IS THIRTY THE MAGIC NUMBER?

Ahh, 30.

Whether you read that 'Ahh' as a proclamation of excitement or as a screeching halt to the end of your twenties, I can assure you that this kind of thirty should incite a squeal of deliriousness. 

No longer does thirty provoke an irrational need to count down how many years left I've got before I enter a new decade (I can do so on one hand now - eeek). Rather, thirty has become somewhat of a harbinger of good fortune, for my wardrobe at least.  

After a recent perusal of the good ol'highstreet, it would seem that anything and everything of note falls into the very brag-worthy price of £30.00. From beaded bags to tasselled footwear and leopard print, see below for my thrifty must-haves under thirty bucks (ish):

Zara Beaded Mini Tote Bag

But which colour...

H&M Court Shoes with Ties
Jazzing up some workwear near you

Zara Shirt with Metal Fringe
It looks like a white blouse, but it's not just a white blouse

Topshop Animal Print Side Striped Shirt

Ok, so I'd have to raid my piggy bank for an extra four pounds, but I'd give up my morning coffee for this

Oversize Cardigan in Chunky Rib with Buttons
Yellow is a frenemy of sorts, but in this rendition, it's love

Fashion Union Blouse with Tassel Detail
Ok, another white blouse, but I need it


Guilt-free shopping is the best kind, right?

(Photo: TheyAllHateUs)

IS 2018 THE MOST UNFASHIONABLE YEAR YET?

It looks like 2018 is set to be the year of the 'unfashionable', as fashion duds reach the top of every 'do' list quicker than you can say ensembly challenged.

For some I'm sure the very real possibility of wearing sweats and slides out in public, to the furore of the youth of today, with the encouragement of fashion publications and without reproach, brings about a squeal of happiness. For those others who nary read a fashion do-list, let alone enact its questionable instruction, this may be a moot point. For me, however, I can't help but feel conflicted.

Yay to expression and wearing whatever you want and being free to wear your every fancy yada yada yada. But with balaclavas, Grandpa style sweaters (termed so by Vogue nonetheless), transparent outfits, ugly trainers (no longer relegated to gym wear, now, instead paired with, shock horror, suits *gasps*), indigo denim ("it's B*Witched reimagined for 2018" - Vogue) and kitten heels still purr-ading down the catwalk, it leaves me wondering if I'm out of the joke?

The pages read more like a how-to in dressing like Britney Spears circa head-to-toe denim, pre-umbrella fiasco; crop tops, bootleg indigo jeans, kitten heels, finished with a bumbag for good measure. Dressing down is even more questionable, look to any and all of Kim K West's recent outfits; clad in cycling shorts - contrary to their intention, no cycling is ever undertaken - paired with thick white tube socks, chunky running shoes and puffer jacket to disguise her body from looking like, a body - let alone one of the most envied bodies in the world. 'Pre-Kanye, mid Herve Leger body-con boom Kim', would scoff at the thought.

I've written about bad taste vs good taste before and concluded that it rests largely with personal interpretation. However, with the torrent of questionable trends coming from every and all angles, it seems like the difference between good taste and bad taste no longer exists, as the dichotomy is conflated: bad taste is the new good taste. When cycling shorts and bumbags are to be aspired to and balaclavas are being proposed as viable everyday headwear by fashion authorities: Calvin Klein, Gucci, Marni and Dior; the interchangeability of good taste and bad taste becomes undeniable. 

However, in a valiant attempt to remain open-minded amidst this fashion confusion, lets consider the potentially redeeming qualities of these questionable trends. To begin with; ugly trainers. They are very practical for all those life things that need to get done, so their apparent newfound fashion credibility is somewhat of a happy side effect. Bum bags - if you ignore their American moniker of 'fanny pack' - are quite chic in their newfound sleek iterations. Transparent layers can be taken as literally as personally desired. Bare nips may be too risqué for some (or not as the case may be), yet black cigarette trousers under an ethereal tulle skirt make for an interesting (yet covered up) pairing. Indigo denim offers a smart variation of the blue jean, a primness that is not all too often associated with denim, making it more workwear appropriate (look out casual Fridays) than most other denim washes. 

And to conclude, despite my determined attempts to find good in all, kitten heels remain a conundrum. Take my silence as the sum of my thoughts on this one...

The point here is to adopt what you like and overlook what you don't. Though I recommend refraining from being too narrow-minded, as though questionable, these trends come with a definite dose of fun. Perhaps 2018 is less about unfashionable trends and more about fashion poking fun at itself, taking itself less seriously in opposition to the current climate of very serious political, economic and societal change.

Though I can't imagine myself wearing matrix style, narrow sunglasses - as is another rather questionable trend to surface of late - the year is young yet and there is much time for my pliable mind to be indoctrinated by social media and pop culture. Who knows, if next winter is as cold as this one past, you might see me in a balaclava (or not see me as the case may be).

(Images via: CRFashionbook.com, vogue.com, pinterest, stylecaster & The Fashion Medley) 

UNLIKELY ICON: BREAKING THE MAGICIAN'S CODE

Who knew that the real magic of the show lay in the wardrobes of the magician's assistants ey?

Netflix fills the void Blockbuster (RIP) sadly left behind, it's also a hole into which I fall headlong most nights. On one such night, I happened upon a show that conjured up such strong feelings of nostalgia that I couldn't not watch it: 'Breaking The Magician's Code'.

I remembered watching the show as a child, awestruck as the magic was performed and then exposed as slight of hand, trick of the eye and/or, incredibly flexible (perhaps boneless?) assistants. 

And it's these very assistants that now inspire me so.

I have no recollection of the assistants' clothing as a child, the magic holding my attention. However, now as a twenty-something, the magic seems secondary to the 90's fashion that distracts from the trickery of the act. The girls are of amazonian proportions and wear mini skirts that emphasise their long, lithe limbs and clothing so tight as to make you wonder if the magic doesn't lie in the fact that they don't pass out every episode.

There is not a feather boa or sequin in sight, as the moodiness of the 90s is captured with shades of plum and charcoal grey, shoes are chunky and lips are dark. It's a revival that we have been riffing off of for a while. 'Non-fashion is the new fashion' could be the slogan of right now, with many citing this as a means of people trying to ground themselves amongst the furore of the socio-political unrest of now. Finding comfort in the mundane and familiar, with 90's fashion being a beacon of that for many, with it's grunge aesthetic, embracement of the everyman staple: the plaid shirt and a decidedly less put-togetherness compared to that of the 80s glam.

For me, I appreciate their goth glam, reminiscent of Winona Ryder at her peak (pre sticky fingers fiasco), 'The Craft' coven's moody aesthetic and Nirvana's grunge dishevelment. It's far removed from the shiny hair, dazzling teeth and general blinding aura of today's TV. You can just imagine that these girls would clock off work, having been cut in half a couple of dozen times, only to head straight to a mosh pit or something equally gritty.

Perhaps it's the bad-assness and all that goes with that, that I have ascribed to these girls and their 'looks', rather than their actual clothing - which when compared to my own is rather dichotomous - that I find appealing. I am an oversized clothing aficionado. Skin tight is just not something that is in my lexicon. So I won't necessarily be replicating the magician's assistants' figure hugging, arse skimming looks on a day-to-day basis. However, it could very well inform my nighttime attire.  

For now I'll try to emulate the mystery, adopt the attitude and perhaps invest in a pair of chunky soled sandals to pacify this acute bout of nostalgia. And if that doesn't work, then I'm going to try out some dark lipstick and maybe a magic class or two...   

(Ed note: Pictures were scarce to support my argument. There seems to have been a series that went into the millennia that featured all such accompanying tack, which is unfortunately the only remnant of the show on the internet, so I suggest watching the  magic on Netflix instead.)

(All images via Netflix)

TOES & THE STRAPPY SANDAL CONUNDRUM

Toes, they are strange things.

Like malformed fingers, tentacles of stability, tiny appendages, their canvases ready to be decorated in a bid to prettify their strange appearance. I doubt that anyone has ever claimed them to be their 'best feature'. I paint their ten little nails and on three separate occasions, I have tried a toe ring. But despite my best efforts, I still find them, uninspiring, too exposing and a bit uncouth.

It's such a shame because I find my aversion to toes, to be a great hindrance in my continued quest for a diversified and all encompassing collection of shoes (except for kitten heels - soz). And thus the strappy, barely-there heels, seen on the entire world circa 2017, go largely unworn due to their inherent toe exposure.

I feel it necessary to note here that I don't have bad feet, as feet go. And anyway, I feel like Victoria Beckham put forth a solid case for shoes over the well-being of feet, taking a stand for women-kind, bunions and all. Also see Kim K West and her commitment to a strappy sandal even when perhaps a croc or birkenstock would have been more practical/comfortable and less intrusive/painful. 

During my acquisition of shoes over the years, I've had my fair share of difficulties. Continually choosing aesthetic value over comfort, convincing myself that love can actually make foot shrinkage possible, opting for a bargain over any practical reasoning whatsoever. I have worn shoes that make my feet bleed just from looking at them. I have had shoes that have betrayed me, breaking in the pouring rain, leaving me sodden and trailing a sad sandal still clasped around my ankle (I never leave a shoe behind). I have been tripped up by my own shoes, as a clasp on either shoe caught the other - it took epic stumbles to realise this inbuilt death trap and yes I did continue to wear them...

I hope this illustrates my resilience in regards to my footwear. However, the strappy sandal is that little bit too much, like wearing something low cut with an arse skimming hemline, or a smokey eye with a red lip.

Maybe it's a side effect of being British? The weather being more conducive to year-round wellie boots and combatting chilblains. We're just not used to seeing a whole foot outside of drying in between our toes after a shower. My feet are perma-socked, in that they're permanently in socks. Is it then, that my obvious discomfort, is not that surprising? 

Perhaps it's just me? A quick scroll through instagram tells me that this could strongly be the case. But because I'm not a quitter, I bought a pair of strappy sandals in a resolute attempt to join this foot baring club. I love them - in the box. They are multicoloured, which I must commend myself on, due to exponential wearability. They are also jewel encrusted, which I realise could be mistaken as tacky, but isn't - trust me. The heel height is moderate which again is another practical plus point and they have a double ankle strap which is very confusing to get on but definitely worth it for 'ze look' - see above for rules of style over substance according to V Beckham (but perhaps don't google pictures).

So far, they've remained in the box, but have had numerous outings around my bedroom. We're getting to know each other. I expect it to be quite a lengthy process, but have bought some sparkley, fishnet and striped socks to ease the transition. I'm estimating that I'll be ready sans socks just in time for the annual three days of summer. And you'll have to take my word for it, as wearing a naked foot is one thing, photographing it is quite another... 

(Picture: Pinterest & Unknown)

MY JOURNEY - A T-SHIRT

Just like denim anything, or a leather jacket, a t-shirt is a staple of any wardrobe. Whether plain, printed, motifed, sloganed or cropped, a t-shirt is a stalwart to be layered over or under, worn to the gym, to bed, on a night out out, a night in, to work, to clean in, to have fun in, to slope around in, befitting all manner of moods, adventures and non-adventures. An outfit that requires no effort, no thought, no drama. The nondescript staple easily overlooked, but often the cornerstone of many a great outfit; a canvas of sorts, an emblem of nonchalance.

 

It was during one of my infrequent 'clear outs' that I noticed an apparent shift in taste, my wears 'then' and 'now', my progression of what I like and what I liked. And it was most notable in the white t-shirts that I have amassed of late, none of which possessed the scoop neck of yore. Despite my 2016 self actually living in low cut tees, the slouchy vibe is just not as practical for day-to-day life in almost permanent sub zero temperatures. I used to feel that they spoke of comfort and ease and framed my layered strands of necklaces with an insouciance revered by all as that 'French girl thing'. However, my current 'me' favours a slightly boxy fit with a crew neckline. 

Perhaps it's my age (groan, eye-roll), but no longer do I enjoy looking a bit 'un-done', the peek of a bra brings a rouge to my cheeks now rather than a twinkle to my eye. I see it as a sign of sartorial growth. My proclivity no longer lies in the oversized t-shirt, worn as a half tuck, now they neatly reach waist band level and are of a more fitted ilk. And there's this thing called forethought that seems to speak more loudly to me the older I get. Living in the UK requires a heat tech vest - permanently. Previously, I may have ignored the draft about my cleavage, whistling down and around my stomach and encircling my back. Now baring anything other than my right hand to exchange money for my morning coffee, sends a literal chill that reverberates about my whole entire body.

Yet, this is not the only reason for my new t-shirt proclivity. It speaks of a classic-ness, up there with breton stripes and red lipstick. The clean aesthetic is smart, chic, no fuss, wear with anything, anywhere, even to work. Though admittedly I do save them for casual Fridays, there is something about pairing a crew neck with a smart pair of straight legged, cropped black trousers and a blazer. A smart/casual look that, with the switch out of brogues with white trainers, can transition to weekend wear, or alternatively pair with a stiletto for after work drinks.    

And so my new fondness for the neatly fitted tee has begun. And though the premise of a clear-out is to actually clear out, I feel this a safe enough space to admit that my proclivity for a crew neck does not seem to be slowing down. Oh well, you can never have too many white t-shirts...right?

(Images via: Pinterest)

THE COMMUTE: WHAT TO WEAR

Coats, they are a necessity that I have tried to ignore for a long time.

However, since starting my new job, I have become part of the throng of peak-time commuters that bustle in and out of the city. Flowing like a school in and out of carriages, snoozing on strangers' shoulders and drifting along in the direction of coffee fumes. 

It has been anxiety inducing, a test of independence, exciting, tiring and absolutely freezing. The latter being of great inconvenience, my shivering a signifier of a newbie to the commuters' ranks. Bare ankles - pfft! No scarf - a mocking eye roll and a tut. And don't even bother to turn up if you're not wearing a coat that at least trebles you in size. 

You have to show them that you're committed to this commuting lark. That you're not only willing to hoist yourself out of bed every morning before sunrise, but that you're prepared, unfazed. Newspaper and magazine, bottle of water and flask of coffee, paperback and kindle, charger to plug into every possible device, battery pack to charge said charger, headphones and a variety of snacks for every potential pang of hunger or inevitable wave of boredom. It's the unspoken survival pack of the initiated. The duffel bag required to fit the contents of such also acts as both pillow and means of innocently barging people out of the way. Smile, shrug and signal to the large mass hung about your body.

(Candy stripes to disguise the bulging bag of commute 'necessities')

However, despite my meticulous kit, I am still yet to master the art of commute dressing. A concept further complicated by my now corporate office. You'll remember my groans of deciding what to wear in an office where 'anything goes', yet corporate wear has its own difficulties, especially when factoring in a two hour long commute.

Take Monday for example. I decided upon a pair of black trousers, tailored and cropped at the ankle. Despite the fact that they pick up fluff more avidly than a Dyson, they're smart and black trousers - the definition of corporate dressing. I paired them with with a crisp white shirt that came to about mid thigh and my patent, leopard print loafers. I strangled myself with a vibrant pink scarf and stuffed my arms into a plaid grey blazer. I felt smart, warm (except for my ankles which I'm pretty sure hate me) and like myself, a difficulty when in a sea of heavily starched shirts.

Once at the office, feeling rather smug with myself, I took off my coat to reveal my outfit, to the rapture of my co-workers (I joke), I made a quick trip to the toilets, where I was met with a shirt so wrinkled as to hasten a double take, this could easily have been mistaken for something plucked straight out of the bottom of the laundry pile. I was heavily judging myself. My pristine shirt was a rumpled mess of failure. I debated writing and wearing a post-it , to explain/defend my dishevelment, but thought that I could not blame the train journey. It was merely a visual of my beginner status in the commute crowd.

(Corporate Barbie - pretty & practical, right?)

I sat on the journey home, still in my crumpled shirt as a badge of dishonour, of my youth and my unpreparedness. I even thought about adding a steamer to my arsenal. I've also listed the pros of an outfit change like the host of an awards ceremony. Yet the margin for error poses too great a risk. I'm sure I don't need to remind everyone of my misfortune at discovering a pair of my unmentionables stuffed into a coat pocket after a mad dash one morning.

I feel that the only answer is trial and error. I have already written off my suede boots after an unfortunate downpour left me worrying if they, or I, would ever be the same again. I now have an umbrella permanently on my person and I'm still in talks with myself as to whether or not I should have a spare pair of trousers in my locker... 

So far, I feel I can battle the cold. My duvet like scarf aids greatly in that. The rain, however, remains my nemesis. So wet and all encompassing with its generous soakings. All fashion bets are off when the clouds release so enthusiastically. If wellie boots were work wear appropriate, I'd wear them to avoid sodden feet and waders in a bid to never have to unstick myself from drenched-through trousers again. Yet, alas, I only know this now after having lived, and sat, through it. I'm wondering if Mercury was in retrograde that day...

I look to my peers during such misfortunes. Most had floor length coats on, one had two coats on, which I thought to be rather grandiose, taunting my sodden self with its plural smugness; all had sensible boots. I knew then that I needed to invest in footwear that was made for walking and running and rain and frost and being late in and waiting around in and looking good in. And a coat, I needed one of those, maybe even two, just for the hell of it.

(Tiny bag, massive coat - to hide an abundance of layers & secret pockets)

And would you believe it, no sooner had I thought it, I had found them. Both heavily discounted, both aesthetically pleasing and most importantly, both worthy of the commute club.

I am now the owner of a commuters uniform. I have been inducted and I have seen the light. A pair of black Chelsea boots with stud detail about the edge of the sole and a grey calf length coat that's svelte in shape to allow nimble navigation of the crowds, yet thick enough to insulate against the perennial cold snap.

Now, though I may look the part, I can't quite claim to be the part just yet. There have been numerous missed trains and almost missed stops and I expect there to be many more. I have yet to find a suitable (read, not ugly) raincoat and am also debating adding a puzzle book to my stash. However, I've never forgotten my snacks. It's all about the priorities... 

(Images via: The Fashion Tag, whowhatwear, pop sugar.com) 

LIST OF LOVES FOR THE UNROMANTIC

It was recently Valentine's Day, as if you didn't know, as if it's even possible not to know, with even the likes of Subway offering deals for twosomes.

Cards and flowers, proclamations of love, copious amounts of chocolate (which I'm not mad about), an influx of engagements strewn about Facebook, shop windows red and pink blurs, adults with renewed like for stuffed animals. In principle, Valentine's Day reminds us of the need for love, though it has become a Hallmark holiday, so commercialised as to eclipse the message of love with its consumerist agenda. But no one can argue that the world could desperately do with more love right now. 

Forgetting the eye-roll, green complexion, sick-to-your-stomach inducing sappiness of the day, I thought that I would compile a list of my current loves and not one will bring on a bout of queasiness...

We All Need Friends

Namely the six-some of nineties mega show of the same name. Twenty minutes of escapism. Bask in the dated jokes, the quaint laughing audience and some inspiration in textbook 90s dressing. Expect also, a renewed envy of The Rachel - so shiny.

It's In The Stars Apparently

So it turns out that the old pick-up line, 'what's your sign?', may have been a genuine question as opposed to a seedy chat-up line. Who knew?

Love Me, Myself & I

Self help and self love are often received negatively, like admitting a need/want for improvement is to admit weakness. Yet, betterment is something for all to strive for. Be the cheerleader for your own life. Start by reading this.

Love Yo'self

Body positivity purports acceptance of all shapes and sizes. Demolishing prescribed 'ideals', instead promoting the individual best self: looking good and feeling good by one's own individual standards. Read here for inclusive body flattering fashions and here for Ericka Hart's powerful runway walk, stance and message.

Fashions' Best Friend

It's New York Fashion Week, expect many a statement, many a popcorn runway, and many a well-dressed...dog. Yes, Gauntlett Cheng cast eight dogs in their latest runway show, fully decked out in canine versions of their main collection. Read here for cuteness incarnate.

Yes Please

An everyday, all day, wear with anything, sandal. Uh, yeah, need. Now. That is all. Good looking out River Island.

Hope you're feeling the love <3

(Images via: Unknown, Metro, unknown, spacetelescope.org & fashionista)