket from eBay, Vintage Scarf, Topshop Boutique Gingham Slip, ASOS Jeans, Vintage Adidas Pool Slides // Moss Copenhagen Boots, Le Specs Sunglasses and a Saint Laurent Classic Duffle 6.

Why Can't We Say Hello?

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The other day a reader of my blog (hurrah! there is one) messaged me to say that she had seen me having breakfast and was glad to have seen me, but didn't want to come and say hello. Flattering as that was - of course, it's always nice that someone wants you alive rather than say, dead - I couldn't help being a little saddened by her reticence to say 'hi' IRL. 

But I shouldn't be surprised. We have become a culture of silent hellos, where often you need to down a glass of something before you can 'bear' to say hi to an old, much loved acquaintance. Every single one of us at some point or another will hide when someone familiar comes in to our peripheral. And that's not because we loathe them - nay, quite often we will very much like them - but because we are not 'ready'. That person 'sprung' up on us and we are not wearing our special pants (which allows us to be social) or what not. 



Of course, I blame social media for our increasing social ineptitude. It's both comforting and slightly depressing that it happens to celebrities, too. Fearne Cotton recently reported that Lily Allen blanked her an impressive 5 times at an event. Lily, afterwards, said she 'hadn't even seen' Fearne. I mean who even the fuck knows if she did, or didn't. But the point remained that Fearne believe herself to have been 'blanked' almost half a dozen times. Something which hits you in your teens - blanking - seems to merely gather traction, rather than disappear like our other teenage insecurities. 

Send a message feels entirely different. You can merrily Whatsapp away, SnapChat with gusto and poop a litany of loving emojis all over someone's IG feed. Even with Instagram, when you meet someone who follows you - and vice versa - in real time, expecting the same sort of witty repartee you've come to notice from on Instagram, it's always surprising when they're quiet, non-committal - itching to get back to the safety of a friendship within the confines of a small square-by-square relationship.

The thing is, I don't believe a virtual friendship alone, is a friendship. In the same way that writing 'hello' is not the same as saying it. I get that people might be shy - Lord knows, I feel cropped by social anxiety on many occasions - but it merely fosters anti-social behaviour, when we refuse to acknowledge someone tangibly. The irony that we will happily take a selfie in public - I walked past a man last night with his arm stretched as far out as possible, posing for his selfie; we caught eyes, kudos to him for not even looking embarrassed - but sometimes we can't say hello to someone we've slept with, or have known for twenty years, is really, really sad. 

But then, who I am to say? I walked past 2 men I vaguely know just last night. It was late, I was tired, I didn't want to talk, the split of my skirt had swivelled around from the side to the front and I was Basic Instinct-ing all over Oxford Circus -- but really, that's just a list of excuses. And we can all trade off one of those. 

Picture by The Hello Project

In Celebration of The Posterior

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There's no doubt that if Kim K has had any influence on body image, she's been making it OK to celebrate a bodacious behind. I can't pretend I seek masses of fashion inspiration from one half of the terrifyingly contrived couple, but one thing that has sizzled from the contours of Kim's body and onto my own far less deliciously pneumatic form is a celebration of the bottom. I have a big bum, which I am at pains to conceal 95% of the time. Not today my friends!

Because why else would I be wearing a pair of vintage 501 mom jeans? They go so far up my jaxsy that once they're up there, they stay up there - like a particularly stubborn mule. They give me a formidable rear carriage, as well as a wedgie and I have to say, I kind of love them for it. Especially because when paired with Reebok Classics, they give an aura of Pat Sharpe in the '80s.

That said, I won't pretend I seek out deliberately unflattering garments just for a nostalgia that pre-exists my own birth date. Because I don't. A good way to equalise a pair of boot-cut ass-munchers is with an off-the-shoulder top, which reveals a swathe of décolletage in dire need of a tan and redresses the balance, with hopefully moderate success.




On Contrived Effortlessness And #ijustwokeuplikethis

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If social media is to be believed (always!) then a lot of people wake up every morning looking extremely buff. Seriously - unlike me, they apparently don't need to scrub their face for 45 seconds before they vaguely resemble a human, before slathering on creams and concealers, moaning softly all the while. Oh - wait! News just in. The #ijustwokeuplikethis hashtag isn't true.


The idea of taking a picture of yourself wearing make-up - and then pretending you're not - is odd; a downright denial, which espouses the idea that being 'natural' is best. It's part of a bigger problem at the moment where it's become cool not to care (or the assumption, as pedalled rather misguidedly like Beyonce, that upon waking, you will look flawless.) To pretend that everything - your job, your looks - is just down to the planets aligning and not, say, some bloody hard work. Its origins, of course, came from our desire to essentially look like Gisele. With her natural tan and her tawny tangled hair, dropping soundbytes like perfect rabbit droppings about how delicious and easy childbirth is, Gisele is the definition of 'effortlessness'. 

Ditto, the editors who always garner the most attention at Paris Fashion Week, for their undone aesthetic and casual mode of dress. It may look effortless; but cultivating a strong personal style is a fairly obvious upshot of being a fashion editor - in the same way that you would expect an accountant to ace the maths part of the pub quiz. In order to rise to that position of prominence, too, somewhere along the line, effort has been made - if not specifically in the cosmetics they don or the supercool shoes they sport, then in their employment trajectory. It'd be salient for us to remember that. 

Except for Cara - because it's patently obvious when she has just woken up like that - it worries me that young girls are growing up thinking that they can't aspire to be something, they have to just 'be'. And if they aren't born, well, as 'be' (or Bey) then they might as well give up. The '2cool2care' attitude of girls like Alexa - she claims to find the perfect outfit just through blindly pawing at her floordrobe - is now championed as the norm. 

#ijustwokeuplikethis is about so much more than a bare-faced selfie and un-brushed hair. It's cultivating the impossible dream: where girls think that they should look like #ijustwokeuplikethis lover Kendall Jenner, whilst not being allowed to put in any effort. It's the urge to suppress your effort, in fear of embarrassment, that's so worrying (and seems more prominent in the self-conscious south of the country, than the north.) This hashtag will have no positive bearing on women. Aside from a very brief lol or two, all it adds to society is bullshit and faux casual navel-gazing.

Picture: British Vogue

A Leopard Never Changes His Spots

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But he does, he does! Because for once he has forgone double leopard, just to make sure you don't think he's endlessly predictable. I have to stop this analogy, now, not only because I'm having to define myself as 'male' to continue it, which is confusing for the psyche.

I'm not into sportswear particularly, but I'm really enjoying retro athletics - especially the old-school buttoned-up tennis shirt from the men's section (it's still cut very slim-line though; the H&M man is clearly a svuper svelte one.) It's sort of vintage preppy - which is much nicer than a crisp Abercrombie polo, any day. A ponyskin skirt, of course, jars nicely with the brazen pair of ubiquitous pool slides.

Oh and this isn't my car, but I'm hoping that my fingering it enough, it might become so.





Meteorological Enquiries And Wipe Clean Sneaks

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Mother of Mary, when will this infernal pleut desist? Many do not know this about me, but I have the curliest, frizziest goddamn most irritating barnet known to man. I'm not known as 'noodle head' for nothing. So my aggressive pop-out umbrella has become my best friend these few weeks. Ditto, my Reeboks. Anytime they get muddy, I just throw them in the washing machine - a trick I learned from my momma. 

In other non-weather related news - but before we change tangent, did you know there are ten types of cloud? I DIDN'T - I've re-discovered my velvet blazer in a major way. It's super useful in this rainy yet pretty damn humid weather and I like that it adds a note of rock 'n roll androgyny to a very easy outfit. And so on and so forth. 




It's Girl Power 2.0! Why The Fashion Industry Sees The 'Girl' Term As Empowering

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A version of this article originally appeared on TheDebrief.co.uk



Yesterday, Sophia Amoruso’s hotly anticipated memoire #GIRLBOSS hit the UK shelves. The werk biography of the 30-year-old Nasty Gal CEO (a vast US e-tailer stuffed to the brim with sassy Valley Girl garms ‘for taste-makers and risk-takers’), it is a pink fade-to-edge paperback. On the cover stands an almost comically cartoonish Sophia, wind-machined hair flicking like a modern day superhero who doesn’t look like she’s taking it all very seriously. But Nasty Gal’s $100 million turnover says otherwise.

The fact that #GIRLBOSS comes out today could not be more prescient. It arrives in the midst of yet another storm of controversy surrounding the 'girl' tag – the argument being that some see the term as infantilising and restrictive. Earlier this week, a BBC programme about the Commonwealth Games, which originally aired in April, was repeated on TV – this time with a glaring omission. In the original screening, when 31-year-old BBC presenter Mark Beaumont is floored by a 19-year-old judo champion Cynthia Rahming from The Bahamas, he jokes, 'I am not sure I can live that down, being beaten by a 19-year-old girl.' Despite the relative inoffensiveness of the words – (a man in his thirties expecting to have superior body strength to a girl in her teens isn't really that shocking) – in the repeat of the programme the BBC edited out the word ‘girl’. Mark went onto his Twitter, baffled, to state "Maybe the editor thought it was sexist - it wasn't." Cynthia, too, has confirmed that she found it neither sexist, nor offensive. 



When girl-gate recently reared its head to Sophia Amoruso, via a tweet chastising her for the inclusion of ‘girl’ in the book’s title - hardly a surprise, let's be honest, given the name of her company – she took no prisoners. "How's #BROADBOSS?" she riffed back "or would you prefer #MATRONBOSS?" Her point being, that these are just semantics. "I mean, come on" she told The New York Times' The Cut, earlier this week. "I don't like it when an old man says, [creepy voice] 'Let's invite the girls to dinner,' but I think it's okay to call girls 'girls'." Pause. "And I think it's okay to call girls bossy" she adds as a sneaky afterthought, a dig at another exhaustive conversation surrounding Sheryl Sandberg's 'Ban Bossy' campaign. 


Fashion is an industry in particular where cushy terms of endearment are bandied around as much as the term ‘girl’ is. PR firm KCD's Executive Vice President, Rachna Shah, recently told Vanity Fair that the context is key, articularly when a fashion designer is considering their client. "Designing for a girl, versus a woman, versus a lady, the distinction creates a certain image" she explains, with different designers targeting a different female (for example Joseph Altuzarra of cult label, Altuzarra, always thinks of his client as a woman.) 

Of course, a girl cannot be a girl forever (I  can't say for certain, but an 80-years-old 'girl' seems excessive.) On the side of girlhood, it's not just 'fashion's new phenom' (as Sophia was dubbed by Forbes two years ago) fighting for girl power version 2.0. New-York-based art curator, Antonia Marsh, weaves the term ‘girl’ through the aesthetics of everything that she does, such as the residency space, Girls Only NYC, that she runs for collective of female artists in Bushwick, New York (they will be exhibiting in a gallery in Chinatown this summer.) From June 1st, she will also be running a t-shirt customisation service where for the princely sum of zero pence, you can get a ‘Girls Only’ slogan on your tee – the curlicue of which is inspired by [90s feminist punk rock movement] Riot Grrrl’s Kathleen Hannah who sung, ‘we are turning cursive letters into knives’ - embroidered across your favourite t-shirt. 

"I identify as a girl totally" says Antonia, "It makes me feel strong. It used to be a derogatory term- girliness was wrongly associated with naivety, ignorance and weakness and it was assumed that 'girls' had less to say than 'women'. The Spice Girls were onto something and I hope it’s not just 90s nostalgia making us reclaim the tag and own our girlhood…. Girls are fucking badass!" And now you can get a fucking badass t-shirt, too. From next week, Antonia will start her free global PO Box t-shirt service (she merely requires a PayPal contribution to cover return postage - and homespun tokens of your own are always appreciated) where you send in your t-shirt and she will customise it with the ‘Girls Only’ branding. 

The concept is as heart-warming as it is creatively neat. "It’s a punk art project, not a formal business venture" says Antonia, brushing aside the project’s lack of financial gain. "I’m sure it won’t continue forever, but I’m just reminding people that a personal touch can have a big effect. Plus, I want to show through the project that you can have pink hair and wear an embroidered t-shirt – like I do – and still care about serious issues like rape and sexual assault."

Whether you identify as a woman, or a lady, or a girl ("who runs the world: girls! girls!"), if Girls Only isn’t an inspiration to feel empowered in both your girlhood and through your clothes, then I don’t know what the fuck what is.

Ph. from @antoniamarsh Instagram

I Didn't Know I Needed A Black Blazer. Until - Rivetingly - I Met This One.

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I'm not ashamed to admit that I never really thought a black blazer was missing from my closet. It always seemed a bit too rigid and pared back for me. I mean, the fact that I also never thought I was missing some tuxedo trousers, too - until I bought the best thing I have ever bought from All Saints and took up perma-residency inside of them - might insinuate that I don't have adequate knowledge of my wardrobe dearths. I'm more likely to think that a multi-coloured muff is missing from my wardrobe, than something genuinely useful and dare I say, monochrome.

I'm not overly worried that my aesthetic comprises more flat shoes and trousers and less pizazzy colours than it did this time last year. I've written before - and hey, it gets boring to repeat - about how fluid I think personal style is and I'm so glad I eventually discovered some trainers that worked for me. Because by jeeves, I do love heels - but my back gets so sore I can't wear them very often. Yes, I know, I am a LITERAL GRANDMOTHER in an increasingly ageing but not yet OAP body.

Anyway, first world worries aside, the clincher with this jacket is that it's not just black. The white lapels give a jazzy nod, whilst if you turn the collar up, you get a shot of silver underneath. Good old Joseph - always taking something classic and adding a little sci-fi note to keep it exciting. 






Bella Yentob For The Debrief

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This week, I styled the pocket rocket Bella Yentob in a shoot for The Debrief, wearing Charlie May's Mesh Cocktail Dress 4 ways. Having always been a writer by trade, I'm really enjoying the chance to do some more styling now, alongside incessant writing tip-tapping too, mind. If you want to see the clothing credits (I ain't writing those out again, bru!) you can check out the original article here. Hope you enjoy!




Ph. from thedebrief.co.uk

What Happened To Gap? Why Children Should Not Own Designer Bags

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"I think of me at the age of 17, or 18 and my fascination with fashion was nonexistent... Today, kids know so much about brands - and they obsess. My son is 17 and I was very srurpised to see that his girlfriend goes to school every day with a handbag - Chanel, Céline, Burberry. The little Carharrt bags we used to have don't exist anymore...."

And so says the Gallic style supreme, Emmanuelle Alt, in the July issue of British Vogue (along with the assertion that she is not a feminist - tsk tsk.)

Firstly, can we just discuss the handbag collection? Aged 27 - a mere decade older than the girlfriend in question - I'd be pretty chuffed to own her repertoire. One can only assume that it is a roster being funded by her parents (unless she has a very very lucrative part-time job.) Which is where I can see Emmanuelle's point. For every teenager wants to be a semblance of Cher Horowitz, granted (a woman I appreciate increasingly in my dotage). But certainly as a teenager in the early noughties, weren't we all aware that a remote controlled designer wardrobe simply wasn't going to happen?

Aged 17, I loved clothes. But I didn't know a huge amount about designer labels, other than what I could glean from Vogue - which I had been collecting and entering the writing competitions of since the age of 15. I had university to hone my knowledge and even then, I didn't go straight into fashion journalism. For other teenagers, longing to join fashion hub, an early interest in fashion is pretty paramount. If you want to study at Central St Martins to be a fashion designer, or assist at a fashion magazine aged 18, then you need to be coherent about designer fashion. I would never propose quashing a teenage interest in fashion, as then we wouldn't have sharply lucid teenage bloggers like Camilla Ackley, or Tavi - who initially emerged as a fashion blogger. But the rampant designer consumerism that seems be affecting teenagers now? I long for that to dissipate before I have my own children. A sixteen year old girl should not be wearing Isabel Marant and carrying an Olympia Le Tan clutch, no matter how rich her parents are

When I was at school, the apex of cool aged 11-13 was Gap. Gap fleeces, Gap flares, Gap knickers (which we wore in lieu of the much yearned for Calvin Klein briefs.) From 14-17 it was Topshop and New Look. Brands were in there, of course - as the FT's Vanessa Friedman argued last year, children are always aware of brands, whether it's Disney, or Dolce. But the brands we lusted after were Miss Sixty, Abercrombie (shipped from abroad) and Diesel, so whilst the prices meant you had to wait until your birthday, we're talking £150 rather than one more zero. 

I have always been an avid reader of glossy magazines, but only one school friend read them with me. I would do other stuff with my friends. I can't remember exactly, now - but I'm pretty sure it involved straightening our hair, smoking behind the metaphorical bike sheds, watching Enrique Iglesias music videos and playing rounders. I didn't receive my first designer bag - a much-longed for Chanel tote, from my parents - until my 21st birthday. Your pubescent years are all about first times: getting your period for the first time, getting drunk for the first time, falling in love for the first time. Those years are the time for fantasising, (about a career in fashion, or otherwise). They are not the time for your first Céline handbag.

Picture credit: FASHION magazine

If You Live In London, You Need A Sartorial Solar System

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I know, I'm incorrigible. Up until last week I was squealing exhaustively about the shitty weather and now all of a sudden it gets hot and I'm back on my whine wagon. The thing is, it's not just hot - it's humid. Really, really humid. My hair Monica Gellers' (yuh, using that as a verb) within one minute of stepping outside my front door. And I'm so hot that I can't sleep. My 3rd floor flat - up 69 stairs to be exact - retains heat like no homestead you have ever encountered. Even in the deep winter, I do not need to heat my flat. So right now I am sleep deprived and lying in a sveaty bed of discontent.

Enter, the summer layer system aka my sartorial solar system. Because, as we all know, over-zealous office air-con systems means that while a teeny dress is fit for the tube, you frozzelate as soon as you step into the work place. Equally, when it starts to pour, the temperature can drop dramatically. A favourite Reformation dress is thus the entry layer to my solar system, around which other layers rotate, followed in this scenario by a ubiquitous denim jacket and tartan dressing gown. As any regular reader of this blog will know, I love tartan. And who knew a coat like a dressing gown would go so well with some high-shine brogues? Thanks Sandro. Always a winner in the shoe department. 





I am wearing a Reformation Dress, Topshop Denim Jacket, Front Row Shop Coat and Sandro Derby Brogues

Skinny-Shame: Who's To Blame?

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A version of this article originally appeared on the debrief.co.uk

A few months ago, I scrolled my way onto a new Instagram account @youdidnoteatthat. A niche spoof account with just 1,000 followers, it consisted of re-posted pictures shared by supermodels, fashion bloggers and other fashionistas with high social media currency, of themselves plus a high volume of junk food. Think glossy burger 'n beach shots, hotdogs and underwear, magnums in bed - that kind of thing. I thought it was pretty funny, I'll admit. Like most, I'd had my fill (pun intended) of the cupcake selfies and a snipey caption under a re-grammed picture raised a legitimate point about the empty calories and artificiality of a thrice-filtered Instagram existence.


But like Kate Moss's immortal line 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels', the account divided opinion from its inception. Lucky mag’s Eva Chen and Into The Gloss’s Emily Weiss found it straight up funny. Subjects of YDNET’s mocking commentary, such as Man Repeller’s Leandra Medine who posted an Insta video of her devouring a cupcake, or We Wore What’s Danielle Berstein, who shared a picture of a hotdog and a beverage - suffixed with #iatethis #anddrunkthat hashtags – riffed right back. Others, however, were incensed. Cupcakes and Cashmere’s Emily Schumann and Sincerely Jules’s Julie Sarinaña banned YDNET from following them, after the account's merciless ribbing of their kcal intake.

But it was when The Cut interviewed the anonymous founder of the account a few weeks ago – which rather intriguingly revealed them to be a fashion industry insider of ten years - that the interest and backlash soared. At the time of writing, YDNET has 96k followers and the accusation of skinny-shaming are coming thick and fast. ‘I’m calling bullshit on this skinny-shaming tripe because it’s not funny, it’s not okay and I’m sick to death of women being called out for what they have or haven’t eaten,’ wrote Ellen Stewart in MyDaily. Meanwhile, The Huffington Post - who initially found the account humorous - revised their opinion of the cult account a few days ago, conclduing that ‘there are far better ways to call out the hypocrisy of the fashion and beauty industry than shaming models for Instagramming a bagel.’ 

Twitter is similarly divided. Some find it straight up funny - 'THE INSTAGRAM ACCOUNT REVEALS THE TRUTH ABOUT THOSE CELEBS WHO PRETEND TO EAT JUNK FOOD! #SoTrue' says @MeganLesourd - whilst others are disgusted.'You Did Not Eat That isn't cute and it is isn't funny. it's body policing. it's shaming people for what they choose to eat. stop it' tweeted @lexcanroar.

There's no doubt that the account is provocative and in its methadology - placing all the emphasis on what a woman is consuming - pretty ill-judged. But it's not hard to see how we arrived at YDNET. ‘There’s been a mega movement towards glamorizing food in fashion,’ writes Fashion Editor at Large’s Bethan Holt. ‘Think Karlie Kloss’s cookies, Chanel’s supermarket and Jourdann Dunn’s cookery show.' And on occasions, this glamourisation has segued into outright fetishisation. Jeremy Scott’s collection for Moschino was an ode to pop culture and junk food. Whilst all of this has gone someway towards democratising an elite industry – and busting the myth that models don’t eat – it has also given rise to an often unattainable goal. Or as Bethan puts it: ‘to eat whatever you like and stay a size 6.'

For some, of course, that is a reality. A high metabolism is a card which some people are lucky to be dealt with in life, whilst others work really hard to be able to enjoy treats - facts that YDNET is accused of ignoring. But frustrating as it is for the subjects of this account that have perfectly healthy diets, a svelte fashion blogger who is clearly being paid to endorse hamburgers and therefore regularly Instagrams herself double parking a beefburger – I'm not naming names – is hardly promoting the right body image. Her financial gain is another teenage girl's confusion, eh? For all the #fitspo movement going down right now, there's a junk food bikini counter-culture. It all comes down to our fucked-up obsession with effortlessness; to remain super-toned whilst guzzling empty, E-numbered calories. It's not only unrelatable, it's unrealistic. A leading fashion blogger confided to me that she knows more than one blogger who buys coloured macaroons by the boxful - they are the prettiest prop after all - just to discard them, untouched, once the photo opportunity has been captured.

It is none of our business what someone we follow on Instagram does or doesn't eat. We have become, as a culture, extraordinarily obsessed with whether or not a woman has an eating disorder - as if we somehow have the right to be privy to that knowledge. It is interesting that the account's creator is female and not male - but we shouldn't be surprised; the most intense body terrorism is female-on-female. In her interview with The Cut, YDNET says that she is not trying to skinny-shame. 'This is not me making some huge social commentary about what size somebody is and what they're eating.... It's just presenting this curated life that's beautiful and perfect and totally unrealistic. More power to you for rocking that! You look awesome! Don't lie about how you got there!' 

And therein lies the rub. Because whilst the account has arguably failed at not skinny-shaming, you could also argue that it is equally damaging to share a smug donut selfie with thousands of impressionable teenage followers - who will then think that a regular diet of donuts and pizza can buy them that kind of lifestyle, too.

Friday Stripes

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I write this post in homage to a friend of mine studying in India, who invented the concept of Friday Stripes. At its essence - it's pretty simple, right - Friday Stripes is about wearing a doublet of stripes. Two clashing pieces of striped cloth, at once. 

I, of course, have no problem conforming to the clashing heart of Friday Stripes. Especially when it gives me an excuse to wear my most favourite vintage striped shirt. Of course, you cannot go with a muted toe when rocking Friday Stripes, hence these gold-toed Marni slip ons (we should call them Donatella.) Why not brave Friday Stripes yourself? Then send me a picture, so I can make my friend a collage. She's *definitely* going to love it.




Is It OK? Do You LIKE IT? Thoughts On Validation And People Pleasing

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It all started, of course, with the 'like' button. Way back when, when Facebook was a novelty rather than ingrained into our routine like the morning evacuation, we all pondered the ramifications of 'the like'. There were opinion pieces on what it meant; we all had to get our heads around there being a constant medium with which you could comment on someone's life. Liking a status soon became the obvious way to support a friend (I like your life, ergo I like your tiny life detail). By the time Instagram came along, the likes were ever increasing and we had long ceased thinking about the politics of 'the like'. We just did it, incessantly. We 'like' to be 'liked' and we like to be liked. Capisce?


I noticed this the other day when I was at a party and I found myself asking my friend for her opinion on a recent piece of work of mine. I am both a perfectionist and people pleaser and yes, I do find myself pretty exhausting - since you ask. Anyway, my friend said she liked my work. "Good job!" she said. "But I want you to be honest", I persisted. "Tell me what I could have done better, it's OK if you don't like it." I wanted her to tell me it wasn't good enough - even though those are the very words I am not very good at hearing. Essentially, I am now so driven for validation that I can't help but try and pervert it. How the fuck did I get here?

The thing is, I am not the only one. I don't write this from a sad place - I've long accepted that I am someone who is always going to be gnarled with worry about what everyone else thinks. The millennial generation shares problems ten times more than our parents. We encourage everyone we know to get involved in all aspects of our lives. Of course, the more people you request the feedback of, the more people you open yourself up to recrimination - you're asking a gazillion people for feedback and the stakes are quivering. What are ostensibly private details - relationship woes, financial issues, family dramas - are now shared openly and we both demand and thrive upon the validation of others in all aspects. Terrified you've made the wrong decision? Then we call someone up, unspool a biased description of events and feel ourselves visibly sag with relief when the friend says it's OK. That we're OK. What we have done -- it's OK.

Of course, this leads to a lack of honesty. I'm not saying my friend thought my work was shit - I don't think she did, I think she did, indeed, quite like it - but the devastating reality of someone not approving of something you've done often causes people to fear being honest and bullshit instead. "Course! Totally love it. Totally get it. That's totally fine. I totally understand. I totally agree." Likes lead to lies; it's as simple as just removing that 'k'.

I could go on for hours with this topic. We are a victim of our own sensitivity - I, more than anyone. Whilst it's great that we are all much more emotionally open than we once were - the British 'stiff upper lip' is apparently a thing no more - attaching other peoples' opinions to your life, is dangerous. If there's one reason why we should respect the Mileys and the Brooke Candys of this world, it's not giving a shit about pleasing anyone other than themselves. I don't live my life according to the wishes of others; I don't do my job according to the wishes of others (except my editor - Hi there! Always!) But that doesn't mean I don't feel immense pressure to try and do something everyone will like. Which of course, is impossible. How much more courageous would we be with all our decisions, if we stopped giving a shit? If not in social media - then at least in life. 

Triple Denim: A Homage, As Ever, To Britney And Justin

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The thing about multiple denim is the heady swell of nostalgia it brings. Who can wear a triplet of denim without thinking about Britney and Justin, the Golden Years? If only poodle curls like those would come back en vogue, then my hair could be at one with its natural state. Maybe that's one that truly should stay in the past, on second thought.... 

On the opposing side of the coin, of course, is how modern triple denim can also be. Thanks to Marques Almeida - always thanks to them - the wonder of frayed denim has been brought to the world. I cannot deny that they were a fixture in my mind when I invested in this two piece from Front Row Shop (the best thing being that they can be worn separately as well as together; the crop top being a favourite partner to my culottes) and the natural match was obviously my now frayed Topshop jeans, that I hacked the hems off last summer.

Where once I may have wondered how I can compile an entire outfit out of denim (I stopped short of adding a denim jacket, but I can't deny that thought tip toed into my mind) it now seems the easiest triptych in the world. Question is, will I ever be able to wear one piece of denim alone AGAIN? And equally, how did I not notice the veritable legion of fag butts around my feet? Such questions of weight. Answers, as ever, on a postcard tweet.





I'm wearing a Two Piece Denim Set from Front Row Shop, old Topshop Jeans(similar here) and Balenciaga Heels.

Hashtagged Heartbreak

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Despite the short-sighted song lyrics - defended in the most obfuscating way by Pharrell in this month's Elle - the pelvic performance at last year's VMAs and the Simon Cowell Astroturf hair, I feel sorry for Robin Thicke. Yes, I do. Did no-one else see his pathetic tweet last week, that simply read #Paula?

It may have been a ploy - Paula is both the name of his, er, wife and album - but I can't help but feel empathy for anyone hashtagging their heartbreak like that. You know you've got it bad, when you mix up 'trending on Twitter' with "this is going to get my wife back." A wife, incidentally, who he has been with for near two decades.


We're used to celebrities playing out their spats via the media - for some, that's the media's sole purpose for existence - but celebrities playing out their heartbreak? Aside from Rupert Sanderson's failed attempt to score Liberty Ross back in 2012 after he was caught fillyfalling (I've sexualised dillydalling there, yes) with Kristin in a voiture, it's not something we're used to seeing. But I think this is the first time I might have seen a heartbreak with a hashtag - whose goal is to sell albums as much as it is get his wife back.

Maybe I'm starting to feel a little less sorry for him now. Opening your heart possibly shouldn't simultaneously require opening your Twitter account. I wonder how it must be for his ex-paramour in question. Is she going to float across the screen, winsomely, during the bonus tracks? It doesn't half reek of desperation, but there's also a high chance he sees the whole endeavour as highly romantic. The songs on the album include 'Get Her Back' and 'Lost Without U' (can't help but feel that would have much stronger as 'You', given that he's 37 - dammit Rob. So close.) 

We can all identify with the need to share how goddamn miserable you are. When I've been dumped in the past (o perish the thought), I've felt compelled to share my grief. But the thing is, it's not that classy. It makes everyone uncomfortable. Only time will tell if Robin's ability to inspire discomfort in others will read the dizzy heights of his last blurry offering. Either way - I'M NOT SORRY, OK - but I do hope it gets his wife back.

Swish Swoo

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So my dream skirt - from The Reformation, hobviously - has come into my life and it wraps around and fastens at the back like an apron, has tons of fringing which makes going to the loo so problematic we can't even talk about it and swishes like the badass bitch that it is every time I walk down the street. Oh jesus it makes me heart swoon just writing about it.

It's such an inherently sexy skirt that I had to go very librarian/Germanic doctor with the rest of the look. Granddad collars are by far my favourite neckline - sometimes lapels just confuse me - whilst tan slip-ons could only be matched with a pair of gnarly ribbed camel socks. Essentially, I am a party around my bits and business up top and bottom. Which, if you think about it, is a pretty strong sartorial algorithm. 


The Happy Loner

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Yesterday I read a piece by Barbara Ellen in The Observer about the 'natural loner'. She argues that it is "odd.. that it's usually the loners who are viewed with pity, condescension or suspicion... the feeling persists that sociability is a skill." Hurrah! I thought. (Although, let's be clear, sociability is a skill.) If I read one more news report/survey that details how lonely all us millennials are without actually featuring on any of the positive aspects of spending time alone, I shall scream. 


It goes without saying - or at least it should - that we are a lonely culture. Enforced loneliness for an older generation can be '"more deadly than obesity" the journalist writes. For the younger, the millennials (that's us - heyo!) social media has fucked up our hard-wiring. We are in constant communication via a bevy of networks and portals (just picture Drew Barrymore getting dumped in He's Just Not That Into You, when you read that previous line), but we still feel intrinsically and essentially alone. The American Society of Pediatrics dubbed it the 'Facebook Depression' in 2011. I have a family, a boyfriend and a plenty of friends (check me - boasting so early on a Monday!) that I am close to, but I know that feeling well - as do many of my friends. This is a modern loneliness which is brought about by the immense pressure to live a life in technicolour glory - is it pretty enough to be Instagrammable? Are you bright enough to think of the next Zuckerbergian start-up? Have you got enough money to get wed like Kimye? - and so on and so forth. It eats you from the outside in. No matter how many Snapchats you send your best friend of your belly button, it can be difficult to kick the gloom. 

So that's the dark side - and yes, I suffer from it too. But I strongly agree with Barbara Ellen that there is a strength in solitude. Ever since I was little, I have needed 'alone' time. Over the years, my need to scurry to my room for a few solo hours has frustrated the hell out of my family. They deem me, during those hours, anti-social. But as a small child I found it so satisfying to spend a few hours reading, writing, or simply gathering my thoughts whilst lining up my panda bears. Last weekend, I didn't see anyone from Friday evening to Sunday lunch. I was working on Saturday and no-one was home in the evening. I spent the evening doing riveting tasks like clearing out my wardrobe and writing thank you letters and even though it was Saturday - so I was afflicted by a little bit of unavoidable FOMO as it was, erm, the first England game - I was blissfully happy. I was also relieved. The relief is something that always surprises me. But whenever I fight off the pressures to socialise and find myself alone with a whole collection of cutlery to organise (kidding! Promise!) I do feel immense relief. I don't have to be a certain way - myself doesn't care when me is not up to scratch. A few hours of reading; a few hours of Netflix-ing; a few hours allocated to my OCD, sorting.

Indeed, the art of sorting is one that must be done alone. You cannot sort - your paperwork, your homework, your life - when there are people dancing in and out of your peripheral vision. Closing that bedroom door is what I need to balance myself, or at least redress that balance, in a world when the multifarious pressures are now so incumbent. Sure, I'm going to (finger) pad my way onto Instagram and see my friends doing something fun. I'm still going to feel like I should be going out every night. But given that I allow myself just one night out of seven to be alone - I think it's pretty important I stand up to myself on this one.

I have a fair few friends - from large (duh - Catholic) families - who cannot bear to be on their own. They are so used to being around 4 or 5 siblings that they will always seek out another's company. I also have a friend who is pathologically uncomfortable about spending too much time with a group of people. A week long holiday? Not for her. So I see both sides of the coin. I understand both. Though if you plan to distrust the one who cannot spend a large block of time with others; it might be worth referring to Barbara's words. "I'd be more likely to distrust people who can't bear time with themselves. What's wrong with them that they can't abide their own company?" In the case of my friends who don't like to be alone, it's not their own company they fear (for they are, of course, delightful) - it's their own thoughts. Worries build up when you are alone and for some, that is not something they are ready to confront. For me, worries or otherwise - and yes, they were exacerbated those near 48 hours I was alone the other weekend - to spend time alone, is paramount. If only because with the mounting of age, this carousel or marathon of socialisation will ebb. And I want to be at least relatively at peace with my own self, for when that time comes.

Pyjama LYFE

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Wanger, wanger, pants on fire -- or so the famous tune goes. Srsly, I don't need to explain the influence behind the pyjama dressing; although I thought it added a fresher spin to go for long-line boxers and clash, rather than match the stripes. Although if I'm honest, that's as much to do with the fact that the shirt is 20 years old and purloined from an older sister who wore it to death in the 90, whilst the shorts are a recent buy from WEEKDAY - one of my favourite Scandi brands which has joyfully just arrived in the UK via ASOS - when I visited Copenhagen.

Pyjama dressing is a no-brainer. It's supremely comfortable and oddly chic when paired with heels. From silky lace nighties with sloppy sweaters and a scrunch (someone sniff me out a Sloppy Joe's sweater, asap) to silk pyjama sets with heels, to matching cotton shorties worn with sneaks and leather, to floaty white cotton nightgowns as pool-side cover-ups -- there isn't a pyjama which doesn't work in daytime. REVELATION! 

Sorry for all the capitals - one of my oldest and closest friends in the whole world just got engaged and I'm so happy that it's quite over-powering my thoughts about pyjamas. Which, if we're honest, is how it should be. Pyjamas are fantastic and all; but nothing will beat the thrill of a loved one in love. Sorry, don't vom, I am going, going.... #loveisintheair.



I'm wearing a vintage Gap shirt, WEEKDAY shorts and Kurt Geiger stilettos.
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