WELCOME

So here we are. Day number one of official Spring time. And in spite of the grey tinged skies, I'm holding stedfast that this Summer will be a good, nay, a great one *imagine a chorus of trumpets sounding in the background*

(Image via ManRepeller)

And what better way to start this whole thing off than with a story.

The day started as most days do - with me in bed. However, after being woken up by faint shuffling downstairs, (my house is the antithesis of sound proof, devised by my parents to avoid any late night 'sneak out of bed' sessions when we were little. What I thought were my mother's magic powers were actually just squeaky floor boards) a cloud of confusion descended upon me. I tried to blink my sleep away but the world only half came into focus. I rolled into my duvet, hoping to hide away from the day but I noticed three obnoxiously yellow eyes staring back at me. They glared 8.03 at me. I blinked again and 3 less terrifying blue eyes smiled at me, faintly blinking 7.03. 

(Image via Angelica Blick)

My trusty clock radio and phone had conspired against me. They were out to get me. Each telling me different things. Had there been a power cut? I wanted to believe anything to justify staying in bed for that precious hour longer. But no. There was no power cut. This was Spring. I overestimated the power of technology  believing that it was supposed to do it all and allow us humans to become lazy and eventually irrelevant. But looks like my 'A.I' nightmares are a way off yet. (Note to self: Manually change alarm clock next year.)  

With this monologue running through my head, I realised that I couldn't prolong the inevitable any longer. 

Once up and dressed and everything else that I tend to distract myself with in the morning, I was finally ready to leave for work. Until… I remembered what I'd forgotten - to sign my Mother's Day card. I just had to find the damn thing. I question it now but we left my brother in charge of choosing the card this year. Have you ever tried to write in a singing card without setting the music off and waking the whole house up? And of course it couldn't be the dulcet tones of some lullaby. Oh no. It had to be Caribbean bongo drums, I mean what says I love you more than bongo drums ey?! I guess that's what you get when you leave a 12year old in charge. 

A rushed bowl of cereal and some old school OC later and I was ready to start the day. Flustered but alive.

Now to offset the ordeal that was my morning, I'm going to spend my afternoon lusting over flouncy things, walking barefoot and daisy chains - because who doesn't love wrapping themselves in weeds? 

Here's to surviving the Summer.

 (Images via: 4th & Bleeker, Am-Lul, Angelica Blick, ManRepeller & WGSN Tumblr) 

KK

So it's happened.

Kim K has beaten VB in the race to reach front cover status at American Vogue. And by golly it's caused a stir. 

I love the Kardashians in the same nonsensical way that I love pizza without liking cheese or tomatoes.

Some thing's really don't have to make sense ya know?

I guess the same thing can be said for Kim and Kanye's appearance on the cover of American Vogue. Oh wait, hang on, that one does make sense. Yes, despite what the rest of the world seems to be blathering on about, this whole event makes perfect sense. 

Here's the math: Take the notoriety of said couple, mix that with the gumption of Vogue - the bible - and voila a monumental piece of social and cultural history is born.

(THE cover via 'Fashion Gone Rogue')

You could say I'm exaggerating. Getting caught up in the buzz.

And yes I probably am.

But how often do you see the word and reasonings of 'The Bob' being scrutinised to such a great extent?

Anna Wintour famously declared that no reality 'star' would ever feature on the cover of Vogue. Yet, lo and behold here we are, talking about how that very thing has happened. 

Kim, all doe eyes and exotic beauty holds centre stage, clad in what looks suspiciously like a wedding dress, while Kanye looks leeringly, I mean lovingly, on in the background. It's cute.

But why is the fuss centred on them? It's been blown more out of proportion than Kim's waist in comparison to her ass. 

Regardless of her x-rated beginnings and her reality star upbringing, Kim is a fashion icon. She pretty much is the embodiment of 'figure hugging'. Owning her body and selling it to it's maximum potential. However, in recent months Kim has become somewhat of a Khameleon (see what I did there?), I like to call it the Miley Cyrus effect (although with a bit less tongue) and what is fashion if not a celebration of reinvention? So why shouldn't Kim of the Kardashian Klan be crowned with the Vogue title?

 (Kim flexing her new fashion credentials (& grills) on the cover of CR's magazine, yeah and there's jam. Weird.)

As has been rumoured throughout their relationship, Kanye has been cited as the driving force behind Kim's ascension to the helm of the fashion world, and supposedly goaded Anna into this grandiose event. Oh yawn! As if Anna of the stalwart composition needs any guidance in such matters as these.

Anna knows what's what. She's down with it (case in point, a hash tag featured on the cover, nuff said) plus what's more gangsta than sunglasses worn inside? 

In the words of Kanye, we're all going gorillaz and if you don't know what that means, it's okay, "no one knows what it means, but it's provocative, gets the people going". 

And as the above philosophy would suggest maybe Anna and Kanye do have more in common than just a love of shades, because whatever way you spin it, we're all going gorillaz over this. 

    

IT'LL BE ALL WHITE

I'm having a moment of blankness.

Like when the morning light first hits your eyes and you're partially blinded yet comfortably refreshed.

Or when you look up at the night sky and you find yourself transfixed by the magic of the white twinkling stars. 

Or the white foaminess of the waves ferociously crashing or coyly lapping the shore.

Or the familiarity of clouds lazily drifting on by. 

Or an ice-cream dripping. 

Or the smell of suncream mixed in with the sand.

I love white.

White is the colour of peace, my favourite chocolate and my little dog. What other reasons do you need to embrace the most neutral of neutrals?

I like a challenge. Dare me to sing the alphabet backwards whilst stood on my head, juggling - I'm your girl.

This next challenge that I've given myself however, is something in a league of it's own. 

At the grand old age of 22, I feel that it's now time to embrace adulthood - or at least some semblance of it (and because I'm still young enough to be choosey), I'm starting my foray into 'grown-upness' with an all white outfit. Because I mean what's more grown up than managing to keep your whites white? Like c'mon, is there anything more badass than an outfit more gleaming than the teeth of a Colgate ad?

So while I live off lettuce leaves for the foreseeable future, I'm going to leave you with all things pristine white - hopefully it'll entice you to join the 'no soup' club with me.

WHITE ON!

(none of the above photos are my own and I do not take credit for them. If you know the source of any of the photos please let me know and I will cite them accordingly.)

I HAVE PROBLEMS. STARTING WITH THE HAT.

There are few things that would tempt me to leave the house without at least glancing in the mirror. However, when it comes to my hair I seem to have a haze halo around my head, obscuring anything north of my eyebrows. So you'd think I'd be all gun ho for hat wearing but alas, I'm one for curveballs. 

I see hats around, I give them the eye, I contemplate taking one for a spin, but I'm constantly stuck on first base. I try on, I twirl, I try hair down, hair to one side, maybe even a braid if I'm feeling frisky, but the outcome is always the same; an unclothed head.    

(Nothing quite like sticking some fur on your head. Olsen'sAnonymous)

I see wearing a hat as a huge commitment.

It's a game changer. 

For example a white t-shirt and jeans is an ever chic yet uninventive outfit. Topped off with a hat however, and the outfit is immediately made infinitely all the more interesting. In just the drop of a hat (ha ha), a look can be transformed in one effortless and relatively easy step. 

That is unless you're me.

There's something telling about a person who wears hats recreationally. There's just an undeniable cool factor about head wear. I love the look of a jewel tone turban, a big old floppy hat, a straw hat, a bowler hat, a beanie, (I draw the line at baseball cap) but therein lies the problem. I like to look at them not wear them. Actually this last sentence is somewhat misleading, it makes it sound like I have a choice in this whole noncommittal hat thing I've got going on. 

But I don't.

It doesn't matter how 'safe' the hat looks to be, black beanie springs to mind right now, it being relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things - think Philip Treacy for the other end of the scale - I get the same level of anxiety.      

I'm not at all certain where my commit-a-phobia came from. I managed to commit to growing my hair out; I made a commitment to my dentist to brush twice a day; I battle daily with my commitment to the gym, but when it comes to hats my head just seems resolved to be free and hat-less, whether I like it or not. 

Many a time the intention has been there, hat is on head when I leave my room but give it five minutes and one flight of stairs and it miraculously disappears. I don't even notice myself swatting it off. I'm quite the ninja when it comes to this whole hat removal lark. 

(Caroline De Maigret: The embodiment of effortless hat wearing)

To add to my nonsensical and somewhat uncontrollable hat intolerance, there's the little story of my first school uniform which came replete with mandatory hat. Two in fact, just to double the future neurosis that was to transpire hereafter. I wore a grey felt bowler for the winter and a wicker hat for the summer. Thing is though, I don't remember having a problem with either of these as a preteen. 

Maybe it was on later reflection that my prejudice grew. There's nothing like seeing your younger self decked out in a jaunty hat, two sizes too big to put you off for life. Or at least deeply question your parents' judgment. 

You see, my problem with hats isn't with them in their material sense. I could spend hours perusing shelf upon shelf of hats. The issue only becomes an issue when the hat is actually perched atop my usually messy head.

To put it in the plainest of english, my problem is how wearing a hat makes me feel. 

Hopefully, from reading this blog, you can see how passionate I am about fashion, so with no exaggeration, my feelings really are tied up within the threads of the garms I'm wearing.

Hats make me feel uncertain, a look that is translated as utter puzzlement on my face. There's nothing less likely to sell an outfit than non-belief in yourself and what you're putting out there.  

(See the fun I'm missing out on…)

I know I shouldn't care and I should wave my hands up in the air - or something like that… but hats make me feel weighed down. Like my head is alien to me - or is an alien. 

Cue rambling: Is it impolite to wear a hat indoors? I don't think I could manage manoeuvring it on and off without getting all askew. Could I handle hair as flat as a pancake that had been ironed, stood on by an elephant and then sat on by homer simpson, if I did have to remove said hat? Do I try a beanie and risk stepping out resembling a gnome? Or worse, a hipster?

Before I become too enraptured in my spiral of increasingly obscure questions, I feel a breath is needed. Maybe a deeper breath.

Fashion to me is about trying something new; not for the sake of being different or forcing yourself to fit a mould of someone else's making, but just to keep things exciting. And if that means pushing your boundaries into slightly uncomfortable territory then so be it.

Who wants to be safe anyway? I have enough bad hair days to warrant a serious reconsideration of my hat refusal.

It's about time I stop ignoring the northern realms of my head.
And who knows, maybe one day I'll be rocking bunny ears a la Ms Richie. 

But then again maybe not. Yeah, probably not.

(I didn't think animal ears could ever be chic but here's me being proved wrong)

None of the above photos are my own and I do not take credit for them. 

WHAT THE HECK?!

It's hot outside. 

I, for one, am unprepared.

I haven't made the transition from spectacles to contact lenses yet. Sunglasses are safe in my drawer. A squint is permanently on my face.

How short is too short for March time?

Can I still carry the sock/sandal trend on? I'm not ready for full on feet out mode yet. 

Will people laugh if I wear tights? Or is it more ridiculous to go bare legged? 

(I'm currently in search of my beach legs)

Will my outfit suffice when the uncontrollable need for me to get my coffee fix strikes, and I break from a casual stroll into a shifty looking speed walk? (Upper lip sweat can be hidden by a big schlunk of coffee foam but actual damp armpits and/or back sweat is another matter and therefore just not an option.)

(The 'coffee-run' outfit)

How thick or thin a knit is necessary? Is one necessary? Cardigan or jumper? In fact I'm having a poncho moment right now. 

On the plus side, I can clog dance my way around in my good ol' wedges all day long - or maybe barefoot when the arch ache kicks in.

Maybe a bikini top instead of a bra is a tad too far. Maybe not, depends on how far away laundry day is - See 'Sweetest thing'.

(Time to sort your bikini line out)

Picnic time? Can I face the ants yet?

Lighter locks? Check. Beach waves perfected? To be confirmed at a later date.

Is shoulder exposure still considered chic? In a slight off the shoulder way, not a stereotypical British beach, complete with protruding tummy and weird sunburn lines, way.

(Beach-goers where I'm from don't quite look like this…)

Are people still buying those overpriced Havaianas that I need to own. Like. Right. Now.

Can you drive a convertible with the roof down without the unintentional, 'I'm an arsehole' tagline being attached to you by every bitter non-convertible owner? Jury's out on that one. 

(Well that's one way to carpool)

My 'happy' playlist to match the sunny weather is non-existent right now. I guess it's bye bye 'The XX' and hello some annoying Euro-trash nonsense. 

If warmer weather is supposed to lighten the mood and inspire everyone to be happy, smile at strangers and fart fairy dust; is the season of sarcasm over? If so, I might as well go into hibernation, like, right now.

(Heaven)

I have so many questions and so few answers. 

In the grey British Isles, can we ever be truly ready for these unseasonable seasonal changes? 

Does anyone actually have separate wardrobes for Winter and Summer nowadays? Even if you wanted to be this organised, is it even possible with the weather being this sporadic? 

It might not seem like it but I think I've just convinced myself into excitement. I might even have ice-cream for breakfast in the morning sun tomorrow, but then again I might need to dig out my raincoat - or snow suit for that matter. 

It's tricky not being in as close contact with Mother Nature as I'd like. I imagine her to be hilarious, but in that smart kinda way, and I think we might bond over our sarcastic inclinations. However, until we have reached BFF status, the weather lady will have to suffice. So it looks like blind faith is the new trend du jour.  

Watch this space.

  

(None of the above photos are my own and I do not take any credit for them. If you know the origin of any of them, then please let me know and I will cite accordingly)