Big Brother

So a few weeks have past since my last entry, and in the mean time I have moved into a new flat with some new house mates, all boys, Big Brother style! Quite a strange bunch, I must admit. I have spent the last 2 weeks listening to "Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac out my window from my flat mate, not even joking, 22 hours a day or near about. Another flat mate who on first meeting seemed pretty "straighty one eighty" turned out to be nothing but. Yesterday in the kitchen on top of the microwave I discovered "The Notebook" where they leave bitchy messages for one another (serious not sarcastic, it is quite funny, I will photograph some highlight pages at a a later date) and I took the liberty to have a bit of a scribe, when I was left a message to put more money on the gas bill for when I didn't even live there. "Stop using all the gas on cooking and have toast for dinner like me. Moles." Loved it. I also took great pleasure in my effort in the bathroom, it one whole afternoon and a bottle of Dettol to achieve my result, so lets see how long my sparkly tiles and mirror you can actually see a reflection in will last! Big Brother is watching big brothers!

Slave Labour

This week I re-entered the world that tortures many of our pasts; work experience (otherwise known as work exploitation). The soul crushing, hard working, unpaid, long hours of work that make us better people and one step closer to our dreams. Or does it? With at least 20 fashion schools in London alone, not to mention the rest of the UK, Europe and world who flock to the city for experience and employment, noone really cares who you are, how creative you are, just your hardcore willingness to work. I have spent the week from 9am to 8pm, (noone leaves until everything is finished) sewing toilles, sample cutting, hand stitching, picking up samples and notions all over town. Sorry to crash your hopes kids! Join the queue at ticket number million please! And by the time you will finally work your way to the front of the queue (the payroll), you're ready to be replaced by a fresh faced youth who will do it all for free. NEXT!

The Hunt

The past few days I've dedicated to a home hunt (aka lying on my bed on my laptop browsing the Gumtree), followed by some friendly house visits to meet my new potential flat mates in prospective "homes". 

I'd like to share my wisdom with you for your future reference;

• "cosy" = microscopic, room the size of a single mattress, if you're lucky a 10 cm border between your bed and the walls. This is the most used word in flatshare advertisements. Oh cosy- cute, warm, lovely? No deal!
• "trendy"- filthy, grimey, messy, "I don't clean", central point of the murder mile.
• "light and sunny"- miniature square hole in the wall vaguely resembling a window.
• "large garden" - patch of overgrown weeds by the front door, full of cigarette butts.
• "2 minute stroll to station"- a bit far fetched, 20 minute power walk is much more realistic.
• "friendly neighbours" - your bedroom is the ex living room or laundry shared with 8 others in a council housing flat
• "bargain! 400 pounds per month" - 400 plus council tax + gas + water + electricty + phone + internet + toilet paper allowance = 600 pounds per month

Your choice of flat mate;

• Hello I'm a professional, I work in a bank, I don't ever want to see or hear or have anything to do with you.
• Need pretty lady to share room, must be pretty young lady.
• Spare broom cupboard in home of Muslim family, Call Abdul.
• Hi! We're young, cool, creative and perfect! Rent is a million pounds a week!

What's a girl to do? Round three tomorrow, wish me luck!

Complaints Department

Hello, Whichway's back! I'm sorry for deserting you dear Whichway readers, I have had a string of complaints following my sabbatical! I'm glad Whichway has become part of your daily life! I had to leave the city for a while, for some peace of mind, it has run me off my feet! In fact I was working on my audition tape for Skins Series 3, taking the shame, hardcore! I'm sorry I can't disclose any more information, it is just too humiliating. I've been very busy looking for homes and occupations and am getting closer to being a true Londoner! Stay tuned, I promise I will be updating regularly on all fash-on and fash-off activities again very shortly.

Best,

Whichway (almost there but never quite) XOXO

I'm Good I'm Gone

We all love some good Scando-pop, especially from the Swedes! Listen to Lykke Li (click to listen) (rhymes whith Ricki Lee), she is the new Robyn. She is 22, wears some choice outfits and her new album is called Youth Novels. Here is her new single; I'm Good I'm Gone.

www.lykkeli.com

Glamour, Granduer, Sleaze & Disease

It has been a month now since I arrived in London, I've cris crossed the metropolis, been on every colour tube line, overground train, bus, lived in the south west and north east corners, yet everyday there is more and more to explore. It is hard to explain, but London is such a high-low city, it is either one extreme or the other. Steaming hot or freezing cold, crimey and grimey or grand and glamourous, the richest or the poorest, the oldest and the newest, the happiest high or the saddest low. The way people dress, the way they talk, the art, it all comes down to this underlying contradiction. This is what defines it's eccentric character, which is probably why London is currently booming creatively. The 'high-low' quality perfectly captures this moment in fashion and post modern art, irreverently mixing references from polar opposite ends of the spectrum, to generate the now, and putting the city at the forefront. Even though sometimes so horrible and confusing, you can't help but love the place; there is a sparkling diamond hidden beneath the grime, and although sometimes hard to see, you always feel it is there. A friend who has lived in London for nearly two years summed it up quite well; 

" I love London. It is like the lover who treats you so badly and rips you off, but you can't leave! Even though I hate London sometimes, I really do love the old whore."

It has the power to turn you into a brilliant superstar, a cold, hard bitch or a defeated shadow. London's icons are rich royalty, or drug addicted pop stars and models, in downward spirals of self destruction. It is the ugliest, most beautiful place I ever been. So for my one month 'rough diamond' anniversary, let's celebrate the glamour, granduer, sleaze and disease that make this city shine in all it's hometown glory!

The Sound of Sirens

If the sound of Sydney's Summer is the endless clicking of cicadas, then London's is the sound of sirens. Wailing through the day and night, it's like living in an episode of "The Bill". At least PC Reg Hollis and the glamourous WPC Polly Paige-  Sierra Oscar 269 are trying to get those crims in the Sun Hill slammer. Sun Hill is the UK's equivalent of Summer Bay, with the chic hard bucket hat, checkered tie and pistol as iconic as the blue and red checked uniform of Summer Bay High. Summer Bay is more into natural disaster than cops catching robbers, rapists, terrorists, arsenists, murderers and muggers, which now here, I realise is incredibly close to real life. Although piercing sounds ring through the night, they are strangely soothing, as at least you know that Polly, June and their irresistibly arresting team of coppers are onto those hot beds of crime.

Style icon- WPC Polly Paige

Temporary Suspension

Just had to rush into this ghetto internet cafe and let you all know about my full length chiffon star print jumpsuit like Kate Moss wore to her birthday party that I bought from Primark for 10 quid. The Hackney store kills it. Also had to restrain from buying a Luella-esque pink ra-ra prom dress for 8 pounds, but stopped myself as the smallest it came in was a 16. It was hard. I really wanted it. I also bought a set of sheets and pillow cases and towel set for 10. Brill. Why shop anywhere else. They also had the best shoes I've ever seen for 8 pounds. But with sticky heat and the sound of sirens on the street ringing in my head it was hard to see clearly that I will be verging on bankruptcy due to Primark and Pimms very soon. Whichway is temporarily suspended since I have just moved uptown and have no internet on my new best friend Macbook! My house is very sweet with white walls and blue carpet, some strange flatmates and a tangled rose garden out the front opposite a council housing estate, and next to a pond which is more like a brown concrete bowl with a puddle of polluted rain water and the odd pigeon. I'll disclose more later and more privately as who knows how anonymous I am these days! Back soon! Love Whichway XOXO

Sun Worship

It's amazing the difference a bit of Vitamin D makes! For the first time since I've been here, I decided it was finally time to slap on the lunettes du soleil and reveal a bit of leg, as today reached a scorching 27 degrees when the sun actually decided to show it's face. The moody Londoners that I have come to know, those who love a good push, shove and spit and avoid eye contact and smiling at all costs, were magically transformed into a happy-go-lucky population and were out in full force loving life! Grey concrete and brown brick with graffiti glowed with fluorescent luminescence, girls on mass were in bright coloured sundresses, carrying fresh flowers in their bike baskets and the grey grimey streets were lined with stripey deck chairs and beer bottles. Quite a sight, apparently this does not happen very often! I will never take the sun for granted again. I even took the shame and against my better judgement splurged 30 pounds on a bottle of St Tropez (I hope my mother never reads this) this week, fearful my pale skin would not being seeing the Summer rays for a very long time. 

Skipping down Petticoat Lane in my full fifties skirt (no stockings), I felt very Lily Allen in LDN indeed, before fighting for my patch of green grass in Finsbury Circus amongst the flower beds with my friends, where we spent the rest of the afternoon soaking up sun and cider. Today, I love London!

Sun is in the sky oh why oh why would I want to be anywhere else?

Top of the Pops!

The Brits are loving The Ting Tings something chronic!

That's Not My Name! is top of the pop charts and Shut Up and Let Me Go! is on all the new iPod ads, so try and escape them! You can't, so turn up your iPod up to it's loudest setting and jump on your bed in your jazz pants! Yeeeew.

We were loving it sick last night in Hoxton with Italians with fake spectacles and Frenchmen called Serge, mixed with a bit of Bowie, Twist and Shout, Rock Around the Clock, Blondie and unfulfilled Chaka Khan requests!

National Mango Week

It's National Mango Week this week in Britain! Who knew such a thing existed? To celebrate I bought some mangoes from the side of the street in C-Junc, my locale, and boy were they horrible! Apparently they are from Venezuela, the nearest tropical place to here,  with dark brown skin, the stingiest layer of flesh and a pip that was more like fungus. I wish L'oreal would join in the national festivities by stocking it's best hair colour in London. I've been on a city wide search to every Boots, Superdrug and supermarket and even crossed the Channel to L'oreal Paris in search of this product I have used religiously for a year this month! Come on L'oreal, I'm so worth it! England it seems is not into the fruitiest of hair colours, the range of reds is well below Australian standard. I must write to Geri and Vivienne for advice. Or go blonde.

That Face

This afternoon, in my new occupation "lady of leisure", I went and saw a play in the West End at the Duke of York Theatre. The multi award winning play "That Face" written by the 19 year old Polly Stenham and was one of the best shows I've ever seen (I admit I haven't seen that many). I particularly wanted to see it as it starred Hannah Murray as Mia, who plays my favourite messed up character Cassie, from my favourite messed up TV show Skins (which Stenham also happens to write for - watch it if you haven't already). The story was about a family in free fall decline dealing with depression, addiction, mental health and rebellion, but although dark, it was comical, heart warming and compelling. It appealed to everyone in the audience; young and old, with everyone afterwards raving about it outside because it was so real and people could recognise bits of themselves in the characters and see how easily people can fall apart. It was nice and refreshing to see a play that was accessible and not totally wanky or stuffy and old fashioned or artsy clever clogs that makes you feel stupid because you don't get it. The sets were simple yet effective with a bedroom scene which just got more messed up as the characters did. The sound track was also choice with a bit of Yeah Yeah Yeah and Kings of Leon thrown in for good measure. Definitely see or read this if you get the chance! Whichway gives it 5 stars! *****

When Plaid Goes Bad

There seems to be a lot of bad blood about Burberry on the internet and many issues currently in the news about ethical fashion. 

(Thank you to Bruce of PETA for bringing this to Whichway's attention. PS. I totally used to volunteer at the RSPCA at Yagoona in my teenage years.) 

www.bloodyburberry.com

Even the Chavs are against Burberry! Who knew plaid was so bad?

Morality and ethics in fashion is being brought to the forefront and influencing more designers and retailers, gradually but surely. A show was supposed to air here the other night called "The Devil Wears Primark", which I was anticipating, where they investigated the poorest of conditions of the sweatshops in India of this massive chain store, but it was pulled at the last minute because Primark threatened legal action. The show then set up their own sweat shop in East London staffed by regular fashion followers who purchase these garments for peanuts, imitating the third world conditions, to see if this would challenge their perceptions. I hope it surfaces somewhere soon, would be quite interesting.

But if it is now trendy to be "ethicool" in the fashion industry, how come noone has brought up the exploitation of interns and "work experience". Sweat shop workers getting the minimum wage, how about interns in the same poor conditions getting nothing! Where is the morality in that? Being expected to work for full time for free for years, is this not exploitation? We demand a minimum wage! Let's take Action Against Exploitation of Interns in the fashion industry! Help the plight, get us out of the slaughter house! We're just innocent, hard working qualified individuals who want to bring some colour to the world! To join the AAEOI send your applications and juiciest stories of fashion exploitation to Whichway. Do it!

Intoxicated Investments

Harvey Nichols are rather clever. Serve free alcohol for 5 hours and watch rich bitches fight over 5,000 pound hand bags they don't even want. Some women had armfuls of the things, not even joking! Classic. By the end of the Harvey Nichols VIP Summer Shopping Party at 10pm, racks were empty, customers were stumbling bleary eyed, leaning on collapsing empty glass tables where Chanel sequinned, cashmere sweaters with a 2000 pound price tag sat hours earlier. With a choice Kylie and Roisin soundtrack and a cocktail in each hand, walking through a maze of  Spring/Summer 2008 collection goodness with pixellated vision was a rather euphoric experience. Items that seemed an overpriced, fugly, and a major rip off earlier in the day suddenly seemed so terribly tempting (even for the cost of 6 months London rent). And Miu Miu and Prada dresses that you only dream of getting so close to, were in the change room with you and your champagne glass(es). I did feel a dangerous liablity for the poor dresses though, a spillage or a spew could be an extremely costly experience, which was why it was best to stand amongst the Christopher Kane racks of snakeskin and camoflauge. Shame there is a generous refund policy, no doubt most of the racks will be full again by morning.

Caught on Camera!

Spotted in Harvey Nichols Knightsbridge this afternoon, Sass & Bide getting "inspired by" Alexander McQueen. No. They. Didn't. Yes. I. Did. Watch out world, Whichway is on to you! You know you love me. Gossip Girl. XOXO

You Don't Have to Be A Nancy To Dress Fancy

This evening I went to the London College of Fashion for a discussion between Colin McDowell (fashion journalist), Christopher Bailey (Burberry) and Jeremy Langmead (Editor in Chief of Esquire and formerly Wallpaper). The topic of conversation was menswear and it's liberations and constraints, hence the title. It was particular interesting discussing how fashion is becoming ageless and it is harder for the younger generations to rebel, in fact almost anything goes these days, however men who take an interest in fashion are still pigeon holed with assumptions. They also talked about why men are the "uniformed sex", sticking to black suits- perhaps for safety, power or tribalism, or that they don't want extravagance, just practicality and private pleasures, which is why the art of menswear is in the detail. But Mr Bailey argued that and said his topseller of the last year were his red and gold trench coats for men. It was brought up also that the roles reverse with time and the mood of the moment;prior to the 18th Century and the French Revolution it was the men who were all about frivolity and vanity, and it was socially acceptable to wear make up and be frou frou. And how the fact that stores like Abercrombie and Fitch have just opened up on Saville Row signals the sad reality that bespoke crafts are slowly dying as consumers are demanding fast and disposable.

For added measure there was even an American PETA protester called Bruce sitting in front of me who kept interrupting and yelling insults about killing seals to poor Christopher Bailey, which had nothing to do with anything. Of course there was. Christopher was the cutest, he was tiny with a lisp and couldn't sit still he looked about 15, but seemed like a lovely fella and handled it very well. I admit I was a bit star struck!

The Old Days

Going back to a fashion college environment for an event was a wierd experience, with everyone dressed and layered up to the nines, trying so hard to impress one another. It made me a bit queasy not only because of the volumes of hairspray holding up the Amy Winehouse beehives and cleaning lady scarf wrapped around the head which the girls were loving sick, or the extreme amount of fluroscent legs under shorts, with leopard over floral over zebra over glitter over plaid, but also because this is what I used to do too. I wasn't sure if my funny feeling was because I miss having the liberty to dress up everyday (the highlight of my day for three years) and think I could get away with whatever I wanted like my gumboots with a size 18 polyester 80s print dress with shoulder pads, my XXXL Dad's argyle sweater and my Mum's old Brownie leader scarf on my head, which was one such ensemble that I remember was particularly pleased with as an ode to my British heritage. Or my long sleeved, woollen rib knit leotard (inspired Madonna's hung up video), Grace Jones leatherette skirt, Thatcheresque  power shoulders in a jacket, with a Jackie O Pucci style print and regal plastic costume jewellery (referencing Queen Elizabeth) in my salute to women in power. Clearly noone got my references and I looked like a ridiculous try hard but I thought I was pretty clever at the time and took all the funny looks on the street as a compliment. It was fun living in the fashion school bubble where anything was permitted, and these cool kids were having fun doing it too. Even if they looked like a joke.

Am I just getting old and bitter or maybe jealous? Or is it being in a new and unfamiliar environment and not wanting to draw attention to myself? Probably both. I've been dressing uber safe since arriving in London, in fact I hate to admit, I bought a pair of jeans last week. I know. Shameful.

The boys I saw around were all about purple, bleached assymetrical hair and flamboyant scarves. There were lots of flowers in hair, berets, bowlers and funny glasses. I wish I could have taken photos but I already felt a bit foreign. And past it. And a bit of bittersweet longing for the past...

RIP YSL!

Sew sad! Such a stylish fellow! By 21, he was at the helm Christian Dior, and went on to become the most influential designer of all time. I read his biography a little while ago, very good read! He was not a happy man troubled by shyness, depression, solitude and drug addiction his whole career, and got discharged from the French military for nervous breakdowns. The tortured life of an eccentric designer! But without the pain perhaps we would not be wearing pant suits, trapeze dresses, the smoking jacket, the 80s tafetta puffy sleeve dress or the safari suit which will forever be an inspiration. Long live Yves!

London Lite

Part of every Londoner's daily life, The London Lite is a choice free newspaper distributed every afternoon at a station or bus stop near you. By late evening, most of the city will have a carpet of Lite, and if you're unlucky and missed the previous day's issue (it's addictive), you can usually find one stuffed down the side of a seat on the bus the next morning. It provides some lite reading for the journey home, with their juicy headlines in size 200 font. Yesterday's for example; "Beyonce Stops in London for Some Booty Free", "I Never Could Speak Proper- Deputy Prime Minister" and "Have You Been To Powder Your Nose Amy?". It is thoroughly enjoyable. These stories are then punctuated with the news of the daily stabbings (on average 8 knife crimes per day on London public transport), murders, identity theft, terrorist threats etc blown up to the most epic proportions. Not so lite!

So while sardined on the hot underground train; two fingers clinging to your London Lite engrossed in the latest Winehouse and 'crime on the tube' news and trying to turn the pages and the other three fingers holding the pole to stop you from falling all over everyone or out the door. In the other hand you're holding your jacket because you still can't figure out how to dress for London's extremes, while simultaneously clutching your handbag so tight because the stories in this newspaper are so alarming and over the top and make you hardcore paranoid! But for a gossip girl like me, the news of "Jordan's Torment Over Surgery Scars" and "Put Away Your Tits ; Lily Off the Rails" is so delectable and a bit of Lite at the end of the tube tunnel.

Let Them Eat Kate!

Kate is still the Queen of London! She's everywhere! This is Agent Provocatuer in Soho, first winner of Whichway's Window of the Week!

To the Maxx

Last night while waiting impatiently at my suburban bus stop, I discovered I was standing in front of an awful looking store called TK Maxx. You know the type I mean, apart form the off putting name, just rack after rack of rubbish, clothes thrown everywhere, on the floor, without my glasses on I could just see acres of blurred, jumbled mess with specks of taupe, peach and pistachio. Since I am so sick of waiting for London transport, I thought I'd quickly pop in. Little did I know that I'd emerge an hour later with a bag of goodness. The store, which is a big chain in the UK, buys all the excess designer stock from past seasons and sells it for a small fraction of the price. And then they have mega sales on top of that! Some of the stuff is probably quite old, as in five years or so, not "vintage", but there are also more recent things hidden in the rubble. Clothes, shoes, appliances... everything! But of course there's usually only one of each thing and you have to be lucky with your size. Amongst two storeys of bin worthy things, I found a See by Chloe coat for 80 quid, a Katherine Hamnett dress for 35 and some Valentino silk grosgrain shorts which I ended up putting back, but will perhaps go back tomorrow since "Missing a bargain hurts!" (their slogan). I also picked up a hair straightener for 12 pounds on the way to the counter (which I just tried and is quite good but makes my hair smell a bit funny). It should be noted that this is very cheap for London, you will pay more for a jersey top at Topshop or a vintage dress at the markets. (I had to write that to atone my guilt). After my UK shopping drought, I was pleased with myself... to the Maxx!

Dark Marc

Today I picked up the latest issue of Interview magazine, I must admit only because Marc Jacobs was on the cover. In the vein of the magazine's founder, Andy Warhol, MJ poses with white hair and skin, false lashes and platforms, looking very fierce indeed. The interview inside suggests Jacobs is the modern day Warhol, which is quite a grand statement, as much as I love him. Similarities they draw are their shared "art is business, business is art" approach, their work as collaborators (Marc with contemporary artists like Murakami, Stephen Sprouse and Richard Prince) and being very aware and ahead of their times. By defacing, blatantly appropriating and blurring the lines between high and low with irony, MJ is one of the very few in fashion employing the techniques of post modern artists. He is very clever, but only he, and Warhol of course can get away with it. His recent obsession with the cult of celebrity and casting Victoria Beckham in his campaign is so very satirical, so typically Warhol, in fact I think he fancies himself a bit of an Andy something chronic, even ditching his recent blue hair for peroxide.
To celebrate the first official MJ Day of Whichway?  I made a pilgrimage to the store on Mount Street. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. After everything I've seen all week, these clothes from the S/S 2008 collection looked just like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The silk dresses with rainbow poppy and swan prints, the sheer knit and sequinned trompe l'oeil sweaters and even the window display jam packed with multi-coloured roses with the big black tulle dress from his controversial show where the media declared he had lost the plot. Just beautiful! All of it! There is no doubt that he is brilliant at what he does.

But as democratic and "art for the people, art for the streets" as Marc says he is, he's still all about Mayfair, luxury, and the pretense of fashion that he always denies and whinges about in every interview. With me toting around my faux Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton tote from Hong Kong, ripped off the original LV, which was copied by Marc from the large refugee woven shopper bags that the Chinese fake designer good dealers cart around the fakes of his original handbags in, I felt like I had beaten Marc at his own game. 

Sloane Ranger Danger

Last night was my first venture into Sloane Square/South Kensington territory, where I was fortunate enough to encounter the new generation of Sloane Rangers in their traditional heartland. For those unfamiliar with the term coined in 1982, "Sloane Ranger" refers to the young, self conscious, upper/upper middle class living in the fashionable and affluent part of West London. The archtypical Sloane was of course Princess Diana who personified the group with her penchant for pearls, hair bands, blouses with pie crust collars and navy blue velvet. Typically with names like "Hooray Henry", "Ra-ra Rupert", Caroline, Charlotte or Camilla, these rich, well heeled yuppies prioritised wealth, manners and elongated vowels. With the Neo-Sloane, although sharing the sentiments of their predecessors, gone are the obligatory Husky (ie. a waterproof vest in navy or green), Hermes scarf and labrador in tow, in their place are the must have straightened, blonde streaked hair, fake tan, expensive jewellery, jeans, fur gilet and heels or Tod's loafers, just a little swankier, wankier and skankier, as exemplified by their new style icons, Kate Middleton and Sienna Miller. As I stood on the Kings Road at Sloane Square surrounded by Range Rovers, I felt a little out of place in my Lady Di homage ensemble; velvet dress with bow, frilly blouse and navy Alice band, but "Daaaaaaaaaaaarling, it's amaaaaayzing, yaah?"

Walker World

On my to-do list this week was a visit to the Design Museum to see the Tim Walker exhibition. In my scrap book of pictures I like, ripped out and collected over the past five years, I recently realised I'd accumulated a bit of a Tim Walker coffee table book (the glue stick in foolscap exercise book edition). Lily Cole amongst giant moths, Karen Elson as a dressed up dolly with oversized toys, Magritte inspired Surrealism with Coco, Sascha in Russia, Lily in India, swans, smashed pastel cars overgrown in wild roses and one from a nineties Italian Vogue with girls jumping over fences and rolling in fields in rainbow coloured tulle. Imaginative, surreal, larger than life, it is everything I love in editorial and photography and it's what gets me excited about fashion in the first place. The retrospective had rooms full of his photographs, his sketch pads and scrap books which were so inspiring, and the mammoth sets from his photographs created by Shona Heath; giant gloves, cameras, toy soldiers, balloons, pink ponies and pastel coloured cats. As a backlash against expressionless models photographed in white boxes, his dream-like scenes bring life, wit and a story to the clothing, the ultimate fashion fantasy. I heart Tim!

Floral Assault

I've always been impartial to a good floral; Marimekko, Liberty, Laura Ashley, in fact there is nothing I love more than a garden on my dress. However, since arriving in London, I have been slapped in the face with a sea of synthetic botanica. Enter into any store on the High Street; H&M, Topshop, Primark, or the Higher Street; Luella, MJ, Prada, Dover Street and you literally cannot escape it. It is virtually impossible to find something flowerless (apart from the odd star print). The unofficial London uniform of the Summer seems to be a floral dress with a leather jacket (or Primark's 12 quid pleather versions for emptier pockets) and gladiator sandals which also seem to have infected the chain stores like the plague. Taking a page out of Balenciaga's book, H&M have some fun fluro floral pieces with structured peplums and exposed zips, and Prada-esque ballerina length skirts, however it is difficult to appreciate and single out these roses amongst the rest of the invasive, perennial pests. Time for weeding, the flowers have got out of control.

Dream Girrrrlz

Today I found my ultimate dream wardrobe at the V&A's latest exhibition of costumes worn by the Supremes, the super girl group of the 1960s. In their day, only rivalled by The Beatles, the Supremes played a role in paving the way for women and racial discrimination, but their main draw card were their dazzling outfits. I can't say what attracts to me to the sparkly, the brash and the obvious, but I've always loved a bit of glamarama. The sequins, fringing, massive bell sleeves, psychadelic and word prints and a plethora of  pleated, printed polyester chiffon are what dreams are made of. And who doesn't love a good fish tail maxi? Beyonce and co have lessons to learn from Diana, Florence and Mary (and that does not mean House of Dereon or Sweetface). The part of the display that got me most excited, as per usual, was the gift shop where I spent half  an hour picking which variety of feathery eyelash to buy as a souvenir. (Spider leg lashes with red rain drop tips.)

Which way?

(said Alice to the Cheshire Cat...)

"Would you tell me please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a great deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.

"I don't much care where," said Alice

"Then it doesn't matter which way you go."

"..so as long as I get somewhere..."

"Oh you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if only you walk long enough."

Try Mincing Lane, it's a one way street!

P.S. I was disappointed to find it's probably the least mincey lane I've ever seen, just the odd bank building, no fresh meat in sight. True shame, but I still loved it.