Wednesday, 28 April 2010

I hope not anyway

“You’re not being serious, are you?”


“You cannot leave the house looking like that”.

My mother was not telling me that my skirt was too short or that my top was too low. Nor was she telling me that my shoes were not suitable for the weather. My mother was telling me that I didn't look good enough for the run I was about to do.

I suppose I looked as though I was working the ‘homeless/grunge chic’ look: an old pair of black leggings, my brothers ancient (and therefore oversized) grey track jumper, red tartan socks, battered old running trainers and a black head-band.

The thing is, I’m not some A-list celebrity: It doesn’t really matter what I wear when I’m out for a jog. I’m not going to end up on the front of some trashy magazine because I sweated while wearing Stella McCartney for Adidas or Scarlett Johansson for Reebok.

“But people might see you.”

At this point in the conversation it was 7.09AM, the only people that might see me at this time of day looking so, oh how should I put this…ravishing…would be: dog walkers (probably wearing pyjama bottoms and a Barbour jacket while loosely holding their pet’s excrement); those doing the walk of shame (therefore wearing their clothes from the night before, that spent a few hours lying crumpled on a floor, and thus avoiding all eye contact); and business folk on their way to the office (of course they’ll be dressed sharp and dapper but they wont have had their morning coffee yet, so are still half asleep: they’re not alert and wont be paying attention to anything, let alone me wizzing by).

So really, Mother Dearest, while I appreciate that you want me to look my best at all times in case I happen to meet my future husband, its not going to happen on a run. I hope not anyway.

Monday, 26 April 2010


I fell in love on Saturday. It was a chance encounter. I didn’t expect it. And now the affair is over, just as quickly as it began.

“Time heels all heartaches”, my friends say. But I know this sense of longing will last forever. The one that got away. The stone coloured, boat-neck, tee-shirt sleeved, tiered dress from Topshop. How I wish our romance had blossomed.

It was one of those dresses that you just know would be so dashingly dandy on. Utterly perfect. But this isn’t a perfect world: it would have been had I bought it, but no, I didn’t: it’s not even traceable on their website. Cry.

Thursday, 22 April 2010

Je déteste les clogs

After posting yesterday and taking a quick trip into town today to get shoe boots, shoes are still very much on my mind. However, I had no luck with the gorg black pair I had imagined in my head: instead I was met in every shop and store by clogs. Flat clogs, heeled clogs, black clogs, nude clogs, studded clogs and toe-less clogs. No, no, no. I don’t get this trend. Perhaps it’s because they simple are so gosh darn ugly? Perhaps I don’t like the Netherland’s national dress? Perhaps it’s their association with my old French teacher who wore the same pair of blue clogs everyday - with thick, woollen socks – throughout my time at school? Either way: je déteste les clogs.

Wednesday, 21 April 2010

Hobbits have it easy

There are some things in life that are more important than others. Brushing your hair is more important than going for a spray tan. Wearing matching underwear is more important than painting your nails bright pink. And wearing appropriate shoes that will suit the rest of your outfit is more important than anything and everything else.

Don’t you just hate it when, once the happily ever after of buying new shoes has come along and you find that actually, they don’t go with everything in your wardrobe despite you telling (and convincing) yourself that they will as you walk up to the counter to pay for them. Gosh Darn.

Shoes can, do and will alter your entire appearance, making you appear taller, fatter, thinner, trendier and more prone to compliments (as well as behind the back slagging): you’ve got to get it right.

Remember Lily Allen circa 2006? The prom dress and trainer combo took Britain, sadly, by storm and the ‘Council Estate Chic’ trend was, unfortunately, born. Thankfully, Lily has realised the error of her ways and has the kind and much needed help of Karl Largerfeld: she now looks in the mirror before leaving the house in the morning.

Girls have more of a chance to get it wrong:

Boys, for the most part, can generally get away with wearing jeans and trousers with trainers and smart shoes respectively (just don’t get them mixed up please, or I will chunder…everywhere)

Girls have the spoilt rotten choice of sandals, trainers, smart/casual flats, boots, mid-heels, high-heels and platforms. Oh and shoe boots too, I would quite like to have a pair of them, I feel they would greatly improve my quality of life. Really though, it’s not hard to match the appropriate foot covering to the rest of your outfit; all you have to do is look in the mirror a lá Lily Allen circa 2010.

The one thing I will absolutely, completely, 100% avoid however, is ankle straps. They ought to come with a warning: “CAUTION, will cause great offence to even those with long, toned, slim and seemingly perfect legs (side effects include cankles)”. My dad agrees.

Hobbits have it easy.

Saturday, 17 April 2010

Father would be proud

Last night I sat on my bed and stared blankly at my wardrobe. You’d think that with the amount of time I spent organising it last week that picking out something to wear to hit the local disco on a Thursday night would be easy. Not so much.

A last minute decision to go out meant that I didn’t have all day long to ponder over outfit choices. It meant that I had two whole hours to get dinner, shower, shave my legs, moisturise, tan, try on outfits, do my hair, decide on an outfit, do my make up, organise my bag (total nightmare btw) and practice poses in the mirror.

Miraculously though, I did manage.

I’m pretty awesome that way.

Now, I like to think of myself as a tidy, neat and organised person: although if you were ever to see my bedroom towards the end of term you would disagree. My dad has always enforced the phrase “tidy room, tidy mind” which totally makes sense and when practiced, works. But I feel that I ought to amend it to “tidy bag, tidy life”.

At present, my (sadly wannabe) Marc Jacobs black, quilted Stam bag resembles the inside of a junk shop. It’s a jumble of … stuff. I can’t put a name to half of it: most seems irrelevant, un-necessary and a total hassle to carry around, yet I know that if I was to leave any of it behind I would be lost, helpless and vulnerable.

So, I’ve compiled a check-list of contents. They are in order of priority and bag size (small to big, obvs) and will allow my life to be hassle free. Well, that’s the plan anyway.

O. Keys, purse and phone. Never, ever, ever will I leave the house without these. They are the guardians of my being.

O. Camera, perfume, mirror and lip salve. I like to capture those Kodak moments. I like to smell of Valentino’s Rock and Rose. I like to know how I’m looking. And I like to be kiss ready for when Mike Phillips is around the corner. Because one day he will be.

O. Notebook, pen and diary. For jotting down ideas, thoughts, blog entries, doodles and dates.

O. Chewing gum, hair slides and a comb. Like I said, Mike Phillips will, one day, be around the corner.

P.S. Forgot to mention sunglasses, nail file, nail polish and USB stick. Check, check, check and check.

There you go. Daddy would be proud.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

Even the birthday girl

Remember when you were young and every other week you would be invited to a classmates birthday bash? Each Saturday afternoon would involve playing ‘pass the parcel’ with such competitiveness, you would over indulge on multi-coloured party-ring biscuits and secretly think that your dress was by far the prettiest. The Jolly Giant would be the number one destination for the present and you’re mum would pick you up at 5pm sharp – you’d then run home and scoff the slice of birthday cake neatly wrapped in the party bag.

Oh memory, you serve me well.

Fast forward a few years and birthday parties in your 20’s follow the same principles, only:

O. Saturday afternoons are replaced with Saturday evenings

O. You play drinking games

O. Tesco’s alcohol isle is THE destination to buy a birthday present

O. And after a night out you run home to scoff the bag of chips which have been neatly wrapped in newspaper.

The one factor that remains exactly the same is that you still secretly think that you’re dress is by far the prettiest.

This has been the year of twenty-first’s. The majority of my friends were born in 1988 and 1989 so this really has been PARTY SEASON. But finding a new dress for each occasion has been a bit of a pickle, my knickers have got in a twist and I’ve been stressed. What colour? What length? What style? Will anyone be wearing the same dress (that would be an actual disaster)? Will it be appropriate for a bar/club/restaurant? And will it look good?! Oh, life can be so hard sometimes.

The party dress is most fun thing to scout, try on and purchase. I love it when you have to get a new one – and it is a ‘have to’ and not a ‘want to’. It’s compulsory, necessary and required. FULL STOP.

Every time I go party dress shopping, I flick through Vogue and Elle, have a look on and and imagine what I’d like to find in town. However one of those annoyances in life is that when you know what you want, you cant find it: but every other time, when you have no place to go or no money to spend, you see a million beautifully, lush, puuuurfect dresses. Boooo. Hissssss.

But everything happens for a reason. Party dresses are designed for a reason. And you buy them for a reason: to upstage everyone else, even the birthday girl.


Drool over these bad boys:

Thursday, 8 April 2010

Perhaps it will become an addiction

Blue is the new black. Gold is the new black. Even White is the new black.

I wish this wasn’t the case.

For some reason, unknown to me, I don’t suit many colours. It’s like they reject me. It sucks a bit.

I guess black is the new black for me. It will always replace itself in my wardrobe, amongst my clothes, shoes, jewellery and accessories.

Before you think it, no, I am not some morbidly depressed Goth who surrounds my eyes in black eye-liner with a tattooed tear drawn neatly on my check-bone.

I simply like it and suit it. Actually do I like it? Maybe it’s the safe option? Who knows. Ok for arguments sake, I’ll say I like it.

Black is probably a style trait that I’ve inherited from my mother, who on a regular basis has to put up with my dad asking “Whose funeral is it today?”

I get his point. Totally. It’s association with mourning was made famous by Queen Victoria after the death of her husband and has stuck around ever since.

But its classic also. Sophisticated. Sleek even. The LBD is something every guuuurl has hanging in her wardrobe, elegantly waiting to be worn.

But please don’t imagine me wearing all black, all day, every day. I really don’t. Yet, in one form or another, you can pretty much guarantee I’ll be wearing my black blazer, black leggings or a black bag. Not all together. I told you that. Hell no.

Its now officially B.S.T. Last weekend the clocks changed, which means the days are longer and brighter and it’s harder to get away with wearing black. Summer 2K10 has arrived and for the past couple of months, fashion has been heading in the direction of patterns, pastels and prettiness. So I’ve been preparing my wardrobe, and mentality, for this. I’ve started to wear light coloured jeans. I’ve started to wear a stone coloured trench coat. I’ve even started to paint my toenails orange, but no-one really sees them, so that’s really a wasted effort.

Anyway, I shall continue in my quest to inject more colour into my daily attire. Who knows, perhaps it will become an addiction.

Monday, 5 April 2010

I looked like Ugly Betty on a Friday night

“Good morning, Mode Magazine, Betty speaking”

“Hi, Betty Suaraz? Could you give me some style advice please?”

Last night was the Fashion Faux Par-tay I was telling you about and my, oh my, I looked special. I know the theme was bad taste but, while packing, I had a slight panic that I’d turn up and everyone else would look semi decent….so I had a cheeky flick through the last few issues of Vogue. I came across their ‘More Dash Than Cash’ feature which was so utterly amazingly puuurfect: “I Predict A Riot” showcased a brilliant array of patterns in all their clashing glory. How divine.

So I went to my (newly organised) wardrobe (boooo-yah) and picked my most prized possessions.

1) - O A black top with a glittery, colourful arrangement in the form of a rose pattern (which, in all seriousness, I bought from a charity shop a couple of months ago with the intention of wearing…I just haven’t had the chance, yet).

2) - O My beautiful cardigan beautifully decorated with blue and orange beads in the shape of beautiful flowers (which I would never take off if I could, it’s just too lush for words).

3) - O A blue lantern shaped skirt (which was far too plain and took the outfit to a fashionable level, so I sewed on gold polka-dot fabric over it, making it so totally rad, its un-real).

4) - O Teamed with red tartan socks, gold high heels and lots of bangles, I merged in well with the rest of the party goers.

A friend of mine wore a lilac faux leather jacket (circa 1995) which, in my opinion, would have looked top notch with the matching mid-thigh fringed shorts we adapted from their original state of flared trousers. But each to their own, I suppose. She wore Topshop denim hot pants instead.

Other key pieces from the night included a spectacular pair of white cycling shorts with black Aztec print; a baby pink tee citing the witty phrase of “Hi Mum” across the chest; a 2 piece black and silver combo (courtesy of the girls Grandmother I think, how kind of her); white shell suit with multi-coloured horizontal stripes; full on denim; and heap loads of bows, necklaces, leg-warmers and odd socks.

This was no fashion crime. It was fashion massacre.

Some argued that while they put their street cred. on the line, my outfit was too tame and socially acceptable. I disagree. While I would wear my outfit on a normal night out, I would never ever ever wear them all together, never ever ever, again. I looked like Ugly Betty on a Friday night.

Friday, 2 April 2010


I really wish I had the super human ability to keep my wardrobe organised, tidy, clean and generally well presented so that I can feel inspired when I go to choose an outfit. Instead I am met with a jungle of clothes.

Wouldn’t it be great if when I woke up in the morning from a pleasant dream, I would break into song with happy little birds harmoniously accompanying me while happy little mice would lay my clothes on my bed as I showered. My daily attire would be out of my hands and into the paws of my only friends. Oh to be a Disney Princess.

Perhaps I ought to have rules in my closet? Perhaps I ought have a system? Perhaps I ought to get a life and care about the environment/poverty/latest humanitarian disaster? (Really I do, but that’s not on the agenda today folks).

Excited to start, I pulled all of my clothes outta my wardrobe and thought about the blueprints.

Should I separate colours?

Should I keep day-wear well away from weekend clobber? (How Gok is that word?)

Should I have summer casuals on one side and winter warmers on the other?

Oh decisions, decisions.

I made a list. It looks like this:

3 pairs of shorts; 3 skirts, 2 pairs of trousers; 1 pair of joggers; 3 pairs of leggings; 6 pairs of jeans; 1 jumpsuit; 17 dresses; 34 tops; 14 cardigans; 11 jumpers; 6 jackets and 1 gilet.


So as you can see from the picture it looks like I am a professional funeral-goer judging by the amount of black that is gloomily hung up . But please be impressed by the overall presentation. It is arranged like this:

L-R: House-Coat; shorts; skirts; jumpers; cardigans; dresses; scarves (yes, I know, I do have a think for purple scarves); t-shirts; jeans; trousers; jackets.