The most wonderful week of the year....?

Whether you are a dedicated fashion follower, a fashion hater or a fashionista in the making it won’t have skipped your attention that this week is London Fashion Week. This is the one week in the year when the entire world and its aunt looks to our small island in the hope of style inspiration, fashion forward  thinking and a strong dictation of what to wear in the coming seasons. Stylists, editors, models, journalists and insiders in the know flock from near and far to see what we have to show for a year’s work, state of the art fashion schools and designers that consistently make the tabloids. In to our capital city we squeeze in run ways, makeup artists, models, entourages and egos along with top designers, wannabe’s and, if your part of the McQueen House, sets. As the Claridges Hotel guest list reads like a who’s who of the international fashion world, The Ivy stock up on edamame beans and Victoria Beckham carefully selects 2 month old Harper Seven’s outfits for the week, that cost more than our annual take home salary, the rest of us wait with baited breath to see who’s a fashion hit and who’s a fashion miss this season. For some of us it’s a case of logging on to LFW TV (it is also streamed in to the Living Room, just in case you are worried about missing it!) and for some of us it is a time to hide and avoid the tears and tantrums of fashion diva’s that the delightful British press love to detail every report of. And yet we have some of the biggest fashion houses in the world hear in the UK, we have the quintessential Burberry complete with beauty natural Emma Watson, eccentric Vivienne Westwood, featuring the stunning Charlotte Free and of course the drama and tragedy of the House of McQueen. So as the fashion eyes of the world peer at us through their Chanel glasses and scrutinise our style under their unnerving glare we wait with baited breath for their response.  But this all this glamour, excitement and high expectations seem to me to be an awful lot to ask of a country who coined the styling, culture and phrase, of  the ‘chav’, a country that celebrates the rise of the Primarni generation and who’s role model is Kate ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ Moss. I’m sure our chic sisters across The Channel en Francais are not tripping over their Chanel pumps to hit Primarni, our stylish state side cousins will not be jumping up and down in the latest DKNY with excitement at the prospect of seeing a real life chav and no Milan mistresses will be swapping Bellini for any type of bean. I am not sure Tyra Banks would say should she ask Kate Moss for a Coke (of the fizzy variety) and received a class A drug!

So how do we do it? How can we be known as one of the fashion capitals of the world when are known for some of the biggest fashion faux pas? Maybe is the bright lights, maybe it’s the beautiful sets with stunning models and clothes that we could only create in our wildest dreams, mixed with the champagne on, no doubt, empty tummies but something makes the likes of Anna Wintour and André Leon Talley gives our little island the big thumbs up.  Or maybe the true skill of the British fashion industry is the ability to create the illusion of a silk pure out of a pigs ear........

As I find myself guilty of being a self confessed London Fashion Week addict I found myself reflecting on fashion and its meaning. To me and many others fashion is about art, expression and beauty. A voyeuristic view of what isn’t but of what we would love it to be, maybe it is a touch of escapism that we all need. Fashion and art very rarely have survival value but yet give so much value to our survival. The fashion industry is without doubt fast being one of the UK’s biggest industries and in the current financial climate may be one of our only hopes to a financially stable future. With Samantha Cameron recently stepping forward as an active supporter of both London Fashion Week and the British Fashion Council maybe this is the future, al world where finance and fashion meet as one. Samantha herself was quoted as saying –

 “London Fashion Week is extremely important to the fashion industry in the UK and I look forward to being fully involved from next season. We have so much young talent that needs to be supported and nurtured to ensure we are building brands and businesses for the future”

For me one of the most fabulous things about fashion is its ability to continually reinvent itself, to surprise us and delight us. Fashion uses the past to inspire its future, maybe that’s something we could all learn from.

Can We Kiss & Make Up?

With all great relationships there comes a time when it all becomes too much, it drags us down and we need to take some time out for ourselves. Sometimes its work, sometimes it's our relationships and sometimes it's ourselves. But as that last final thing pushes you over the edge and you need a few days of time out. With all significant relationships there can be too much going on or maybe there’s not enough, whatever the problems sometimes space and time are the only answer. This is also often true about where we live and there occasionally comes a time when the city gets too much and an escape is needed. Last week the city and I needed a break, frustrated and drained with the constant noise, hustle and false promises I knew I needed some time out. So when an invite came my way to go camping I jumped at the opportunity. As I boxed up my Louboutins and folded away my 7 for All Mankinds, the urgency to get out of the city and into the country began to grow. Piling the scrap heap on wheels (aka my car) up with my Hunters willies and Barbour, the boy, my hair piled high on my head like a mad woman and concealing my lack of eye make up with some over sized Chanel sunglasses I put my foot on the pedal and hit the road resembling Toad of Toad Hall slightly.

As the city and all its bright lights faded in the review mirror, the open road ahead lay invitingly free and easy. The country air flooded in quickly through the car windows, the radio was loud and Haribo kept me fuelled as we hurtled deeper into the country side. Why is it that as you start to relax the Sat Nav decides it cannot find your destination? Cursing the piece of equipment that was supposed to be helping, I swiftly turned to my iPhone. No signal. Deep breathes were required as the boy and his tummy started to grumble and rumble. Crossing my fingers that a row wasn’t brewing, it seemed the only option was to go old school. A map was found from the depths of the glove box and once the lip gloss, tissues, old parking tickets and sweets had been peeled off it seemed reasonably reliable. Thirty five minutes later however we were still in the same lay by with no campsite in sight. Eventually a teeny bar of signal appeared on my phone, grabbing the chance a quick call was made for directions only to be told we had been parked next door the entire time!! Arriving late and desperate to get the tent up we were unpacked in minutes and finally was able to look round. That’s when I realised I was a million miles behind the camping jet set. As I perched on a blanket next to our tiny 2 man tent, I couldn’t help but be a little over awed at some of the fabulous tents we were surrounding by. Just as I was beginning to be a little consumed by tent envy, my beloved friend Mrs O called me over to her state of the art tent, to ask if I could help put the lights up in her tent. That was it, I was in full blown tent envy. We didn’t even have a torch. Fitting the lights to her tent ceiling Mrs O continued to leave me speechless with her fitted carpets and chic kitchen area.

As the wine flowed later that evening and the gorgeous homemade chilli was all eaten, it felt amazing to be in the great outdoors. Even the millions of flies and fifteen minute hike to the toilet all added to the charm out the great outdoors. The city and all its little annoyances were a million miles away. It was only the next morning as I woke up cold and achy that I began to miss my bed, in my house, in the city I had fallen out with. As I packed my bags ready to take the hike to the shower block, I began to wonder if we could kiss and make up.

Later that day as the car heaved its way out of the country and back towards the bright lights of home I reflected on the past 24 hours. Some times its good to step back and look at what we have, sometimes we need that space or break away to help us to see what we have and appreciate it. We live in a world that spins so fast it’s easy to lose focus on how we feel and what is important to us. So as much as I enjoyed a quick flirtation with the country, I know my true love is the bright lighted city.

New Season, New Start....?

When we are younger the word new is always exciting. New shoes, new friends, new places to go and new boys to chase. New is positive and bright, filling us with hope that this new experience will bring even newer things. Discovering new labels, new stores and new designers, the world seems our oyster.  It’s only as we sail past our twenties and into our thirties that we realise that the word new isn’t always as shiny and fabulous as we once thought. New car parts are never the words we want to hear, a new (bigger) dress size is not what we want to see and the words ‘he has a new girlfriend’ certainly don’t make us ladies feel like shiny and happy people. So what changes? Do we get more pessimistic as we get older? Do we have different expectations that are not met, that leave us disappointed? Is newness just an urban illusion that we are fed by the media? How many new starts do we get or make for ourselves? At times in our lives it feels every Monday is a new diet, new exercise regime and new weight loss attempt. Every pay day becomes a new promise to not spend all your wages by the first weekend of the month and we promise ourselves every new dress we buy will be the last. Yet in the bright lights of all the newness are we dazzled into a false security that this exciting and often beautiful newness will bring us even more excitement? Does it make us believe that our dreams are all the more reachable? Make up’s and break up’s provide us with yet another opportunity to create new starts and change our paths, often sending us in different and exciting new directions. New skin care products that promise to banish the wrinkles, make us look younger and correct all the blemishes we ever had, new just holds so many promises. It is easy to start to feel jaded at the promises that new holds, do we even believe them anymore? Do we reach a point where we admit there is no new, just belief , dreams and hopes?

This week, as we head towards a new season, the leaves start falling and the vaguely sunny days of summer pass into the warm orangey browns of autumn, it feels like a perfect time to find a happy newness again. Starting with beautiful (new!) tan boots. As I pulled on my new ‘I have great boot boots’ and took the first step towards the new season in them, I couldn’t help but feel lifted by the fabulous new newness of it all. Endorphins at the all time high only new shoes can give you, I took a bold step towards the future. Making a positive promise to myself that all my new beginnings would begin with a new positive attitude. So as the cross roads that we have previously crossed grow in to a dot in the distance and become part of the rich tapestry that is our past learning curves, maybe it’s time to put the negative attitude away into storage. No one has really has room in their Mulberry for excess emotional baggage, it weighs us down, holds us back and can often ruin our new starts. As I walk through the fallen leaves of the last season in my new boots, I can’t help but reflect on the issue of newness. Is it an image or is it real? For me it’s all a matter of creating the perfect match, like the way my new boots match the Mulberry, new should be teamed with positivity and accessorised with hope. So as the leaves crunch under my boots and my Mulberry swings over my shoulder, my excess baggage is firmly in storage and I’m focused, new season, new start.

Is it a girls world?: Packing my heels and my heart.........

Is it a girls world?: Packing my heels and my heart.........: In our lives we have many significant relationships that help to define us and shape who we are. There are the relationships we have with ou...

Packing my heels and my heart.........

In our lives we have many significant relationships that help to define us and shape who we are. There are the relationships we have with our family and friends, the relationship we have with ourselves and for some of us the relationship we have with shopping! But there is another critical relationship that we have, that we often underestimate the importance of, the relationship we have with our homes. Our home is somewhere we escape to at the end of a difficult day, it holds our bed we cry in, the kitchen where friends meet to dry those tears and holds both our physical and emotional memories. 
During our late teens and twenties a home is a just a house as in 'house party', somewhere to meet up with friends and strangers alike as long as the vino is flowing. Student digs with damp walls and mould seem to be a rite of passage into adulthood that we must all adhere to. Walls hold posters of icons and films, the fridge is void of any solid food, except a block of cheese sporting a designer (faux) fur coat and even the ice cube trays are filled with vodka. No one cares that the curtains are filthy or that there are no curtains at all (I once lived in a house where newspaper was used to cover the windows!). Hoovers hide under the stairs broken, mattresses are thrown on the floor in an attempt to make make shift beds and the only bin that is ever used is the glass/tin can recycling one! Even in the few years after uni, houses just weren’t that important as long as it was near the town centre and there was enough space for your ever growing shoe collection. Who cared that the crockery didn’t match, the tea towels were filthy and the bathroom was never clean?

But somewhere in our mid twenties, around the time relationships become serious, employers start promoting us and week day nights are not so much of a party, our homes become important. Suddenly it matters the bathroom is squeaky clean, the curtains are up and match the decor of the room and that our mugs are clean (and without chips). After a long day at work nothing feels better any more than coming home to a clean kitchen (complete with a full fridge), settling on to a warm comfy sofa and sleeping in a proper bed. Weekends that were spent choosing the latest Jimmy Choo’s with a hangover are now spent browsing at Le Creuset and coordinating bedroom furniture, whilst sipping Starbucks. Scatter cushions become a matter of interest, feature walls are the discussions of lunch breaks and even the suggestion of a garden is muttered between friends.

But how does this all happen? How do we go from living in houses to having a home? Is it a sign of getting old and losing our young, fun loving selves? Or was it that maybe these home loving traits were always there as a secret yearning inside of us that we had managed to suppress? Or is turning into home makers something inevitable we will all succumb to at some point in our lives?

For me choosing which home to live in and how to decorate it is like finding the perfect pair of shoes. It has to be a perfect fit at the perfect price. A home should be like your favourite pair of jeans or your oldest, dearest friend – relaxing, comfortable, reassuring and makes you feel content. As I began to pack my bags this week in preparation for my impending move I reflected on the places I had lived, what they had meant to me and the memories made there. From student hovels, tiny one bed flats, house shares and beautiful four bed converted chapels I have certainly had many home affairs. Like all affairs though some have left me wanting more, some have made me cry and some have left me with happy memories that will last a life time. So, this time, as I pack up my heels and my heart for yet another house move I can’t help but start to feel a flicker of excitement mixed in with my sadness, after all every new apartment needs a new pair of shoes!

Is it a girls world?: Birkini Gate........

Is it a girls world?: Birkini Gate........: As we run around in our everyday lives with work, friends, family, child care and career commitments all pressing on us, we are constantly s...

Birkini Gate........

As we run around in our everyday lives with work, friends, family, child care and career commitments all pressing on us, we are constantly striving to be everything to everyone without much thought for ourselves. How many of us fall into bed at night closely hugging our Blackberry or iPhone, sending last minute emails for work, booking future plans on line or updating our diaries? How many lunch times a week do we actually sit and eat a meal? How many of us are using that one hour gap to squeeze in a gym session, complete extra work, see our child’s teacher or simply fit in the food shop? What happened to lunches at Yo Sushi whilst reading Vogue, looking for outfit inspiration for the weekend? Lunch times sat with friends laughing or a quiet, reflective stroll in the sunshine seem a million years ago. Some time ago, in a time when life was simple, lunches were for eating what you wanted without calorie counting, when appearing wrinkles weren’t happening quiet so quickly, 4.30pm on a Friday meant vino o’clock and the only time we referenced a muffin top was in the context of a bakery. With so much going on and the pressure of having to do it all it’s no wonder our lives, dreams and desires are in lost baggage whilst we arrive empty handed at the corner of Haggard Ave and Tired Lane. So sometimes ladies it takes something big to happen to reset the Sat Nav of life and point you back in the direction of yourself. These often take the form of someone else’s celebrations and puts us in to one of lives happy ‘yes’ situations. So like any of us over worked, under paid ladies when the opportunity to spend a day at a spa arose I could think of no better way to spend the day, visions of hot saunas, deep massages, giggles with the girls and yummy lunches swiftly filled my head. Before I knew it I was fully booked and paid up to not one but two spa days! Clearly all the fabulous people are hitting spa’s for their birthdays and hen weekends. As a loyal friend I am only happy to support friends wishes! And so the countdown began...

One Month Pre Booking

I tried on my bikini and was instantly horrified by my porridgy thighs, rolls of lard on my stomach and wobbly bingo wings. The diet started immediately when I realised that holding my stomach in all day wasn’t a realistic option, I also started shopping for a more flattering bikini a simple task really unless you are a size ten bottom and a 32DD top, in which case there is no hope unless you fancy a frumpy M&S tankini that even your own mother won’t wear.

Two Weeks Pre Booking

The diet had already hit a few little glitches in the form of the office bacon butty run, a birthday dinner at ASK and an entire box of Thorntons chocolates due to the wild throws of Madame PMT. Tried on a Baywatch esq swimsuit, convinced it made my already huge stomach expand and gave me a saggy cleavage. Tried on my bikini again, still as horrified with the results, clearly another tack was required. Motivation came in the form of an email on Facebook when it became abundantly clear I was going to be the biggest girl there by quite a long way. As delighted as I am to be going to a spa, it is totally my luck to be going with tall, slim super model types. I quickly dragged my fat bum back on the diet bandwagon and through in some more exercise for good measure.

One Night Pre Booking

Frantically doing sit ups  in an attempt to get my stomach from muffin top, where it clearly was to something that was a little more pancake (flat) like was becoming exhausting. I tried on the bikini for the final time and shamefully admitted defeat. Taking inspiration from Nigella I began to consider that the all in one birkini may be my only option at this point. Short of DIY lipo (I’m no good with needles, or blood and have quite an unsteady hand) I was going to have to accept my fat fate. In a feeble attempt to distract from the flab, cellulite and general lack of tone, I neatly painted all twenty nails, styled my hair in a tousled, steam friendly way and practised breathing in. Hopefully a pink lip stain will cover any blue lips from lack of oxygen.

Finally the big day arrived and I met all the other girls that had been invited. Within minutes I found myself in the changing room and the moment I had been dreading was finally here. As I took one last deep breath, I stepped out into the most beautiful spa.

As we sat in the steam room, relaxing (I had strategically placed a towel over my stomach/hip/thigh area, allowing myself a few more breaths!) I reflected on my feelings over the past few weeks and the extra stress I had put upon myself. I couldn’t help but giggle at myself, this was supposed to be a relaxing day, with me time and I had managed to turn it into another stress. Whilst I can’t honestly say I felt body confident, I could pick a thousand faults (couldn’t we all?) I can honestly say I had a wonderful time. The main fab thing about spa’s is that with all the treatments and chambers it’s hard to keep focused on all your self loathing. I didn’t leave the spa thinner or more toned but I did leave feeling so much more relaxed, having made new friends and with beautiful glowing skin.

xX