Tag Archives: Fashion

Week in Photos

Posted in Fashion, Girl About Town, Pretty Things by

Lazy Sunday post to cheer me up as I’m lying on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. After a couple of weeks of tearing around, far too much alcohol, way too much exercise, not enough clothing to combat the cold weather and heaps of late nights, I’ve unsurprisingly got a bit ill. For the first time in my entire life, I’ve lost my voice. Yesterday evening it went completely and utterly. So I’ve been lolling around watching Gossip Girl, writing my To Do list, and drinking many cups of lemon and honey. I was hoping to do a micro-project today, and create an inspiration board (‘real life Pinterest’ as I’m dubbing it.)

It’s another exciting week coming up, so hopefully I’ll be able to talk again by Tuesday, although not all my friends agree, the meanies. I think they’re quite enjoying me not being able to talk. On Tuesday I’m off to the launch of a new ‘cocktail initiative’. Yeah, that’s a thing. Dubbed ‘Skinny Sippers vs Huge Hitters’, it’s this new concept in the drinks world, being launched at Apres London. I’ve seen a list of some of the cocktail, and they sound AMAZING. I’m a cocktail freak anyway, so I’m really excited to be going to the press launch. Then Wednesday I’m off to the Nelly.com launch party in London, more info on that later in the week. Nelly.com is like the Nordic equivalent of ASOS, now being launched for the UK. Apparently the first 300 girls to turn up get free shoes, so…elbows at the ready. Then the rest of the week will be spent writing and working. Also got something very interesting coming up with ace jewellery website MyFlashTrash.com, who have the most beautiful selection of jewels, so keep your eyes peeled for that.

In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to Gossip Girl and my sofa. Even blogging has really taken it out of me!

Martinis, scarves, and The Scottish Play

Posted in Fashion, Girl About Town by

Hello chaps and chapesses. Hope you’re all having a wonderful weekend so far! I’ve had a rather busy one, but luckily I’ve got a free Sunday. A free Sunday to catch up on work, that is! And I may also be trying out the white chocolate, passion fruit and coconut cake that featured on http://thegentlemanbaker.blogspot.co.uk/ earlier this week. Yummykins.

New feature! Seeing as I’ve got so many events coming up, I’ve created a new ‘Girl About Town’ menu tab at the top, just because it’ll be easier to store them in one place. So this is what I got up to:

Martini Masterclass at Hotel Du Vin On Friday night, I touched down at Hotel Du Vin in Tunbridge Wells with my lovely LadyMPresents.co.uk editor and chum Rachel, and her friend Becky. Now, I actually violently dislike martinis. I’d always found them much too strong, and the only ones I can drink can be found at the Cellar Door in London, because they make yummy versions like cucumber martinis, or ‘breakfast’ martinis with marmalade in. I was hoping that, by going to this event, I’d gain a new found appreciation for the cocktail. As it was a ‘masterclass’, I assumed we’d be guided through the ways to create our own perfect/signature martini. I was looking forward to impressing my friends.

Well, I think I estimated it a little bit wrong. It was held in one of the beautiful back rooms of the hotel, which, as Becky and Rachel said, felt like ‘a Russian ballroom’. We were given several sheets of info (sadly not proof-read. Wish I could turn off my writerly brain in my free time, but I can’t.) We also had three glasses: one vodka, one vermouth, one gin, and a jug of water. The sheets of information had a lot of tasting notes for different gins and vodkas at the back, which is where I started to get excited. I love to try new types; Ketel One and Hangar One vodkas are usually my favourite, but I’m always up for trying new things. Drinks-wise. Ahem.

I assumed that, because we had the tasting notes, we’d be allowed to choose which vodka or gin we liked the sound of best as a base for our martini, and then we’d learn what would go well with the notes in that particular spirit. We were talked through the history of the martini by a man who I think was called Marco – I missed the very beginning. He was a very nice chap, but whizzed through all the info extremely quickly. I was frantically trying to scribble it down: ‘right, so if I shake the martini, it adds oxygen, which makes it…sweeter? Or…what??’ I got a little bit lost. To be fair, I didn’t really need to write it all down, but I wanted to. We were given a dirty martini to try, and I realised very quickly that I wasn’t adept at drinking the things. I was wincing quite a lot. We also had a few canapes passed around, but being a vegetarian, there was nothing I could eat apart from the sweet ones that came out at the end.

I’d also assumed (and when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me, as we all know) we’d be set up on tables with ingredients. Instead, everything was at the very front of the room, by Marco. At the end of the talk, we could all go up and try making our own martini. I’d been dreaming of creating an elderflower and cucumber version, but we had limited supplies. One gin, one vodka, Martini, Martini Rosso, peach liqueur, raspberry liqueur, Midori, blue curacao, olives, lemons. Becky and Rachel decided to try mixing raspberry with gin, and adding lemon. It was more palatable for me than the dirty martini, but ultimately I still didn’t have more than a few sips.

So it wasn’t entirely what I’d hoped for. But I have to be fair on HDV: I went knowing that I didn’t like the cocktails that much, which was probably a silly idea. I’d also built up expectations of the evening in my head, which was again unfair. Oh, and I’d been to an excellent wine tasting event at the Tate the week before, which I blogged about on here. I must mention one more thing. The NOISE. At the back of the room were some extremely rude and noisy people, which put me in something of a bad mood from the start. It’s unbelievably rude to hold a conversation at a normal volume while someone is trying to speak. Arrogant and cocky, and despite many people turning around to give them glacial stares, they didn’t stop. Maybe try a bar next time, chaps?

So, not a roaring success for me. They mentioned there might be a Mojito Masterclass in June, which I’d probably like a lot more. That said, tickets for this event were £20. That’s a little steep when you can only eat one canape, and when you can only manage a few sips of your drink (but again, the latter comment is about me, not HDV). The wine tasting at the Tate was £15, and we had heaps of food, a glass of Prosecco on entry, and about 12 different wines to try. On the plus side, the staff at HDV were charming, the man leading the masterclass was sweet and engaging, and HDV is absolutely gorgeous to look at. I’d say save the £20 from the workshop, and go and spend it in the Hotel Du Vin bar instead. Or better yet, put it towards supper.

What I wore - sorry for the grumpy face

Scarf Photoshoot Rachel and I met again on Saturday morning – luckily neither of us was hungover from the previous night of drinking! We were joining forces with wonderful scarf designer Kate Hasted (http://www.katehasted.co.uk/) to style out some different scarfy looks for Rachel’s gig on http://moderngirlsguideto.blogspot.co.uk/ Rachel wanted to come up with some different ways of wearing scarves, and who better than Kate to provide them? Kate makes absolutely gorgeous pieces, and we worked with her Spring/Summer collection. Pastel shades, soft as a cloud, printed on silk and hand-marbled.

And I got to do the modelling! I actually sort of hate having my photo taken. I only like it if I can control it and see exactly what’s going on. But Rachel did an amazing job. She put me at ease, gave great direction, and was very encouraging. Although we did have one or two ‘move to the left. Your left. No, my left. No, my right!’ moments! We did a lot of laughing, a lot of listening to bizarro music, and ultimately, we had a great time. Thanks very much to Paul of http://www.photoshootstudio.co.uk/ who set us on the right path! Strongly recommended as a venue if you need to do any shoots. Paul helped us hugely with the lighting and even our camera settings. Think Rachel and I will be paying him a visit for photography lessons, as we’re both self confessed ‘for god’s sake leave it on the automatic setting!!!!!’ girls.

The Scottish Play Very quickly rounding this up, as I can see my word count growing exponentially and you’ve probably all stopped reading already! Anywho, straight after my photoshoot I hopped on a train to Carshalton to see The Scottish Play, directed by my chum Paul. I genuinely can’t bring myself to say Ma***th. Once a superstitious actor, always a superstitious actor. He’d transposed it all to a modern setting, aligning it against the violence and insanity of the rioting last year. Seeing Shakespeare done in a chavvy setting is always fascinating, and it was a bold choice and an excellent Shakespearean directorial debut.

That’s me done! Got a crazy busy week next week but I’ll see you back here when I can. Thanks for reading 🙂 xx

Why loving fashion does not make me an ‘airhead’

Posted in Fashion by

I’d like to write about a little subject that is very close to my heart, and something that has been bothering me an awful lot lately. It’s come to the fore because of a combination of factors, and a sudden realisation that there is a place for me, and there are a lot of people who see things as I do – which is terribly reassuring. I’m talking about fashion. Specifically, my love for, and respect of, the industry. It’s a bit weird to state that, actually. I find it sad that I should feel the need to justify myself on this front, but unfortunately, the reputation of ‘fashion people’ necessitates a need for this riposte.

When I was very small, I first engaged in my love affair with fashion, plummeting in head first. It started with costuming in films – mostly old films. I loved what miracles the clothes could perform. You could see the villain simply by the turn of a collar. Bette Davis, sweeping out of rooms, ably assisted by some supremely dramatic clothes. Hepburn (Audrey) clad in a series of gloriously sculpted black dresses. Hepburn (Katherine) husking away in her high waisted, pleated trousers…

I progressed to Vogue, and I have remained in a loving, stable relationship with the magazine since – despite the little wobble we had when they put Cheryl Cole on the cover. Twice. The pages of that publication provided, as I’m sure they have to many others, an escape from the daily monotony of school, of grey pavements, of high street shops. Inside Vogue a world unfolded, and I stepped halfway in, covering my walls with tear outs. I began to speak the language of clothes, of opulence, of fabrics, of concepts. I would go through, covering the information with my hand, testing myself to see if I could recognise who had made the outfit, going on the cutting of the cloth, the fabric used, or the colours.

I went to school every day in my uniform, and my body spoke the language of school girl, but my head said otherwise. I had found my Arcadia, and it wasn’t the one owned by Sir Philip Green. But did I suddenly start to lose brain cells? Did I feel my mind slowly drifting out of one ear? Of course not. I remain, as I was then, an intelligent girl. I attended debate club, I read obsessively, I worked hard.

Let me illuminate you, for those who don’t understand. Fashion IS cerebral. Fashion is about thought, about precise engineering and a slew of cultural references. Look at the catwalks and you will see something reflective of both society and the economy. It isn’t just ‘a bunch of girls in pretty dresses’. Every (good) designer will perform a series of manoeuvres, display a collection of little codes and cultural references that may only mean something to them, but might translate to the audience too.

As a lover of fashion, I strongly object to the stereotyping of ‘fashion people’ as vacuous, idiotic and shallow, but I’ll forgive you, because I know where you’ve picked up the impression from. Sadly, those people do exist. They only care about what they’re wearing themselves, what they’re eating, drinking or buying. Name-dropping abounds. Whole conversations can revolve around length of skirt, or what colour lipgloss they are wearing.

I’ve worked hard to align my love of fashion with my academic side, and I’ve been delighted to find girls who are of a similar persuasion – boys too, in fact. There’s a whole world of us out there who like fashion because it makes us think, but sadly it’s the vapid types that you probably all know about. I suppose I’m just a little fed up of having to defend myself. Of having to feel like I’ve admitted to something shocking, deep and dark when I talk about my secret love. There are times when I’ve practically felt the need to hand out my CV and an essay on Phenomenology I’ve written, to prove I have a brain. But perhaps that’s just me?

I don’t think it is, I truly believe there is a stigma attached to fashion. This saddens me. It may sound hackneyed, but fashion IS art. It’s tangible art that shapes the world we have around us. Whether you like it or not, fashion is always going to be ubiquitous, for the duration of the time that we all still prefer not to go out naked. In the Devil Wears Prada (sorry – liking that really IS a shameful secret), the Anna Wintour character gives a speech on how her assistant, Andy, may think she’s making a statement with her ‘blue sweater’, but in fact, the precise colour (cerulean) has filtered down from the catwalks, from De La Renta, and found its way to the protagonist’s wardrobe. Her outfit has, in fact, been “chosen by the people in this room”.

And it’s as simple as that really. Whether you like it or not, everything you choose to wear makes a statement about you. Throw on a black t shirt with a sarcastic logo and you’re a stand up from the 80s. Jeans? Well, don’t even get me started on the cultural heritage of denim. You may say it’s just a leather jacket – I say it’s James Dean. Frankly, I believe that everyone should wear whatever they like. ‘What not to wear’ articles are an abomination and detrimental to everybody. Like it? Wear it. It still means something.

That’s why my ‘what I’m wearing’ will look less like “today I’m wearing a blue skirt and white shirt’ and more like “today I am dressed as a doomed Chekhov heroine going to a country party which will do doubt unravel at alarming speed’. It makes perfect sense to me. I costume myself, and fashion – clothes – afford me that ability. I can sculpt my personality through my wardrobe choices. Feeling at odds with the world? Then it’s the swirling raven coat that creates a trail of drama behind me, the bitch fox fur, the belt with studs and chains. I am indestructible. I move differently, slicing through crowds, knife-sharp.

I have learnt that you can know how to write code and still love clothes. You can read Schopenhauer and be sartorially aware. You can nip off to a fashion show and then to the Natural History museum.

You must be true to yourself. To the girls like me – you must never, ever dumb yourself down to fit in. Don’t sand the edges off. I did, a long time ago, and I never will again. I am proud of who I am, and I wear my love of fashion on my sleeve, literally. Don’t blend in. Seek truth and authenticity in all you do, stay true to your artistic ideals and your knowledge. Keep reading, keep writing, keep absorbing. Don’t live a life on the surface.

It’s ok to love clothes, to enjoy fashion. Clothing can be clever, witty and thought-provoking. Seek to make sense of it using your personal system of codes and references. Remember, most importantly of all, it is never ‘just’ a piece of clothing.

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You can come back home, back on your own

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I had one last fling with London Fashion Week. Yesterday morning, I popped up to Vauxhall Fashion Scout (which was not in Vauxhall, but rather, sponsored by the car company). Now, at this point, I have to take some issue with the maps on my iPhone. I’ve never had an issue with it before, but either I’d put the postcode in wrong (hugely unlikely), or the Maps app had changed where the location was overnight (this is almost definitely what happened.) Anyway, I ended up heading off in completely the wrong direction, considering mounting one of Boris’s bikes, but ultimately totally stressing about. I was only in town for the two shows at VFS, and quite frankly, when you’ve paid THAT much for a train fare, you want to actually achieve what you set out to.

It was easy to work out when I was getting closer. In a world full of suits, just follow the girl with the green hair, or the chick with the turban, and you can be fairly sure they’ll be off to a fashion event. Picking up the pace to cover the last bit of ground – it was now 10.15, and the first show was due to start at 10. Thank god for dodgy Fashion Week scheduling, as I raced up, only to spot a giant queue snaking out of the building. I jumped in, and didn’t get in till around 10.35ish.

Vauxhall Fashion Scout is one of the up and coming showcases taking place during LFW, and has received lots of coverage, including Elle and Vogue. It was held in the Freemasons’ Hall in the City, and certainly the second show I saw, Elisa Palomino, made amazing use of that. We sat in a chapel (if Freemasons’ have ‘chapels’), opera rising up in the background, with models appearing outside the iron gates of the chapel and strolling in. It was an incredible show, and I’m still getting chills just thinking about it.

I had some time to spare before meeting Nanna for frozen yogurt, and decided to go and buy some flat shoes. I thought I’d pop up to Primark on Oxford Street, and decided that I wouldn’t get the tube, but would walk up. I went kind of a strange way, through Covent Garden and Leicester Square, and it took me about an hour. I was most definitely in need of those flat shoes by then, so nabbed a pair of teal flats with a crazy kind of bejewelled, feather detail. I also spotted the Holy Grail, the thing I’d been searching for – a black floppy 70s hat. I hardly ever let myself go shopping anymore, due to massive financial constraints, but to treat myself to two very cheap things instead of just grabbing armfuls actually felt more exciting. But that’s a story for another day.

Flats slipped on and bowler switched for the new floppy hat, I walked off again to Covent Garden. Now, frozen yogurt is something I’ve only fairly recently got into, but my god – if you haven’t tried it, you need to, NOW. We ate at Snog on Garrick Street. Pink guava and chocolate with brownie pieces, blueberries and raspberries. Seriously yum. After that, Nanna and I took a walk down to Somerset House to people watch. Having recently streaked her hair with pink (which has given me such serious hair envy I can’t even think about it that much), Nanna fitted right in. It was a lot quieter down there, but we did see a man in a geisha costume.

After a quick coffee pit stop, we wandered down onto the Embankment. This is one of my favourite things to do at this time of year. I love looking across at those great chunks of grey on the Southbank, glowering over the murky Thames. It’s so bleakly beautiful. We crossed the rive and perched ourselves in one of the few exceptions to the ‘grey’ rule: The Dishoom Chowpatty Beach Bar. I’d heard about this pop-up bar ages ago, and it lived up to expectations. Sadly, they were out of coconuts for us to drink from, but we settled for some kind of delicious strawberry cocktail. I was very taken with a clock showing English and Bombay times, illustrated by two men whose moustaches formed the clock hands.

Then it was home time. I was exhausted. I’d walked for about three hours in total. I read The Stylist. Some chavvy girls laughed at my hat on the train. Thank God I wasn’t a 6” something man dressed as a geisha.