Love the Clothes You're In.

"Hey you, leopard legs!" Aaargh....

  I made a wonky clothes purchase a few months back. Caught up in a misguided moment of buying at speed with the continual threat of  our 18 month old son Asa, pegging it out of the shop, I thought the idea of me in a pair of leopard print jeans wasn't too radical. I would dress them down. I would de-sexualise the animal-print skin-tight look by only ever wearing them with enormous, stay away from me style jumpers. The type that is always pre-owned by a lesbian fishing woman on the Isle of Sheppy. A pair of converse or flat ankle boots and the chance of a wolf whistle from a leering builder would be zero. Bingo! Although I know that I'm no longer of an age that the scaffolders would turn their heads to, I still find myself giving a garment the wolf whistle measurometer. I grew up with boys and to be wolf whistled at would make my blood boil! And the problem with these trousers was, unless worn in my lesbian armour attire, I could hear wolf whistle alarm alerts going off like fire-engines. So there wasn't much room for deviation in my mind. And when it came to reaching for the oversized, over grown jumper for the fourth and fifth occasion I realised that those trousers just weren't and aren't my thing. Flexible they were not and I do love a bit of bendability from my clothes, so I gave them to Jo and she gives them the sexiness they deserve. I can't wear them how she does but then I don't have glossy, swishy hair, an unapologetically sexy way of sashaying and daughters, - yes, maybe my boys are making me into a tom-mum. Either way, I love the way she dresses, I'd even go so far as to say I admire it but I'm also aware that my personality likes clothes that are a little less foxy.
 When I worked as a stylist, as a way of rustling up some good money fast to set up my own business, I was fortunate enough to work with some decent bands who quite honestly did not need any styling. Supergrass, Coldplay, Matthew Jay, Turin Brakes and Divine Comedy were just a few, none of whom are wardrobe entourage heavy but the record companies couldn't help themselves, at a time when there was a whole lot of budget given over to a whole lot of image. I remember receiving endless calls from panicky record company juniors telling me how they didn't want a band to look but never any references to what they were gunning for. Great. I could see the musicians coming out in hives at the thought of meeting a stylist and me, the stylist was already apologising for the prospect of telling them what to wear. In the end I just went shopping for them. I could see what their personal preferences were and like a well meaning female friend I simply edited out any penchants for long leather coats or ill fitting jeans. No-one ever had a freaky style transformation and everyone was happy. These boys were musicians. They didn't need to be Gaga'd to be appreciated.
 What I have come to find as I get a little older is that personal style is a wonderfully liberating thing and you don't have to be a fashion lover to have it. Know what you like and don't worry about Gok Wan's opinion. If he had his way I'd be walking around town with my "baps out and strutting those leopard legs"! Stick someone in something they are not comfortable in and the clothes wear the wearer. Around our neck of the woods, in trendy Dalston zone, there may be a sea of young style types but an awful lot of it is so self-conciously fashion that  I don't see them as individuals. They are a mass of fashion, all wearing the same current trend as their uniform and morphing into one big clump of boringness. Shrunken jumpers, kids duffle coats and geeky glasses. It all looks cold and uncomfortable. No wonder they all seem so glum.     
 So next time I'm caught in a mad-dash must-buy moment I will take a second to weigh up the number of lesbian-fishing-top outings the garment will require to survive my alarm bell ringing head. More than two and I'm running the same way as Asa! I'm not from Sheppy you see and I'm married. To a man.

My trusty seafarin' beauty. And Jessie.

      

Jean Junkie.

Don't ya just wanna know those  Levi' gals? Gee.

 I remember my Mum asking me over the phone, a few days before my first serious job interview 'what are you going to wear?', no doubt thinking that this was the dawn of a new age for her youngest child. Finally she would morph from a slightly dishevelled studenty old scruff bag into a woman. Get a power suit, brush her hair, carry folders. Ok, maybe not the latter but for a lawyer mum to an art school daughter there was always a pretty big gulf in our fashion waters. Not that my Mum ever berated my choices but I can sympathise as a parent her desires to see me 'pretty up' on a more regular basis. However, I often made her laugh at my charity shop finds and she certainly approved of those secondhand prices. But on telling her that "you really don't dress up to these sort of interviews, Mum, so yes I will be wearing my jeans and no, I won't be brushing my hair", I think she did wonder whether I would ever have a grasp of the adult world. This fashion thing looked pretty prepped and primed to her. In the papers, with their little nod to the Paris shows, all picture and no writing, would be trussed up fashion editors scribbling away in front of sashaying mannequins. Vogue, whilst not my Mum's thing looked glossy, Elle, Marie Claire even Mizz! But her daughter, never one to be easily persuaded otherwise didn't seem phased about going to Paris, meeting some important fashion houses and looking like a lay-about. I however saw it quite differently. I was right then and stick by it now. Fashion should never look uncomfortable, too serious or contrived. Get your jeans right and you can get through most doors, anyway I wasn't going for a job that needed me to win over the confidence of a boardroom of suits. I wasn't trying to heal rifts in the Middle East and I certainly wasn't, unlike my mother, trying to help families in a courtroom. 

 So I donned my jeans, probably my converse and some kind of t-shirt and had a very successful trip. Over the years I haven't had to tailor my work clothes much. Maybe in Italy I embraced a bit more polish but jeans were and are a staple that I can't see ever going away. The honesty of denim makes me a die hard Levi' fan and the fashioning up of the jeans business has kept me away from the sand blasted, rhinestone shaking, over-priced designer kind. Find your fit and make them work for you, because, like a loyal dog, they never let you down. 

Worn day after day after day after day .....

     

The Beautiful People.

Richard Avedon's anonymous beauty. 

  
 It is hard to pinpoint the moment when I fell out of love with 'fashion'. Hard because I'm not sure I ever truly fell for her at all. The youngest child in a family of five, I always tried to find a way of re-interpreting an overly worn, multi-hand down, out of date and probably other sex item of clothing. Three brothers and then a sister who confused even the local priest with her boyish haircuts, scuffed up knees and inability to do pink, left me with little in the way of glitter but as Cinders would agree, it's when you're up against it that you really dig deep. So as I grew and would occasionally be gifted some money by my Mum, 'to spend wisely on a few new pieces of clothing to see you through this next year', it was understandable that I might find one item that compelled me to buy it. As I would sit on the cross-country train home, post splurging at the nearest shopping centre in the ultra glamorous city of Peterborough, my sister would be weighed down with a dozen or so bags bursting with dependable navy tops, reliable jeans, the occasional Etam number and a whole lot of grey. I however would have one bag. One item. No change. But I would adore that dress/top/jumpsuit. They would be the most fantastic shoes this side of Paris. The greatest pair of trousers East Anglia had ever seen. Fortunately my parents saw me as the token creative number in a house full of super brains and such things would be allowed to go unjudged. So it came as no surprise to them when, after art school I chose to do a degree in fashion design. It was easy. It made sense. I could do the whole collection thing, work the production, fuss over the details but I never really factored in the people.
 My woman, my world, the life that I saw being draped in my designs was never going to be the person that shopped in the boutiques I ended up selling to. She was someone that might appreciate the work I would do but lived outside of the business I was in. She was a woman in her husbands shirt and some jeans, collecting vegetables from an allotment. The woman covered in paint, wearing overalls, decorating a garden shed. The lady who always talked to my mum after church on Saturday evening, perfectly balanced in her dress, antique jewellery and silver grey hair. And then there was the lady who always carried her wicker basket with her, smoking a cigar, her perfect figure wrapped in a tailored shirt and slacks. These were the women I admired. To me they were bourgeoise left bank intellectuals who talked about literature, art and music. Not to say that is what I have become, this is all fantasy don't forget! But essentially it is this woman who made me turn my nose up at the business of 'Fashion'. For all its supposed glamour around show-time, its fantastical crowd of followers lapping up the next it-bag, it-shoe, it-girl, the beauty is pretty thin. I saw a girl crossing the road today, as I was waiting at the lights who, in all her wonky unself-aware ways was one hundred times more beautiful than any of the fash pack, presently pounding their pointy feet around the shows in Paris. She wouldn't have turned heads and she didn't stop traffic but in a world where everyone and everything is sprayed, polished and prepped to within an inch of its life, her natural and uncomplicated way of dressing and just being, made her stand apart. 

 Fashion will always draw me in but as I get older I definitely care a little less about Vogue' version of beauty. I've lived long enough now to see the wheel of style turn over more than once, repeating old looks with little change. True beauty is often found in the differences and I can embrace that thought. It's a whole lot cheaper to master. 

  

Baubles and Bangles.

"Ooh, maybe just 4 more crucifixes
and a truck  load of plastic pearls..."

 I'm not a jangly lady. Not big on bangles, necklaces or rings. Strange really because there is something about jewellery that intrinsically draws me to it. The fancy-dress box mess around mentality that can be liberating and fun, channeling a Madonna circa 1984s Like A Virgin look where all that is needed is a bit of wild abandon and a blindfold. A chaotic clobbering together of all things shiny. Suddenly the eye is magnetically drawn to the trimmings, not the usual fabric covered torso thing that goes on with clothes alone. But why don't I embrace it with a bit more gusto and actually cover an arm from wrist to elbow? Dress it up a bit. I could afford to (stylistically speaking), it is hardly as if it would send my dressed-down look out of balance, no one is going to think I'm off to meet the Queen. In fact, when I look around at many women, there is a whole lot of adornment going on and none of them look OTT. But it is a habit that I can't shake. Less is more. A jewellery anorexia. My Dad' watch is my ownly embellishment and on dress up occasions I go wild by adding a ... necklace. It's a pattern I'd love to break, alas it would ask an extra few minutes from my slimline morning routine and until my kids start to know which way round the gusset of their pants should go of a morning, Dad' ever faithful old ticker will have to do. 
 I do have a friend however who blows all of that out the water with one wave of her candy covered arm. She stacks those bangles high and wears it well. Mixed with her mod-punk fusion look, kids at her legs, buggy as her baton, she is a walking embodiment of how to make it work. I have a bit of style envy but I know when to let someone else carry the trophy. I'll just walk in the shadow of her jewelled up glory. She'd never know. I'm jangle free.

Two pictures from a recent
Louis Vuitton campaign.

A new LV campaign featuring
Rover and my Dad' watch.

The Old Classics.

Don't trash Coco' style now people or she'll come at you.
Those bags weren't shaped like bricks for no reason!

  No I don't have a Chanel jacket, if I did maybe I wouldn't be the kind of woman who is sitting writing blogs. I'd be drifting through my crumbling French chateau, dogs trailing at my heals whilst looking for inspiration for my boutique jewellery line, based in Paris, that only sells to friends - who have pocket money that doesn't rise in 50p increments on a birthday basis. However, I'd like to have one. But it has to be right. The right length, colour, detailing and the right way of wearing it. That, my friend, is the key to that little boucled box of luxe. And if you don't get that last detail right you may as well have just flushed all your big bucks down the pan. Ms Beckham and you too Beyonce, money don't buy you style. So, sad as it is that these flash cash shoppers are all too quick to buy into those beautiful old classics, as a way of vocalising their wealth, their way of wearing these pieces always sets them apart from the old school. And it is the old school that does it with style.
 So if you are about to take ownership of some French brickwork and you need to figure out the dos and don'ts of your aristo lineage look, check the yes' and nos below. All else fails, wear your jacket naked, with some fabulous jewels. The French have always been at ease with their flesh, non?

Oui, c'est tres chic, low key, ooh la la.

Non! C'est tres horible. Grand hair, nails. Mon dieu.  

Lordy me.... I mean, non, madame. Un abomination!

C'est tres gentile, ma petite mignon.

Crikey, Sienna. Hair, boots, get yourself to Chelsea.

Oui madame. Vous etes un tres belle mamon.

Sacre Couer, Vicky!

No French words can describe ....

Oui, elle etes un fille charmingo.

Non! Get thee back to Cal-i -forn-i-a.

Madame Oui Paradis.

.

And there you are, naked but for Chanel
and your beautiful child
- and house
-and face
-and Frenchy ways!

Au revoir...

Print It.

Native Indian women, looking print-tastic.

I've never been a loud and proud print girl. My focus when it comes to clothes has always been about proportion and cut, the balancing of fabric weights and a love of cool, quiet, stylish elegance. I'm talking as a fashion designer now, this isn't a pre-occupation I always choose to afford myself, I appreciate that life offers other more worthy distractions but if I'm going to write about print then I need to confess I have a habitual avoidance of it - until now. 
 What influences these subtle creative changes is hard to pinpoint. Print always has and will continue to be used successfully across the broad spectrum of the fashion world but when it taps into the minds of the more monochromatic designers, you know it is about to have its moment. I recently bought an old Missoni tracksuit in a secondhand shop (I refuse to call everything vintage - it's an adjective used to denote a time where something of quality was produced and there is always a whole lot of rubbish that you need to sift through before you find that gem,) and where a few years ago I would have pushed past it, on the hunt for something a little more well, subtle, I bagged it. The tribal knit printed trousers, played out in bright primarys, balanced with a perfectly tailored-jacket, over a simple marl vest is a thing of beauty! How did my wardrobe survive before? Suddenly, seriousness is given a shake up and celebration and festival make an appearance. In fact it is as I get older that I am happy to throw out the rule book a little more and have fun. Who cares if my neighbour thinks I look bonkers, my 6 year old is trying to pinch my trousers and that's the kind of thumbs up I like.

An Indian in Hackney.

Shiny Things.

Hepburn. Whip smart. Funny and always embracing the slacks.
(I bet she'd have loved a bauble though.)
Gad, ya looked good kid!

  I have always been of the less is more persuasion, make-up, hair 'dos', styling and jewels. It isn't that I'm averse to glamming things up but there are few people who benefit from it as the day or for some, night, wears on. My minimalist approach has certainly had its benefits over the years. There is no way that this old hound would want to learn any new tricks as far as grooming goes in the morning. Kids or no kids, I ain't blow-drying hair or applying foundation before I go out the door. Any extra time I might gain as the years pass, with children doing more for themselves in my quest for an acceptable presentation on  their exiting our front door, and you'll find me buried just a bit deeper for a bit longer under my duvet. However, despite my love of all things natural I recognise that nature doesn't always look kindly on the do-and-dash kind of approach with which I like to run my life. We don't all tumble from our linen jumbled beds, shake out our Rapunzel like locks and skip out of the door in a perfectly measured Parisian girl type of way. In actual fact, as the years roll on by, my low maintenance look could become a great BIG maintenance pain in the rump. So maybe I will eventually cut my bird's nest of a hairstyle into something more manageable. Swop the manky old Converse for an elegant flat. Buy a proper bag to carry all my bag lady effects and dump the sweatshirts in favour of a neat and tidy John Smedley. Or more likely I'll just start to hanker over a few bits of delicate bling, an Alexis Carrington for  the new age. I like that.

Yes please, to  Halleh' 18 ct gold heart bracelet.

  

Thankyou, for Linn Lomo' spike and balls earrings. 

That parisian lady - this one being Gaia Repossi and her lovely cuffs!

a BIG bit of beautiful Repossi bling.
Thankyou, please.

Diane Kordas' blackened gold diamonds -
Ooooh, Alexis didn't have nothing on that!

Moo man takes it upon himself
to rid the family of my plastic heirlooms.
An easy lunch.  

Baggin' It.

Jane and Boris Birkin taking my bag for a walk.

 I don't want to admit to this, I don't want to portray myself as a total moron but I seem to have a more than healthy curiosity in those over-priced things called 'designer bags'. I don't have one and I doubt I ever will but there is something incredibly seductive about the attention to detail, the quality of the leather and the ability they have to transform a messed up old somebody into a not so messed up mess, simply by dangling a bit of luxe from their arm. But I have a problem. Well, the financial thing obviously, I couldn't just chuck a grand at a bag without feeling the need to say five Hail Mary's and two Our Father' but it is the speed at which most of these bags lose their cool factor, being updated with a new bigger better version only a matter of months after. 
 I once started a 'bag fund'. I would put a relatively small sum of cash into a pot once a month until I reached my dream bags' target, then off I would skip to a shop with a big name and purchase my bit of candy. The fund lasted six months and although I hadn't slipped in my steady contributions I also wanted to get the floor sorted out in our kitchen, oh and there was the escalating costs of Caspar' nursery fees, the need to change the car to a truck and more stuff, more stuff, more stuff. When did I plan to actually use this bag? On the school run? I'm often cycling a tricycle, piled high with kids arms and legs. On a trip to the park? I wouldn't risk the leaky beakers let alone a leaky pair of trousers that need swapping. Maybe I thought I would use it on all those nights out I go on. But I like staying at home. What was I thinking? Maybe I've just always liked seeing others 'baggin' it' and as I reach for my seasonless yet reliable cotton shopper, home to more crap than a cupboard could hold, I'm free of my designers fear that someone out there is about to bring out the next 'It' bag just after I've parted with my pot of gold or more secretly that I harbour the deluded belief I could have done it better. So thankyou floor, thankyou inflation and thankyou kids. I love my canvas bag and it loves me. (However if anyone happens to have a spare Birkin bag they are looking to donate, I'd happily be its guardian, trike and all.)

Helena on my trike...
and not a Birkin in sight.

Silly, Silly Man.

A/W 2008 - beautiful, non ?

 The press is a funny beast. Our source of information on all things current and yet as I age, that increasingly familiar angle, 'scepticism', starts to creep in a little more regularly and the need to read between the lines becomes more essential. The Wire, probably one of the greatest television series to come out of America in the last decade, demonstrates the ripple effects of the power our newspapers can wield and so it is with some sadness that I read of the 'demise' of the great John Galliano.
 His is old news really, yesterdays fish and chip paper but for him and the fashion business it is a sad time. Accused of verbal abuse and anti-semitic remarks, Galliano has been stripped of his crown by the very people who put him there. He is a fool and a mess. His behaviour is one of a man teetering on the edge, attempting to jump but hoping someone might catch him and they have but in the hands of the press he didn't find an enveloping arm, instead he has been stripped and flogged and now he finds himself being held up as a public example to all. 
 I have no doubt that Galliano had been a handful for his team at Dior for sometime and most likely a headache for the bigwigs at LVMH. Substance abuse had become his daily caffeine and without the guidance of his loyal friend and designer, Stephen Robinson , who had, over the two decades of working together, become his right and left hand, dying in 2007 of a heart attack, Galliano' direction had become increasingly aimless. Add to that the death of two others close to him, Isabella Blow and Alexander McQueen and Galliano could be forgiven for some serious misfiring.   Maybe LVMH were looking for an opportunity like this so they could rid themselves of the very beast they had helped to create but more likely they have had a team of people mopping up his verbal detritus for a  long time, however on this occasion there was no time to hide the mess. Having been caught red handed on the camera of his accusers (who, if you have seen the clip, appear to be goading a drunken fool,) he sealed his own fate and LVMH, the powerhouse that owns Dior, could do nothing but shut the door on him. The press were on to him like dogs and no upstanding establishment, whose money is tied up in selling the beautiful life, would want to stand up and defend the accused. 
 What will become of him? How does an artist - because that is what he is, unquestionably - go on from here, once the court case has past sentence? His behaviour is the reflection of a man who has burnt out, producing over a dozen different collections a year, addressing ad campaigns, perfume launchs, increasingly theatrical shows and the continued pursuit for the 'new' in a world that celebrates nothing deeper than the exterior. How do you come back to the ring when the audience who once applauded also vilified and distanced themselves?
 For me John Galliano was never a barometer of what was current and fresh but instead continued to remind me of how a true artistic designer works. They are consumed by their art and penniless or loaded with gold, collections appeared, dripping in drama and it is because of that, I hope he will return, no doubt heralded by the same people that rushed to damn him. He was stupid, drunk and way out of line but for a moment I can spare him the time to try and understand. A perfect citizen he ain't but forgiveness we can.

Over indulged me thinks...

To Sell or Not to Sell...?

Tower of heels, fare ye well.

 There is a cupboard in our house that requires a ladder to access it. It houses a dusty pile of shoe boxes, bursting with vertigionously high heels in a rainbow of colours and styles; part of those glamorous twenty-something years where I needed little excuse to turn from a grimy trainer to a heel as the evening approached. Now it is from a trainer to a slipper (and not the silky heeled type, much loved by ageing movie stars). So, with some hesitation, I have just scaled the precarious shelves beneath the shoe shop cupboard (to get the ladder would mean fighting my way through the booby trapped dump that is our cellar) and unearthed some beautiful shoes that haven't seen the light of day - or a disco ball - for an awfully long time.
 There is something rather sad about boxed up shoes, at least when they have been tucked away for at least half a decade. Heels, whether you wear them or not symbolise a 'good time', practicalities are not of consequence, strap them to your feet and you become a party warrior, any pain being numbed by the swig of another alcoholic beverage. But that me is a distant past that I only occasionally revisit and with no daughters on whom I can dump my ton of shoes I have taken the long overdue decision to 'get rid'.
 Ebay was my first call, the computer land of buy and sell where anything is up for grabs. You want a cashew shaped like Jesus' face? Or a date with someones' gay Uncle Frank? Okey, surely there must be a few willing buyers for some very desirable, clicky heeled things that have fancy names on them and once robbed me of all my earnings? Let me just read the blurb. Yep. Yep. Yep. Got it. ERRRGGHHHHHHHHhhhhhh...... Something tells me I have been here before. I have attempted this whole charade with some other bits of nonsense I've thought fit to sell. What happened? Oh yes, I went "ERRRGGHHHHHHHHhhhhhh......" Why? Because it is so emotionless and well, professional. Most people selling have clearly made it their daily grind. They have ratings and reviews. They have a patter of writing and loads of products. They most likely have jiffy bags aplenty and industrial brown tape for sealing up goods. And even after all of that, their sales never really shift for much more than the cost of post and packaging. But my handicap is the emotional attachment I have over those shoes and although I should just shut-up and get on with it I have another option.
 Strut, a great shop, local to me in N16, is an Aladdins' cave of vintage clothes, that also buys up the kind of clobber that lives in my unreachable cupboard. Here, the shoes would be displayed, admired and maybe sold! to a young, life-loving thing, whose only responsibility is to scrape enough money out of the shopping left-overs to pay her rent. (I'm getting a bit rose-tinted nostalgic here.) So Asa and I are going to eat our boiled egg and soldiers now and then we're off to our first sales meeting. I'll do the talking and he can model the goods. He's got the legs for it.

Vivienne Westwood -
from her lunch/snackette 2011 collection.

   

Thou Shalt Covet

Dear God, I pray for world peace and Vivienne' new shoes.
Amen.

It is with some embarrasment that I am writing this post but my obsession with these shoes is doing funny things to my head. Focus on a more worthy, high-brow topic is not possible. I have tried but failed. So with regret for my own image, I'm forced to confess to my pre-occupied state. Vivienne Westwood has designed a shoe that tickles my fancy, ticks all the right boxes and was made with me in mind. (I know that is not the case but you see how deluded you can become!) But it isn't just the shoe that has taken me by surprise here but my own giddy, child-like state.
  I am beginning to observe things in two ways; my own self - going about my days doings whilst mentally piecing together my new shoes (which I don't have) with various different jeans and scruffy top combinations and the out of body me, looking down on this fairly intelligent woman (stick with me here!), capable, articulate and certainly not a fusser but a do-er, thinking 'Wow, I thought she would have grown out of that by now. Doesn't she have more important things to occupy her mind with? Shouldn't she be thinking about the money needed to change that annoying drippy tap or get busy with some curtain making for the top landing. And how about chipping a bit more off the mortgage. Silly white female!' Then I look at my children and I remember what it is that keeps us young. Our 5 year olds tireless addiction to all things 'Gremlin' are not based on having seen that rather strange horror-comedy film made way back in the 80's. It is the drip drip of information he gleans from anyone who might remember those rather macabre looking lizardy things (yesterday, it was the mattress delivery man) and with it comes an energy that seems to make all things possible. Knowing those shoes are out there makes another Wednesday morning a little more thrilling. Thoughts of how I can raise the capital to pay for them without selling off half our house inspire some creative thinking and I always like a challenge.
  Will I get them? I don't know but the pleasurable feeling of desire is not something to be ashamed of any more. It's what keeps us young and makes life worth getting up for. Only for me it's a shoe. When I was seven I might have hoped I'd be onto world peace by now.

the guilt

...on someone else!

   

Dress Me Up.

Even Marlene loved a bit of dress.
(-when she was getting her smoking suits washed.)

For  someone who spends 364 days of the year in trousers I have an awful lot of dresses. I can't quite explain why, maybe it is the 'just add underwear and you are done' appeal of them or maybe it is the 'I'm going to go out and party ... one day' promise they give me but as it stands, I have plenty more than I need. However, on every occasion I have worn one of them, I have had an amazing time, simply because I still get that little-girl-going-to-a-party rush and I couldn't care if I was really just having tea round at Tina'. 
You see, the dresses I am drawn to are almost always second-hand finds and I'm not talking hundreds of pounds vintage styley. It might seem easier to just totter into a normal clothes shop but you won't leave with the same smug expression then if you had just scooped a brilliant one-off bargain. Throw caution to the wind. Stand out. Embrace the moth-balley hum, the  tear down the seam and the suspicious brown stain, all of that is fixable and you know that no-one else is going to be swanning around in it' twin. Vintage takes you far enough back in time to let yourself behave like an old party-loving socialite lush. 
So next time you are trying to find yourself a bit of something different, don't head for the High street, the boutique or god-forbid, net-a-porter (who buys those £££££££ dresses ONLINE!). Go for a proper rummage around those aladdin' cave type of shops and bag yourself a proper little gem.

That'll be £40 for a BAFTA dress...
(yes, even Angie' looked me up and down in this!)

£35 for a birthday party dress...

£42 for a friend' posh dinner dress...

£15 for a tea at Tina' dress...

£28 for a Hardy Amies I used to work dress!

... and that's just the tip of the iceberg.

She's Good

Yes, I'm cool and no you can't talk to me.

It isn't often that I've said this, in fact, only two or three (not dead) designers have been given my all important thumbs up but Phoebe Philo is pretty good. As the relatively new creative director of Celine, an old French fashion house that has needed some updating for a while, Philo has managed to pull the label back, slap bang into the epicentre of the fashion spotlight. This designer is having her moment and as her last pre-collection recently shows, she is right on the money.
Since capsizing my own fashion boat some time ago now, I've enjoyed the freedom to buy some more questionable items, flirt with some more girly styles and mostly not think twice or even once about what I'm going to pull on. There is something very liberating about getting out of the fashion business. It had reached a point where I could only be critical of others collections and buying from another label was almost cheating on my own. (Not that I could anyway, I was constantly broke!) I had a total love hate of the world it encompassed. 
And now? Well, from my bright green doored - yes, I did it!(? - see Knock Knock post)- Stokey distance, it doesn't look so bad and now Ms Philo is doing something that I totally agree with, I often think, maybe. Maybe we could be friends. Maybe I could throw ideas around the studios of Celine for a few hours a day, in between kiddy duties and be a part of that old world for a second time. Maybe I could talk clothes, sleep clothes, eat (well, okey, too far) ... maybe I could BE FASHION all over again. Then I remember why I'm writing this post. Fashion doesn't need me. Phoebe is going to rescue your dilemmas. So go and buy mod style trousers, narrow shouldered jackets and break out and embrace a bit of leopard print. (- sounds scary but if worn in the right way...) Couple all that with a very cool persona and you've got a really expensive look. Actually there is my problem. Cool, aloof, distant. No. Not genetically possible. I'm leaving it too Phoebe and I think you'll be in good hands.

  8(!) yr old collection of mine

.... and one more.