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.