FORGETTING DATE NIGHT

Last weekend I did something that completely undermines the 'female in a relationship stereotype'. Key troupes of this female in love have been mocked and exploited in numerous Hollywood depictions: Grease, Mean Girls, Legally Blonde, The Notebook, all centre on this ideal of epic love. This flashy love with all the bells and whistles is supposedly worth longing for, fighting for, chasing after, changing for and apparently losing your friends over. But to be honest all of this mushy stuff tends to leave one, as Beyonce neatly sums up, "crazy in love". Emphasis on the crazy.

(Photo by Emily Nelson Art) 

There's two types of crazy: the 'funny' crazy, e.g Ronald Mcdonald or the 'scary' crazy, see also Ronald Mcdonald. When it comes to love, women are more often than not painted as the latter. Think scrawling your name with the addition of his surname; fantasising about your lives together before you've even had the first date; planning your wedding before you've even finished the second date and all the while we're supposed to have this ticking clock adding up the hours, minutes, seconds that the two of you have been together. Yep, just your regular pyscho girlfriend behaviour…

Well I think I forgot to set my mandatory clock, (and, err I'm not a pyscho) because last saturday was my one year anniversary and I was none-the-wiser. 

Other than Christmas and certain people's birthdays (I must admit I've been known to get the date of my own birthday wrong) there's not many other causes for dates to be encircled in my diary, let alone reasons for celebration. What hope do I have of remembering any other future milestones, if I can't even remember this first one? 

But on an altogether more serious note, I missed out on the obligatory 'what the heck am I going to wear' scenario. So I can't help but feel somewhat cheated by my own forgetfulness. 

So for the sake of my sieve-like mind, humour me in imagining what I would have worn in the event that like the girls of rom-com land, I'd remembered the significance of this day. 

Maybe all black? Casual & Chic? Coz after 365 days do you really have to make that much of an effort? Hmm..boyfriend wore a shirt so maybe I do.

Casual & colourful. A shirt & trousers combo plus some killer accessories is always a winner, no? 

Because I have evasive tendencies, maybe I could avoid the choice altogether, and do outfit changes throughout the night?

Failing that non-committal idea, how about a compromise? All black with a statement shoe? I mean heel height being completely dependent on destination however…

If all else fails can you ever go wrong with a statement jacket? I think not. Out comes my trusty dark denim flares and slouchy tee. Ah yes.

But then this happened…

 And then this..

And suddenly I want purple&leopard print and then blue & a pair of graphic trousers and I'm back to wanting a shirt. 

Alas the saga continues. 

I guess it's just as well that I've got another year-ish until this becomes a reality. Let's hope I remember ey! 

(Photo credits: AM-LUL, WGSN TUMBLR, EMILY NELSON, OLSENS ANONYMOUS & UNKNOWN)

A WHOLE LOTTA EMPTINESS

I'm about to spout out what is probably the most well worn cliche that has yet to plague womankind and has done so since the concept of clothing became a mandatory expectation  in civilised society. It's a constant paradox that we women tend to live in - to have so much yet so little. Yes I'm about to blurt out that well worn phrase, that in just six little words completely undermines a woman's grasp on reality and, if that wasn't enough, destabilises her credibility as a legitimate fashion maven.    

It brings us to the brink of despair and causes much eye rolling from those around us.

Despite all of this, I have to confess: 

I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!

(Cara Delevigne gives a masterclass in the phases of this breakdown) 

Yes, I do realise that the seams of my wardrobe are bulging so much that it could be mistaken for the house of the Michelin Man and now you mention it, yes I am sat atop a pile of jumpers that could very easily be mistaken for Mount Everest, but really that's not the point. 

I remain stedfast in my earlier proclamation. 

Cue pitiful pretend sob, arms flailing and the dramatic, "why does this always happen to me?!!"

Roll forward 24 hours and you'll find a much calmer me. And writing from this new perspective I feel like I can come at this highly charged subject from a new, more logical angle and it's pretty much all due to Leandra Medine of ManRepeller. 

I'll explain my epiphany: One hoarder in denial - a stunted imagination + Medine's inspiring 'One item worn umpteen different ways' posts = complete rejuvenation.

(Take one dress, or is it a skirt…)

(Layering 101)

You probably already read Medine's blog but, if in the rare case that you've been cohabiting with Spongebob in a pineapple under the sea and have happened to miss it, (and with this scenario I'm assuming internet connection in a fruit, submerged under water isn't quite 4G but then again I may be wrong) follow the link above and mosey on over. 

Side Note: Spongebob references are legitimately cool after Jeremy Scott overrun Moschino with the annoyingly cute (cutely annoying?) little yellow square.

So to conclude on this monumental leap, I declare that I shall never again look upon my plentiful wardrobe and be blinded by the limitations I impose upon myself. Heretofore, manifold will be the buzzword of my life. Amen.

A spade might be a spade but a dress 'aint just a dress. 

(All photos from Manrepeller & Pinterest.)

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.