I styled Bella Yentob of Anti-Agency in some vintage and contemporary bucket hats - because frankly, they are way better than fedoras. Check out the clothing credits and a Q&A with Bella up now on The Debrief.
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Bella Yentob & Bucket Hats
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TBT: Why Are We Yearning For Yesteryear?
I woke up early this morning and bought myself a shiny gold logo-plated Moschino belt off eBay. The kind that stinks of the 80s and cycling shorts (ok and in recent times, the Kardashians.) Yesterday, I e-surfed the waves of Beyond Retro for some vintage Disney t-shirts, after reluctantly calling off a decade-long search for my emerald green Princess Jasmine sweater. The day before yesterday, I cut and dyed my hair into the same bob I had when I was 6 years old.
Coincidence, much? No siree. I, you, me - we are all seeped in nostalgia. Take our current preference for the 90s. Correction, take my current obsession. From elasticated chokers (this time the high-brow ones courtesy of Carven's catwalk) to platform mules (mules?) to crop tops, dungarees, ankle socks, camisole dresses, bumbags and backpacks, flares (yes please) sawn-off plaid, low-top Adidas', vintage tees, 90s denim from 'The Gap' and beyond: my wardrobe is in a full-scale 90s transfo and has been for a good few years.
We can see this in the cultural sense, too, with Instagram's most popular hashtag #tbt (which has you mining your parents' photographic legacy every time you go home for Christmas) the imminent return of Saved By The Bell and the fact that children near you will soon be playing with Tamagotchis (I really wanted one again until I remembered that I owned an iPhone - which needs more nursing, burping and weening than any humble Tamagotchi.) I find myself optioning Shania Twain and the Spice Girls as my musical preferences and my chest tightening when Judy Blume is even mentioned.
So why this verve for vintage? It's not just about being a goddamn hipster and rejecting the new because it's too mainstream (I could not give a flying fuck about embracing 'mainstream' culture.) It's most likely a reaction to our staggeringly tech-orientated world of instant ('I want it now') transience ('bored of it already'.) Every time another app like Happn happens, we go ferreting for something static and comforting. That brushed cotton t-shirt, or old copy of Goodnight Mr Tom? That's not threatening - or ever changing. As another 10,000 pieces, or whatever it is, dumps weekly into Primark, we reach for the vintage 501s we scored of our favourite Etsy seller three years ago. The worn-in pockets have probably seen more love than the entire Primarni factory.
So dye your hair pink, wear flowers in your hair and listen to Billie Holiday this summer. Whilst arranging yourself a hook-up on your iPhone and simultaneously ordering yourself a cab, that is...
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Palazzo Queen
I'm not sure I've ever worn a pair of palazzo 'pants' before. I'm short and I gats me some hips, so it never seemed the logical decision. But these striped ones from Free People might just be the sassiest pair ever. Especially when paired with my new favourite off-the-shoulder (I can't really look at a top unless it's off-the-shoulder right now - which is only a mild exaggeration) crop from Reformation, which has flared, frilly bell sleeves and, as The Reformation say, is '"pretty much a fiesta in a top."
I know, right! Flared 'n frilly bell sleeves plus palazzo flares the size of dinner plates equals so much flamboyant fun. Now where's my party piñata?
I'm wearing a Reformation Clover Top, Free People Palazzo Pants (similar here) and River Island Flatform mules (similar here)
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Geographical Fomo: It's Totally A Thing
We are so au fait with fomo that it's almost counter-intuitive for me to smear my words with its loaded promise. But wait! She cries, grabbing desperately at your swiftly departing shirt tails. What about in a different context? What if it doesn't concern festivals, aperol spritzes and your best friend's missed-out-on BBQ? What if it came down to the weather - and your GPRS.
Yup, I'm talking about geographical fomo - when your friends are in sunnier UK climes and you picked the dud county of the weekend. The weekend looms and I find myself faced with the choice of remaining in London - a hot mess of a blazing sun and alternating rain - or my parents' house in Essex, or perhaps my boyfriend's parents in Wiltshire. This weekend, rain is a'coming for Wiltshire. But London...? Boiling hot sun, people! I played the geo game wrong and I dropped the ball.
It was during a discussion at work yesterday that my geographical fomo came into play - a colleague commented longingly on her desire to get out of London and I felt smug about the fact that I was - until we fiddled around with weather gauges and suchlike and I realised I was gravitating towards the anti-summer weather. When I so badly need some sun, to brown my skin and remedy what feels like stress-laden SAD, I am moving towards the place of shitty weather. The roles had been reversed. Whereas I should have been envied for my urban to pastoral retreat, I found myself fomo-ing all over my keyboard because I was missing the sun. And for a sun-chaser, that felt about as much fun as teabagging.
I'm not sure the weather really is as dismal as this post might be suggesting (just clouds, really.) But I had demanded from the sky, 27 degree sunshine this weekend. I had realised it was July and I was still as pale as a ghost, had missed all of the World Cup and Wimbledon and needed to get my temperate butt into gear. I had assembled my reading materials, my crochet belongings; expectations, accordingly, were high. But I am sad that the urban motherfuckas win this weekend. Georgraphical fomo: you heard it here first. Check your iPhone's weather app before making any locale-changing plans this summer. It's the only way to avoid it.
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Pussy Galore
Oo-err Vicar, there's a nice double entendre for you to jive with, on a Monday morning. But kitten feet they are - leopard of print, low of heel, they are reason alone to check out a hitherto unknown (to me) excellent shoe department at River Island. I also got another pair of flatform mules, about which four people have commented so far, with escalating eyebrows, "River Island, you say?" So yeah - great shoes. Great prices.
These heels are just the ticket with a simple but favourite combo of denim bermudas and a granddad shirt. Worn in isolation, perhaps with the ubiquitous pool slides, something would have been missing; but with a neckerchief and leopard print, I feel like me. And on a Monday, my friends - you've got to feel like yourself. That shit [i.e. Monday - Monday is always 'that shit' unless clarified otherwise] is hard enough to deal with in the morning, as it is.
I'm wearing an ASOS Granddad Shirt, Vintage Neckerchief, Cut-off Old River Island Jeansand River Island Kitten Heels.
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Green Eyed Monster
Wall matches my sunglasses; dress matches my trainers. You can tell I am a
I'm wearing a Mango Dress, Spektre Sunglasses and Reebok Classics.
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The Yearn To Swipe: My Sadness, As A Tinder Virgin
I know this sounds really X Factor sob story but I can't hide my yearn for Tinder any longer. I've been in a relationship the entire time Tinder has existed, I don't even know whether or not you swipe right/left to 'like' someone and my one chance, my only chance, given that I don't intend on flying solo anytime soon, is a Tinder threesome. Which, let me just clarify now, is not going to happen. I can see it now, a tabloid trauma: 'My Tinder Threesome Went Horribly Wrong.' It would be like the sexual equivalent of a jumpsuit: ill-advised, never-ending and hard to extract oneself from in order to go to the loo.
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But that doesn't top me from wanting in. It's like I'm near a club full of piña colada penises and I can't gain entry. It's a Tinder 18-30 but I haven't even touched down in 'Luf. And I know that sounds disgusting, but I just want to see it, if only to run in the other direction whilst screaming. Tinder does feel like a partly fun, majorly crass club, where you have an excuse to text people all day long (I love texting) and drop loads of puns (I love puns) and your wittiest bonmots (I LOVE BONMOTS.) Every so often my boyfriend and I execute Tinder takeovers (sometimes dual, sometimes alone) with the utmost glee - and by that I mean we will steal your phone and chat to lots of people and it will mainly be puns that we and only we will find funny. Don't give me your phone if you want to marry this man. Do give me your phone if you want him to think that you are mad.
Before you wave your remote control at me and kick me off X Factor please let me clarify that I know Tinder is not a bed of roses. You are more likely to be offered a bed, so I gather, than a bed of roses. It can be soul-less, with a swipe becoming a mere automatic reflex. The conversation can also be compromised by the fact that lots of people just want to get a bone in, asap. I've never seen a duller/creepier collective of conversations than on other people's Tinders. It's like the new damnyouautocorrect, but not nearly as funny - because these are supposedly real people and not robotic and therefore justifiablY emotionally redundant iPhones. I've also seen the legions of cock selfies; and heard about the somehow-witty-on-text-but-really-dull-IRL Tindees who buy you one drink and then expect you to French Kiss like a 13-year-old.
Before you wave your remote control at me and kick me off X Factor please let me clarify that I know Tinder is not a bed of roses. You are more likely to be offered a bed, so I gather, than a bed of roses. It can be soul-less, with a swipe becoming a mere automatic reflex. The conversation can also be compromised by the fact that lots of people just want to get a bone in, asap. I've never seen a duller/creepier collective of conversations than on other people's Tinders. It's like the new damnyouautocorrect, but not nearly as funny - because these are supposedly real people and not robotic and therefore justifiablY emotionally redundant iPhones. I've also seen the legions of cock selfies; and heard about the somehow-witty-on-text-but-really-dull-IRL Tindees who buy you one drink and then expect you to French Kiss like a 13-year-old.
But I want to swipe right! I want to swipe left, too! I want to engage in witty repartee, and chat to 15 different men/women/animals at the same time, without having to leave the comfort of my chair. Pow, pow pow! I want to attempt to knock someone off their iPhonical perch just by being me. Because really, what this is all about, is an exercise in narcissism. I've convinced myself that being on Tinder somehow leads to enlightenment and tons of new admirers, rather than kebab on your face and an ache in your heart. I've heard that the grass in greener, but this isn't me wanting out of my relationship. This is just me, feeling like the only one who isn't allowed to play pop culture's most lucrative game of Monopoly. I'm Colonel Mustard and I'm stuck in the library. If anyone needs me, I'll be reading Dickens.
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Liberace's Camel Toe
As any regular peruser of my blog/Instagram feed will know, I am a geekily devoted fan of all that the LA label The Reformation does. Most of my money goes on custom and import duties (damn you hard, international borders) and for the summer, there is no label I love more. The 90s, grunge steeped aesthetic with very modern windows of flesh (low backs, cut-out sides, split skirts - etc) is worked into unique, wear everywhere duds.
At least, I want to wear them everywhere, but a totally backless back isn't really work appropriate - except on the very hottest day (is it blazing? I hadn't noticed) - even for a girl who wear cut-offs and crop tops when in her meeja environment. My most joyous solution was to layer in a pussy bow blouse. I never thought I'd be into pussy bow blouses, but this polkadot one won me over. I love the extraordinary meeting of vibes that is a cropped pantaloon-flaring backless checkered jumpsuit, with a prim 70s pussy bow and some grey suede courts. Essentially, if you can't summarise my look via a checklist of trends, then I am in the happy place.
I'm wearing a River Island blouse (similar here), Reformation Birchwood Jumpsuit and Kurt Geiger court shoes.
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Does Moschino's Junk Food Collection REALLY Promote Obesity?
A version of this article originally appeared on TheDebrief.co.uk
Never has a designer collection been the subject of such sustained and vociferous debate. Despite the fact that Jeremy Scott's debut collection for Moschino was unveiled almost five months ago during Milan Fashion Week, the criticism rages on. On Sunday, The Observer reported that health campaigners had recently criticised the Italian fashion house for promoting an unhealthy diet. 'My problem is that if kids [are using these iPhone cases] they are buying into the whole fast-food concept' said obesity expert and GP Dr Ian Campbell.
Not to state the obvious but to state the obvious we're already surrounded by the 'fast food concept' and, as millennials, have been for our entire lives. A treat from the age of five was/is always a Happy Meal (Maccy D's was the historic site of my 7th birthday party), and I will always remember being allowed to operate the mini marshmallow machine in Pizza Hut (before chundering) with nostalgic relish. From teenage years spent salivating over Marissa and Summer’s perfect perma-tanned life in The O.C. – where near every meal was a burger and shake in the Pier Diner – to a high street which offers a KFC for the drunk, a Subway for the hungover, a seemingly guilt-free 500 kcal frappaccino in Starbucks - there is no doubt that fast food is everywhere….. regardless of what iPhone case we use.
‘Whilst the occasional McDonald’s meal is not a problem, to present it as a fashion is disappointing’ says Dr Ian Campbell. This feels a bit like saying that if you have a Budweiser iPhone case (well, you might) that you're going to get blind drunk on beer every day. Enjoying a rubberized packet of fries, in a time when kitsch 90s logomania is at an all-time high, is not going to make you crave a burger every day. You aren’t going to look at that iPhone case and go ‘I must eat a fry now. I see fry, I eat fry. I am fry.’ Unless you are eight, of course, without the wherewithal to know how to feed yourself properly - and then frankly your mother shouldn’t be buying you a £45 designer iPhone case anyway.
Sure, it’s ironic that an industry which traditionally celebrates slim-hipped women is so into junk food, but you could also argue that it’s ironic that politicians peddling family values sire children out of wedlock (hey Arnold.) We live in a deeply hypocritical world and trying to heap all this on one joyfully primary-coloured fashion show – which did wonders for injecting some fun into a haughty Milanese fashion scene – seems both inane and insane.
Fashion is an art form (though you might disagree) and with all art, comes a degree of social commentary and irony. Jeremy Scott is not the first designer to reference junk food in his work; fashion label Lazy Oaf currently has a sweater which has the word ‘pizza’ on it, jewellery label Goldie Rox sells gold-plated mini burger and fry jewellery, whilst hugely popular US e-store Shop Jeen has an entire range devoted to pizzas, hamburgers, cupcakes, donuts and their merry friends. And don't forget that Solange's infamous weapon of choice in the recent elevator-gate was Anya Hindmarch's crisp packet clutch. In 2009 Giles Deacon made a bespoke dress for Cadbury Caramel Bunny’s. In 2011, US donut chain Krispy Kreme teamed up with Glamour magazine to produce ‘fashion-inspired donuts’ for London Fashion Week.... the list goes on. Most iconically, who can forget Andy Warhol (an artist as entrenched in the fashion scene as he was the art world) and his hamburger print?
Moschino isn't sexualising fast food here. We aren’t talking about McDonald’s-esque crotchless panties. There are no Ronald McDonald plunging jumpsuits with visible butt cracks and tits dipped in BBQ sauce. The entire collection is infinitely more fun and kitsch than it is sexually alluring - unlike the adverts of many fast food chains. Take US burger chain Carl Jr, whose singular mode of advertising is to celebrate a golden skinned, tawny haired model in the tiniest of dresses – variously Nina Agdal (below), Padma Lakshmi and Kate Upton – biting into a five-layer burger. If fast food companies can use fashion models to haul ass on their products, why can’t the fashion industry use fast food to haul theirs?
Maybe neither should do either - which is a much more informed and fruitful scope for debate than focusing on a single collection by Moschino. And rather than blaming a fashion collection for an ever-increasing and long-existing epidemic such as obesity, why aren't we educating the younger generation about how to eat healthily - which will be far more productive than obsessing over which iPhone case they choose to buy.
Anyway, like the occasional McDonalds you'll enjoy when hungover, no-one is going to legitimately kit themselves out in Moschino’s entire AW14 collection anyway, except perhaps Anna Della Russo. And if you find the whole thing too garish and obvious by half, I wouldn't worry - it’s expensive and like all ‘it’ collections, it will age quickly. So really, the health experts need not worry. Because in a year’s time those kids will have jacked in their french fry iPhone covers for a transparent one with a live goldfish inside. We'll check back in with you then.
Ph. from herworldplus.com and Carl Jr burgers
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Tassels and Ties and Titties 'n Tings
Who doesn't love an outfit with loads of dangly bits? Like dozens of curtain pulls or cloth-covered dongs (yuh, dongs), this smock is as suggestive as it is matronly. I especially love the fact that you can unfasten it super low and then do it up high on the neck, like an epic collarless granddad shirt.
I find smocks problematic, mainly because they do not allow for any real circumference - you are more like an object gently wafting in the breeze with no discernible cut-off point. Which is why I added some cinchiness via this woven belt, which despite intense debating (could I really spend £40 on a woven belt, even if it was by Isabel Marant, when I had never knowingly bought a belt in my life? True story, for another day) has turned out to be one of my most useful buys this summer. With smocks, I've discovered the key is to give in to the motherly free-love bohemia - add some tie-up espadrilles or sandals to complete said look - but to give a nod to your fun-loving youth with a fist full of gold necklaces - with incremental chain length increases - and tons of gold hoops. A little leopard print never went astray. Oh and nor did a would-be almost swatch of cleavage. Shoulda, woulda, coulda... did.
I'm wearing a H&M Conscious tassel smock, Isabel Marant Etoile woven belt (similar here), Brora espadrilles (similar here), Topshop ponyskin handbag (similar here), RayBan Clubmasters, a Davina Combe Origins Necklace, Dogeared Circle Necklace, Alex Monroe scissors necklace (AW14 collection, coming soon) and earrings from i + i Jewellery and H Samuel.
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When Does A Fad Become A Hobby?
My father has a new hobby: making smoothies. Forgive him for being late to the zeitgeist - smoothies may now be passé to the urban twenty-something, in favour of a sugar-free green juice, but he is neither aware nor bothered - and has bought himself a violently expensive Vitamix. For the last month, he has been busy blending his way through retirement, to infinity and beyond.
In the morning, he makes a berry-based breakfast smoothie - in fact, he makes gallons and they go in the fridge whereupon they turn into blancmange curiously, within the hour - before segueing into a pre-lunch smoothie, an aperitif of sorts; which looks and tastes much like gazpacho but heaven forbid if you reduce it to common law gaz. In the afternoon - just because - he veers back from the veg to the fruit and produces vast quantities of melon-based smoothie. The Vitamix has become a symphony to my mother's ears - as ubiquitous a sound to the humdrum familial existence as the washing machine. Smoothies are all my father speaks of. We haven't had the heart to break it to him that all those punnets he's blending contain more sugar than a Yorkie bar. Why deny him this sudden interest in nutrition? And a sudden interest - for my overweight father - this is. One could almost call it a fad. In fact.... let's go there. It's a fad.
Which, in the most Carrie Bradshaw of thought patterns, got me to thinking about the notion of fads in general. When is a hobby, a fad? How long does it take for your irritatingly repetitive, compulsive instincts towards a person, place or thing to become augmented into 'hobby' territory? In 2014, I imagine this less and less. We have more fads than we have hobbies. We declare ourselves obsessed with something we had no knowledge of about 5 minutes ago. We largely lack the patience and dedication to turn things into hobbies, because there is always something new around the corner. No sooner do you make boxing your favourite workout discipline, then barré core, or disco unicycling (coming soon, surely) comes along. No sooner have you decided that the canon of contemporary American literature is your jam - your hobby, your creative bread and butter, your specialist topic - than you realise Scandinavian thrillers provide just the kind of sparse, salty read you've been craving like all year.
Far more than my father's generation - which is why the smoothie fad is so entertaining - Generation Y are prone to fads. We think in pockets of time; long-term goals, long-term savings plans, long-term anything does not translate into our do it now/feel it now ethos. A fad therefore suits us perfectly, before we segue onto the next pocket of time - that until it actually arrived, we hadn't really given a thought to. Over-stimulated, over-stretched and mildly confused at all time, a fad is the best way to sample tastes of everything popular culture now has to offer: a lot. My boyfriend's current fad is the 7 minute workout app - which involves him elegantly star-jumping all over the sitting room twice a day, whilst mine is sesame-based salad dressings. It's doubtful either of these will be sustained long enough to become full-term hobbies. But then who cares? They're your hobbies, and you can dress the up however you see fit. See you at the disco unicycle class.
Far more than my father's generation - which is why the smoothie fad is so entertaining - Generation Y are prone to fads. We think in pockets of time; long-term goals, long-term savings plans, long-term anything does not translate into our do it now/feel it now ethos. A fad therefore suits us perfectly, before we segue onto the next pocket of time - that until it actually arrived, we hadn't really given a thought to. Over-stimulated, over-stretched and mildly confused at all time, a fad is the best way to sample tastes of everything popular culture now has to offer: a lot. My boyfriend's current fad is the 7 minute workout app - which involves him elegantly star-jumping all over the sitting room twice a day, whilst mine is sesame-based salad dressings. It's doubtful either of these will be sustained long enough to become full-term hobbies. But then who cares? They're your hobbies, and you can dress the up however you see fit. See you at the disco unicycle class.
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Creature Of Habit
I'm a creature of habit when it comes to my summer ssssssentials. And no habit is more expensive greater than my weekly Reformation hit-up. Plus, their new collaboration - with Framerican hottie and general model-of-the-moment Camille Rowe - is an obvious bonus. The clasher in me couldn't help but ruin/enhance (scratch out as necessary) it with a contrasting hat. Bring on the scoop-backed tan (actually bring on any kind of tricking tan.)
I'm wearing a My Bob Hat via Beach Flamingo, Camille Rowe x Reformation Lazuli Dress and ASOS Fairy Sandals
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Summer Denim
I styled a summer denim shoot for The Debrief (shot by Laura Coulson and directed by Anna Jay) starring the fucking amazing model, Adesuwa. This is one of my favourite shoots I've worked on - I hope you enjoy. Stockists at the end.
Stockists (looks in order of appearance): All Things Mochi, Lizzie King, Kurt Geiger // Topshop, Gap, Falke, Adidas // Mango, Topshop, Free People
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Confessions of a Style Schizophrenic
Here is a piece I wrote for Mail on Sunday's YOU magazine which came out today, about having eclectic personal style. You can read it online, or I've crudely pasted it below. You *might* be able to read it if you zoom in. Then again, you might not. What a pro!
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On Hiver!
In just a couple of hours, I will be leaving for Italy - where I will no doubt bore everyone tit-less with all sorts of chocolate box pictures of the Amalfi coast. It's like law to photograph the shit out of that place, OK? Sadly, my retro athletic Bella Freud knit won't be coming with me. This is, without doubt, the best jumper I have ever owned (seen her in the beautiful vista of North Norfolk) and I've pretty much worn it every day that it hasn't been sweltering, this July. I may not have been born in 1970 (1987, since you ask) but I'll easily claim 17 extra years if it means authentic adoption of this knit. We've got a long and happy future ahead of us, me and my jumper. I'll send you a postcard, babe (the jumper. Not you.)
I'm wearing a Bella Freud Jumper, Vintage Levi Cut-Offs, Isabel Marant Etoile Woven Belt and ASOS Leather Sandals
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10 Holiday Myths Debunked
I’m fresh off the holiday wagon, just 6 hours since you ask (I know right, I’ve barely even let the after-sun sink into my leathery pores.) And through the sleep-deprived holiday blues, I’ve compiled a list of the clichés of which we fall foul to every single time. Because even a really great holiday (guilty as charged) will sport these indelible truths. Hashtag happy holidays, guys.
You will spend the money that you get out of the ATM and ONLY that money
You carefully extract your budgeted amount of funds at the Travelex – what idiot spends €1.50 in order to withdraw €20 every evening? – before forgetting about the 10 minute €75 taxi here there and everywhere, or the fact that you will need watering (alcoholically speaking) approximately every 2 hours pool side. You race through your money 2 days in, but can’t bring yourself to get out another lump sum; so you become the prick that withdraws €20, at a charge of €1.50, about three times a day.
You will lose something. Normally your newest, shiniest thing
No matter how many diddy little Ziploc zippy bags you bring; no matter how carefully you unpack your pretzled shirts – you will lose something. This holiday, it was new expensive sunglasses and a long gold necklace. I consoled myself with a Missoni bikini (see boutique binge point, below.) Moral of the story? There is none. Shit happens. Enjoy your shiny new things before you lose the fuckers. Or, you could attempt what my boyfriend did - and hang on to your wallet the entire holiday, only to chuck it into the washing machine when you get back home. Mission still accomplished, essentially.
You will eat like a health goddess – because you don’t get hungry in the heat
Who the heck started that fable? That age-old myth that actually has you in its thrall. ‘I don’t get hungry in the heat’ you say piously, over a breakfast of 4 slices of papaya. Then it gets to 12pm and suddenly all you can see around you are toasted club sandwiches and novelty ice creams - that latterly see you inhaling the smoked mini mozzarella balls from the buffet, like rubbery M&Ms (they were so good though.) Lying flat on your back, sizzling like a crisp packet, does not eliminate your appetite. Right? Good.
You will develop dozens of new skills; a veritable slew, in fact
You will read the weighty tome that has been functioning as a doorstop for the best part of the year; you will become a demon at backgammon; you will achieve an at least rudimentary knowledge of the foreign language you are utilizing. The fact of the matter is that you speed read a lot of 70%-off Jackie Collins, swear furiously as you bomb at backgammon and lose the phrase book on the first day, refuse to buy another one and therefore say ‘thank you’ in Spanish, not Italian, for the entire holiday (in the words of Shaggy, it wasn’t me.)
You will not argue with anyone – because how can you argue when you’re in paradise?
Yeah, good luck with that one. You imagine that the palm trees and overpriced prawns will turn you into an inherently beautiful person, at all hours of the day, but you still find yourself spitting at one another - family, friends, lovers - over the free bread. Why couldn’t you save the row till you were home, in a particularly non-special vista, over a pint of Strongbow? Because humans are whimsical and often, dickheads.
You will not act like a burnt version of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman
The boutique you’d never go into in England, makes sense abroad. That laser-cut cotton kimono, those handmade leather sandals, that bikini that costs the same amount as a package to Faliraki (guilty: Missoni caught me): these things you’d never dream of allowing yourself on home turf, suddenly seem a sensible investment when on foreign terrain. You blame the boutique bingeing on the exchange rate. More likely sun stroke.
You discover a new favourite cocktail, which you will drink forever
Every night on holiday you find yourself warming up the evening with the very same cocktail. How have I lived without this cocktail for so long? You scream inwardly, delightedly, stickily, to yourself. In duty free, you excitedly grab a bottle of say, aperol. I shall make myself an aperol spritz every night you say to yourself, dutifully. When you get home you realise you do quite like aperol – it’s like Irn Bru with a kick - but actually, being honest, you kind of prefer G&T’s. Your holiday self feels betrayed; your home self, chastened.
You will never get over your holiday destination. It is without doubt the apex of your life so far and you must return always
You will come back every year, you promise, when you leave. You traipse dolorously through the airport, refreshing your own Instagram feed just so you can look at your lustily filtered holiday pictures. You have become more attached to the place that you have spent just a week in, than you have your own mother. In fact, it is like your mother. It is your brother from a different mother. You swear you’ll be back at the latest by next week.
You will fill all the space in your suitcase or so help you god
A sarong unlike all sarongs; some leather sandals made by a wizened 90 year old in a totally secret shop even the Lonely Planet didn’t know about and who knows shoes like no other man has ever known shoes; perhaps a batwing white crochet sweater (true story): these are the trinkets that you must bring back from your holiday. There’s always a space in your wheely suitcase for whatever catches your eye. Once it was seven packets of wooden BBQ skewers. They were very large, but they were gifts.This year, I filled my space with 7 bags of coloured pasta. Note to future Italian travellers: pasta is heavy. It may tip you over your baggage allowance and you may be forced to re-pack, dumping all the heavy shit into your carry-on which may, potentially, make your boyfriend a bit narked. Just a warning.
You will wear SPF30 every day because you are no longer a milky-skinned teenager, do not want skin cancer and have outgrown that childish desperation to possess a tan
Oh sure, you’ll be all diligent about applying that £25 bottle of Avene SPFgazillion – until the 5th day of your week long holiday, when you realise you’ve only gained one freckle and a bit of red around the tit area. You immediately jack in the SPF before you can say Banana Boat High Strength Oil. Don’t judge, OK. You tried. And if it’s good enough for Donatella….
Ph. by Pandora Sykes
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A Roman Toga Party
When in Rome! Etcetera, etcetera. Not quite a toga party and not quite Rome, but near enough. Loose silky separates - if I had the stature of Michaelangelo I would wear the shirt loose over the drop hem skirt - are given some Ancient Roman (or Greek, you could argue) relevance with these tie-up leather sandals, which have been my bargain of the summer. I had a pair from H&M like these, for many years and rue the day I lost them. These guys, whilst not being overly comfortable for long walks, have totally filled the void. Now all that's left is for me to rue, rue, rue the Bellevue Syrene - whilst Natwest also mourns, but for very different reasons.
I'm wearing an Equipment Gavin Shirt, old River Island Skirt, ASOS Fairy Sandals and a Dogeared Circle Necklace
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Team J Law vs. Team K Stew: Why Are We STILL Pitting Female Celebrities Against One Other?
Many aeons ago, when ASOS still stood for As Seen On Screen (selling Truffle Shuffle's The Simple Life t-shirts and wall hangings just like the ones in Monica and Rachel's flat), Kim Kardashian was but a Hollywood honey of whom no one yet knew and Paris and Nicky Hilton ruled the roost (it's 2003, I'll help you out) a little debate called Team Jolie and Team Aniston erupted. Eleven years ago, Pitt left Aniston and took up with Jolie and debates raged about whether or not adultery had taken place. No matter either way, the cast was set: Aniston - victim; Jolie - criminal; Pitt - a benign figure (like duh! This all just happened to him.)
T-shirts were made, in abundance - at a time when the contrast-coloured baseball tee was en vogue - with the Hiltons being the most famous but by no means the only two girls to take the 'battle' to their chests. Whilst Brangelina expanded their brood at rapid rate, Aniston had to deal with the label of 'rejected woman'. Every time she broke up with someone or re-scheduled an engagement (currently) the tide of tears would begin again. "Look at her paddle boarding alone" the celebrity magazines would coo sadly, as if it's quite typical to go paddle boarding with at least 4 other people on your board.
Now, over a decade later and according to news outlets such as Radar Online and the Evening Standard, there are two new teams in town: Team J Law vs. Team K Stew. That's Jennifer Lawrence and Kristen Stewart for the confused out there. The details/truth are scant: ostensibly Lawrence broke up with the British actor, Nicholas Hoult and Stewart has taken up with him. After her public dalliance with director Rupert Sanders the summer before last, there's no guessing who has been tipped as the crim in this scenario (Stewart) and who, after a year of star turns, Dior dresses, adorable bloopers and a shiny gold page boy haircut, has been christened the angel (Lawrence.) No t-shirts have been printed yet - but I give it just a matter of weeks. Oh and Hoult? Like Pitt, he is barely even named in the battle.
I can't decide what's more depressing about this ridiculously retrograde 'celebrity gal feud'. Is it that these women have been pitted against each other by the media, without a single shred of evidence? After all, it's not like Bloom vs. Bieber, where each warrior contributed an almost comic amount of material to the cause. Or, is it that women have to be 'warring' in order to break up with a boyfriend and go out with some-one new? No, I think it's that despite all the positive changes to the way in which society views females over the past decade - and there has been many, you need only look at Laura Bates' Everyday Sexism project - we seem to have come nowhere since the Hilton's declared allegiance via their perfect peach-sized breasts.
We build female celebrities up, in order to break them down. As a culture, we love a golden girl - but lo and behold if they break out of the mould. Stewart, when dating Pattinson and starring in Twilight? Gooooood. When she cheated, got a tattoo and started talking about licking armpits and cursing irritably in interviews? Baaaad. It's as comically Punch&Judy as that. Fuck knows whether Stewart and Hoult are actually going out. Fuck knows if Lawrence broke up with Hoult - or whether they even broke up. Or whether either of them even care. They might. But we don't know.
Tradition dictates that one woman must be heartbroken. And that the other must be a viperous vixen. How sad that the guff of Team Jolie vs. Team Aniston taught us nothing about how to treat young female celebrities. The fact that over the last decade, Demi Lovato, Amanda Bynes, Britney, Mischa Barton have all suffered public breakdowns of sorts, induced by huge attention, seems to have made no difference. There is inevitable interest in celebrity relationships ('how the idols live') but let us not cast them as the angels and the demons as if making a film about their own life. We are not their directors; and they are not our pawns. And it does nothing for female solidarity to insist that they must be at t-shirted war with one another.
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Big Mac // Edie Mac
Isn't this burnt clementine slip dress exactly the same colour as the piece of plastic cheese inside a Big Mac burger? Man, I bet I've made you want a McD's just as much as I do, now. I put away this glorious Cross Back Mini Dress by young British designer Edie Mac as soon as I returned from the Amalfi, where it shall hibernate until next summer - because a) you can't really wear anything this revealing anywhere but on holiday when you are basically sedentary - my boobs would swing like a cat in a hammock - and b) sadly, this shade of orange is only do-able on me with a tan. I miss it already - and the holiday.
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Mincing With Monaco
It's the small words that matter; namely, here, the with rather than the actually in Monaco. Though I did go on holiday and haven't actually got over returning, yet, these photos were taken around Redchurch Street - my absolute favourite street in East London - rather than the millionaire's playground that is Monaco. Shoreditch's Redchurch Street is about to gain a new Club Monaco men's store, so I minced around my favourite locations whilst wearing my favourite pieces from the brand, in celebration. You can see me coching outside the Labour and Wait store, The Albion (the spinach bake and tumblers of rosé I can highly recommend) and just one of many really, really sick walls that have been graffitied in the area. I'm a sucker for a brightly patterned wall. What can I say.
I'm wearing a Club Monaco scarf, waistcoat, skort and espadrilles and a Free People granddad shirt.
Photographs by Domanté Kaminskaité
Photographs by Domanté Kaminskaité
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