THE TIGHTS GOT IT

The sun's out, get your tights on. 

I think it's called symbiosis; when two dissimilar things coincide with one another. I mean it makes total sense right? Like cheese and jam. 

It's warm (ish) outside, you want to release that new gingham dress from the confines of wardrobedom but the clouds are moving in, it may or may not be currently drizzling and the sun is causing you to overheat sporadically. Short of upper lip sweat, this couldn't get any worse. And then you notice that you should have left ten minutes ago to get to work exactly five minutes before your boss arrives. Panic ensues. What to do?! 

Perhaps I should reintroduce you to your oft overlooked tights drawer. Untangle a pair, any pair will do and leave right now. Forget the coffee, you're running off of pure anxiety anyway, the fumes of which will carry you through until lunch break, and after that, smugness at your resplendent outfit construction will allow your day to continue on in Anna Wintour approved style. Take a selfie, it's been a good day.

The BFF of tights, otherwise known as the dress, is ease embodied, covering your modesty in one shimmy and a shrug. But alas, some days full leg exposure is just not it. Enter the tights. 

The probability of your tights receiving anything more than a sigh of relief at the last hoist is slimmer than a whittled down toothpick. Yet, the humble tights deserve some recognition, just a quick thanks for covering my legs when regrowth appears in that pesky way that it does so and fake tan patchiness leaves you far too closely reminiscent of a sepia toned zebra for any excuses to feasibly explain.  

I look to pop culture to strengthen my rather wordy point here. See Blair Waldorf of Gossip Girl and her consistent commitment to maximising the fashion potential of every extremity. Tights were seldom black and rarely opaque because evidently it's go bold or get off the Met steps. Similarly, Willow Rosenberg of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, co-ordinated her looks from H to T, (that's hat to tights FYI). Both  looks aren't for the faint of heart or clumsy of ways for that matter - ladders and/or holes are never cute, sorry Courtney Love. 

I hereby suggest you develop a fast affinity with black or navy, the denier is down to personal preference but remember there is a distinct difference between thick tights and leggings - namely that tights are never trousers, whereas leggings have already *sadly* been adopted by the obviously mirror-less masses. We can see your ass honey, and what you had for breakfast... 

Never fear an unexpected drizzle again. Give your skinnys the day off and go dance in the rain; though I should mention that I cannot be held accountable for any colds caught, however, any outfit compliments received are totally my doing. 

(Images via: vogue.com, glamour.com, styledumonde.com)

GINGHAM MORE

So after my very rambunctious proclamation that I am in fact back, I rather ironically, disappeared from the blogosphere. But I must assure you that I wasn't re-enacting every 90's pop groups' failed attempt at a come back. Rather the internet rudely up and left me, resulting in a disconnect from the digital world and thus no postage of late. And that brings us back to the here and now, and more importantly to the issue at hand, which is namely my new fixation on everything and anything gingham. 

The only accompaniment fit for Dorothy's ruby red slippers, has shirked its picnic blanket schtick and, thanks in large part to Diane Von Furstenberg's SS15 collection, become the only thing necessary for summer - or life if you're feeling as committed (&/or dramatic) as I am. 

I feel that gingham is more oft overlooked than its other patterned compadres. The breton stripe for example is a permanent fixture on my instagram feed, as is a smattering of ye olde leopard print (I describe it as such because in my opinion leopard print is eternally chic, amen) which I can't say I'm sorry for at all. Gingham is however seemingly relegated to warmer climes and what with us living in the UK where the weather is constantly pms-ing, the time just never feels quite right to don the simpler counterpart of plaid. But the question I'd like to address is, why?   

Don't you people own a vest? Or an imagination? Because evidently I didn't until I consciously acknowledged my consistent gravitation to anything remotely checkered. For the first time ever I finally empathised with Homer Simpson. It was quite the outer body experience, as what can only be considered an epiphany occurred right there in the middle of Zara (where all life changing things happen, right?). I had my first real life 'Doh!' moment. I hope the similarities end there, I don't know how I'd dress the beer belly or accessorise the balding head... 

There I was in my natural environment (i.e. shopping) with a peplum, plunge neckline, backless, gingham top in hand, the only thing it lacked was the ability to make me a sandwich and would you believe it, I put it back!!! This is definitely worthy of three exclamation marks and should hereafter be known as a situation. Since this event, I feel a sartorial emptiness. My wardrobe as is, is just not quite enough. The void is real as is the struggle. Gingham has since photobombed every scenario of life, becoming a spectre of sorts reminding me of my bad judgement.

Then I found it.

Or rather it whispered to me, lulled me in, flirted with me a little, caressed my body with its fabric swathes and that was that, I was hooked. Cash was being handed over before I'd even checked the size, let alone the price. And here it sits. Happily winking at me from the sanctuary of my wardrobe. 

Is love of a material item materialistic? Something this pure and real surely can't be... Weirdly I haven't worn it outside yet. The weather seems to be against our union but I have a feeling that you can't keep a zip fronted, shirt dress with an adorable drawstring waist, floaty skirt and (obv) gingham pattern locked away for too long. For now, pictures and pirouetting in my bedroom will have to suffice but as soon as the clouds break, we're outta here. 

(Images via: brit.co, romantiqueandrebel.com, whowhatwear.com,  pinterest, missyellestore.blogspot.com)

BACK AGAIN

Sometimes shit happens. Other times, a new job happens. Both incur a level of self evaluation that seems accordant with the quarter life crisis (or is it crises?) of us over dramatic twenty-somethings.

(Donut worry!)

It's almost zeitgeist-y. We're surrounded by various social media platforms that both encourage and facilitate self absorption. You have a problem? The remedy obviously lies within the sanctity of a cryptic, yet totally transparent 140 characters right? Is the fun really happening if it hasn't made the cut on at least one Instagram account? We either publicly voice our woes, like the tortured generation that we are, or just enjoy the freedom of youth (i.e get drunk - a lot). Both incite a level of non-commitment. 

Why deal with our issues when a Facebook 'like' can send our self-worth sky rocketing? Who needs self reflection when there's shots to be taken?  The commonality here is that both are means of avoidance. And that's exactly what I have been doing in taking an extended vacay from this blog. 

Rest assured, I haven't become a part-time alcoholic slamming back the tequila or a real life Moaning Myrtle, airing my woes willy-nilly online. Rather my frustrations led me to a laryngitis of creativity if you will. Fashion has always offered me solace but whilst I was clearing tables and picking chewing gum out of coffee cups, it sought as a painful reminder of how far away my dream really was, cementing my status as a self-professed failure. 

Since finishing university I have spent my time living life as a check list. Doing things, or feeling bad about not doing things, because I thought that's what people my age were supposed to be doing. And frankly it's been exhausting. Holding myself and my life up to a set of (highly filtered) standards is draining to say the least.

My passion was non-existant. I was deflated and disinterested. The surprise of getting a new job caught me unawares and I was plagued with self-doubt. My time was filled with trying to adjust to office life. 8pm was my new bed time as 5am became my new call time. 

Yet eventually, as with all things, the new became the norm and forced routine been the regular. I have learnt that there is actually life before 9.30am and that there are two 6 o'clocks in one day. I now know the meaning of the 'humpday' and the joys of having weekends off. 

So far I have learnt to feign dislike for tea to avoid making the office round; to salute everyone but avoid referring to anyone specifically until 100% sure of their name; and to leave my oversized (read, often bra/boob exposing) tops at home. I'm still at the stabiliser stage of 'workwear' as my guidelines were unhelpful at best ("this isn't a fashion show. Wear whatever you want" I was told). Catsuit it is then (!) 

However, life is starting to feel more stable, which granted, to some is code for boring but when uncertainty and unfulfillment have taken up long-term residence in my consciousness, become unwelcome bed fellows and the whisperer of woes past, present and future, it comes as a much welcomed respite. Who knew that 9-5 (or more, 7-3) was the answer to my yearnings? I finally feel like I have direction, like the fuzzy mist of those early-twenty's has finally cleared to reveal a surprising path, one that I look forward to not only treading, but living. 

(Images via: careergirldaily.com, unknown, kalifornia-klasss.tumblr.com)

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE MONEY

There's this strange thing that happens whilst I'm shopping online. 

(Does money maketh the outfit?)

You should know that I despise shopping online. I'm a tactile shopper. I love to touch and fondle fabrics, to hold potential purchases to my body and play pretend, to hook them over my arm and wander through the store, umming and ahhing as to which will make the cut. Scrolling through reams of pictures, perfect in their staged digital presence, quickly becomes monotonous to me. 

However, occasionally boredom creeps in and the expanse of sartorial temptation that the internet offers becomes far too much. I fill my basket just because, then promptly forget about my imaginary purchases. They filled the void of time that needed filling and then it's back to the reality of my over-stuffed wardrobe. 

(Plaid & Sequins make for eternal cool regardless of price range)

But that's not the 'strange thing' that happens. I find that when I'm searching the likes of ASOS or Urban Outfitters et al the main thing that draws me to an item is the price point. I'll explain the process. I see an item I like, click the thumbnail, then my eyes immediately flick to the price. My appreciation of the item is wholly dependent on the price reflecting quality, namely that of good quality, which translates as whether the item is expensive, or at least not cheap. 

Perhaps it's the fact that online shopping requires a level of trust that in this day and age is a rarity not often required in any other pastime (yes I would describe shopping as a pastime). To judge a book solely upon it's cover, to take an item purely upon face value and hand over cash based on this presumption. 

(High-end & Low-end is mix & matched)

There is nothing I love more than a bargain, apart from perhaps finding a real bargain. I mean an item that has such a severe saving as to have been reduced from the price of a mortgage deposit to that of a happy meal. It increases its desirability exponentially. Not only are you shelling out less than a Starbucks grande latte but you're getting quality for a fraction of the price. When I spy earrings for example online, the price informs me of what condition to expect when they arrive. It offers a clue and to that end my level of expectation is adjusted.

But there is a flip side to this also. There have been times when faced with the rails and rails of odds at TKMaxx that I find myself almost convinced into buying something purely because it's a name brand at a low price point. I once tried to reconcile myself into believing that I needed this florescent green cable knit jumper under the pretence of never having too many jumpers - I live in Wales after all. It was only after I regained my wits about me that I realised that the driving force behind this uncharacteristically bold knit may have had something to do with Ralph (of the Lauren family) being found on the tag. In this instance the reason behind it's reduction was glaringly obvious. I then proceeded to bump my car, so it truly was a day of misjudgements.   

(Counterbalance a barley-there slip with thick knitwear for a thrifty take on understated glamour)

It's a tricky one. Do you pay more money because you assume the price must mean that the item is worthy of it? And in that same vein, do you purchase items that are marked down but bear a designer name for the same exact reason? Or, do you buy according to your own personal preference, regardless of price point and solely upon your own sartorial proclivities?  

(A sparkly shirt & jeans and print clashing speak of polished fashion without breaking the bank)

The prowess of fashion is in its ability to continually entice you into believing that excess and necessity are one and the same. Online shopping encourages a sense of scepticism which is only combatted by the trust we place in paying for the quality we hope to receive. However, what marks someone out as truly fashionable is the ability to make everything one wears appear expensive no matter its actual price point. So I vow to forgo my incessant price checking and purchase things I like based on the value I place on an item. Isn't mid-way through the year a perfect time to introduce a new New Year's resolution anyway?   

(Images via: WGSN & Unknown. I do not claim credit over any of the above photos)

BRA-VO

I have been away for a while, an impromptu hiatus if you will. So I thought what better way to say 'I'm BAAAAAACK!!!' than a conversation about boobs?

We (that's men and women alike) have been fascinated with breasts since the day, with bleary eyes, we met the world and thus were formally introduced to the nurture giving nipple. It was instinctual in those earlier times but as teenage-dom struck, the fascination with boobs arose again; this time with a preoccupation for our own boobs, or lack thereof. I longed for their development, exuberant at their promise of womanhood and resolute in my desperate need for the supportive discomfort of underwiring to 'hold in' my fried eggs, as they teasingly became known by my Aunties.  

Boobs became central to our mathematical advancement as we demonstrated our calculator dexterity through the power of eight, double zero, eight. Next when the consequences of bosom-hood were fully realised (I'm talking occasional back pain, awkward sleeping positions and the discomfort/weirdly freeing reality of running downstairs) the tetris-like difficulties of lingerie to ensemble placement became the main point of contention regarding any sort of social appearance/life. 

In the age of cleavage baring - that includes though is not limited to, the midriff and belly button - fashion mocks us as we attempt to defy gravity all whilst maintaining the illusion of 'I woke up like this' ease. As ever, the Kardashians' deserve a mention for their seemingly unsupported boobs in their backless and often frontless ensembles. And despite intense scrutiny, I can spy no strings! 

The recent Met Gala saw those fully clothed as the minority on the red carpet, as J Lo, Beyonce and Kim Kardashian-West all took to embodying the 'if you got it, flaunt it' philosophy that Robin Thicke made a (contentious) case for in his infamous 'Blurred Lines' video. 

For a time the side boob became the new toe-cleavage, but it was a way of life that I did not entertain. Too much of a high risk situation. Of course there was always boob tape, and duck tape and cement if desperate, but the alien breeze to the south of my armpit acted as a continual reminder of my all too delicate dalliance with potential full exposure. 

Temperature too factored into my non-negoitiable avoidance to going braless, as who needs a thermostat when you have nipples? Without going into detail, vigorous dance moves are not conducive to keeping stick on bra, well, stuck on. There is no way to make a chicken fillet chic - FACT. And then there is the strapless bra. I see this as the equivalent of riding a rollercoaster with your arms up in the air, for the whole journey. You know that you're strapped in so in theory you should be safe but all sense of reason, not to mention gravity, is screaming for you to hold on for dear life.  

So what is the answer? Well, I am about to propose something radical.  A bra is oftentimes necessary, so why not make it an accessory? It was an idea I have yet to completely warm to - I'm tepid about it at best if I'm totally honest - but Carrie Bradshaw may have just convinced me that backless needn't mean braless. I'm seeing contrasting straps in my future, maybe multiple straps masquerading as some kind of harness looking thing a la agent provocateur, I'm seeing experimentalism (though thong exposure and VPL will not be tolerated under any circumstances). Though what I'm not seeing is any kinda of Regina George/superhero, underwear over outwear appropriation, but as Beiber continues his 360 away from his jack-ass ways, I guess I should 'never say never', just perhaps don't mention it to my dad...  

(Images via: perezhilton.com, hollywoodlife.com, style.catalogs.com, kalifornia-klass.tumblr.com, images.sugarscape.com)

ONE OUTFIT WONDERS

Being considered 'fashionable' is usually accredited with having huge volumes of clothing. Options keep style from veering towards the mundane *or that's what I tell myself...* However, with that being said, versatility may just be the spice of life and the kryptonite of style ruts around the world if you will. You hear of wardrobes condensed down to the bare essentials, the perfect curation of necessity but for most (myself most definitely included) this degree of meticulous organisation (or depravity) remains elusive. 

Despite my inability to withstand multiple purchases of worryingly similar items, I think that there might might be something to this curation lark. Perhaps I should add that my wardrobe actually snapped under the pressure of holding so much weight and this may in part be the driving force behind my interest in downsizing my wears... 

So whilst my wardrobe resembles a cracked egg shell - all broken and pitiful looking - I started to think of the merits behind paired-back dressing. I asked myself the hard hitting questions, like: "do I need nine white t-shirts?" and "is it okay to own numerous items because I like them and not because I actually wear them?" With such thought-provoking, insightful and probing questions as that, I: 

a) debated a career as a news anchor.

b) got lost in a montage-stylee mega reminisce of my formative years, namely the saviour that was my school uniform.

c) stuck sticky tape on my wardrobe pole in a last ditch attempt to ignore my evident hoarder tendencies.

Now, I know that whilst struggling as a tween to 'find myself' and express this ever-changing self through a medium as stringent as a uniform, it was more often an annoyance than a blessing. But with good old hindsight I note that the glorious monotony of pre-picked clothing was conducive to more lie-ins, less early morning 'I have nothing to wear' teen tantrums, and discouraged any kind of comparative bitchiness until after school hours (when your brain was all awake and stuff and could make such critical decisions). And I find that even though we may have left the school halls behind us we never truly leave behind the mentality of uniform dressing. 

As we get older we inform our wardrobes and sense of style with something innately 'us', but it takes time to create and curate this rendition of ourselves. We inadvertently master a persona through our clothing. Like when people say, "this is so you". We become known for a certain 'look' and we ourselves buy into certain looks. For example check out all the Coachella coverage (or faux-chella as coveteur.com called it) to witness the army of people appropriating what it is - or what people en mass think it is - to be at a festival. Uniforms are a comfort, they encourage sameness. Whether you believe that they stifle individuality or function as an equaliser; uniforms sure do take the uncertainty out of getting dressed! With all this said I figured I'd write a rundown of those special few who transform their uniforms into 'one outfit wonders'. Let their commitment to a look inspire you.

Daria

The 90s are cool again. That is probably the most underwhelming statement I have ever made... However, the 90's show Daria had some good things going on, namely her choice outfit. Before Lena Dunham there was acerbic teenager Daria and she did sarcasm in biker boots like no other. Her favoured military jacket was sure to be the sole inspiration behind Marc Jacobs SS15. And Coach's Stuart Vevers proclivity for orange surely stems from Daria's affinity with the colour. Also is it just me or does Leigh Lezark resemble Daria's BFF, Jane Lane? 

Daphne Blake

Scooby Doo informed my growth into adulthood immeasurably. Teaching me that those with a good moral compass will inevitably have the best wardrobes, and crime fighting should always be done in heels, preferably platforms. Scoob himself taught me the power of a statement accessory but Daphne was pictorial proof of what good grooming and colour coordination can do for you. And Michael Kors agrees, or at least the doppelgänger that he sent down the runway would lead one to assume so. Let's all dye our hair purple in honour of the auburn haired damsel in-a-dress. 

Spongebob Square Pants

I do not like SBSP. The jokes are whack, his laugh is annoying and Gary is stupid. But yes, I do realise that it is a show aimed at children so perhaps my disconnect is to be expected somewhat. However, despite all my ranting I guess Jeremy Scott saw something that I clearly didn't with the merging of the Sponge and Moschino, which leads me to at least commend his commitment to a shirt and tie. VB garners huge praise for her pristine attire so why shouldn't SB get the same credit?

Wednesday Addams

Long before Alexa Chung claimed dibs on the Peter Pan collar, Wednesday was accessorising her LBD with starched white tips of the double 'P' variety. With her dead pan 'humour', enviable porcelain skin and cute braids, you'd be forgiven for overlooking her psychotic tendencies. But if Rihanna can market herself as a real life 'bad gal' then I'm sure Miss Addams can riff off her penchant for destruction in babydoll dresses. After all the girl does monochrome like no other...   

Who are your one outfit wonders? Let me know in the comments below :) 

(Images via: coveteur.com, fashiontoast.com, d-a-r-i-a.tumblr.com, themetropolist.com,fanpop.com & pinterest.com) 

HELLA YELLA

Now that Spring has sprung and the promise of Summer is in full bloom our sartorial inclinations tend to lean towards colours that reflect this brighter outlook. All things black are neglected at the back of the wardrobe ready for their annual revival come Autumn, whilst no other colour comes to better represents the season than yellow. 

But here's where I take issue. I don't like yellow. Pale yellow looks sallow, wishy washy as they say, like you've yet to discover Daz. Whilst bright yellow transmits an overbearing sense of happiness. You're wearing yellow, ergo you must be happy, which let's be honest isn't often the case (we're 20-somethings living in recession Britain, we're allowed to be forever furrow browed) Does it mean something that I shy away from a shade synonymous with good feelings, sunshine and cute easter chicks? I'm assuming so but that's a chat I'll save for a professional during my probably quarter-life crisis.

I applaud those who manage to wear yellow and not resemble a living emoticon smiley. Truly I do. Or perhaps I applaud their conviction in wearing yellow regardless of the unfortunate likeness. Whatever my personal proclivities or prejudices, I have decided to embrace the trans-seasonal shift by peppering a little yellow throughout my closet. If you too share my hesitation, then perhaps these pictures will offer some much needed how-to. Let us traverse the yellow brick road together and unite in our uncertainty, and hopefully fabulously colour coordinated outfits.    

Yellow was the go-to colour at Burberry Prorsum SS15, with yellow ensembles refreshingly paired with everything but black. Whilst Ralph Lauren matched sunny yellow with military green, injecting an element of fun into the stalwart sophistication typical of the fashion house.  

The key seems to be to ignore its blinding properties - I find that shades combat the glare nicely - and adopt all manner of textures. Flat colour is somewhat boring, not to mention the resemblance to a bowl of custard is unsightly and according to every fashion book I have ever read, is not a look to be re-appropriated willingly. 

Though I may not have the conviction inherent to Solange and her bold outfit choices yet, I think my subtle yellow jumper is a good place to start. Call it chickening out, call it a compromise, just don't call me Big Bird.

MONDAY MORNING

What does one do when writer's block sets in? 

Rely on pictures of course! Here are a few that conjure up musings of summertime, sparkles, (non-ironic) flowers in your hair, more jewellery than can possibly be worn at once, lie-ins forever, all white ensembles, t-shirts that talk, weekend warriors & shoes that shine.  

(Images: thecoveteur.com, kalifornia-klass.tumblr.com (Kylie Jenner's Tumblr FYI), amlul.com & Unknown)