The Family Heirloom

I believe that I have earned the right to be (not-so-quietly) proud of myself. I have acted selflessly, putting the needs of others before my own. I have gone on an international shopping quest resulting in my purchase of designer clothing and accessories to add to my personal collection. So, SO selfless of me...I can hear the judgement and scoffing, but bear with me.

When I entered the Designers First and Second Exclusives store on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Munich, it was not me I was thinking of. As I fingered the Chanel, Prada, de la Renta and Ossie Clark threads, it was not my pleasure I had in mind. And as I found my two arms sliding through the yellow tweed sleeves of the Moschino trench and then forking over the euros, it was not my future I was planning for. These selfless, charitable acts were conducted in the spirit of charity, for the sake of the family heirloom.

Now, I don’t know whether you were as lucky as I was and inherited a coin or doily collection, but I feel the need for a modern revisitation of the heirloom. If we survey our consumer-driven materialistic society (glorious, isn’t it?!) it is luxury goods which are coveted and hold value.

So, I have made it my mission to acquire a few collectors pieces to pass down to my oh-so-appreciative daughter (who, just for the record, exists purely in my imagination). If I squealed with delight at my 1980’s Moschino coup, imagine how my little girl will enjoy the adoration and envy as she parades her ‘vintage’ coat amongst her teen gal pals!

There IS a slight, just teeny tiny chance that despite its status and value she may cast off the jacket as ‘old’ (something I’m sure we’ve all done in our youth and regretted). But it’s a chance I’m willing to take. 

So, I issue you a challenge. Be selfless. Be noble. Put your unborn spawn first and flex that fantastic plastic on some designer goods. Wear them to ensure they absorb your love and the era. In the name of the heirloom, an ancient tradition, go out and buy that Goyard trunk you’ve always desired. It’ll be an investment in your future child’s future (just don’t try to use that excuse to justify the expense to your partner!)

[Words and adventures supplied by Muds very own overseas correspondent.  Mud Mail sashays the streets of the worlds most fashionable cities and gives us the low down.]

Putting my fashions on the field

In times of desperation we do silly, out of character things. Last week I was broke and unemployed. The GBP had run out and I was struggling to find how my skills and experience were going to fit in here in Australia. In despair I asked a young relative what she thought I was good at, she pondered........... I began to worry. Finally she replied “you're good at dressing up”. That's super I thought (with a slight eye roll), but how can I make money out of coordinating my mushroom patent waist belt with my up to the minute jewel coloured tartan skirt? Enter a “dressing up competition with a hefty cash prize” apparently. So I did, but I didn't win. Who would have thought?

The day/night equilibrium

Are there rules for appropriate wedding guest attire in the 21st Century? A dress code can help with tie selection and dress length but it's the finer details I'm more concerned with. I've heard that you should never wear white as to not show up the bride. While others say never wear black “its for funerals” (and fashion editors) only. My Mum says you must always wear hosiery (black tie or cocktail) and my grandmother says you must never attend without a hat (this is her general rule for any function that involves a church or a marquee). So many rules but not enough clarity for me.

When planning a wedding outfit I try to consider the season and time of day the celebration is taking place. Weddings generally run in two parts. Part One: The church service; generally occurring in the late afternoon when the sun is shining. Followed by a short break where the wedding party have hundreds of photos taken and guests begin to get suitably boozed. We then move on to Part Two: which involves the reception celebration and meal, often beginning around half 6 under the stars.

I find this 'day into night' thing the most difficult to get right. It's all about finding the happy medium. I find cotton and any type of floral print lovely for a church service but too garden party for the dancing, drinking and swing band part. I fear satin or sheer evening fabrics become too dressy and possibly too sexy for a parish visit but are more than acceptable for a 3 course alternative drop meal and a quick step with the handsome (hopefully single) best man– are you seeing my conundrum?

Apparently in some parts of the world it's tradition to change outfits in between the 2 parts. This of course would put an end to my wedding outfit woes. Alas, in Australia this would be seen as absurd, OTT and somewhat indecisive. I figure when its my turn I'll push the boat out a little and host both parts in one part of the day. Church, dancing and home before the sun even sets or better still a service just after dusk and quick stepping all throughout the night. This should solve the problem of my guests not getting it right outfit wise. 

**Oh and I've also heard you should never wear the same colour as the invite, you can almost guarantee the bridesmaids will rock up in it also. Which of course would be a disaster. Someone needs to write a book about all these wedding rules. Hmmm... There's a business idea in that.

Part 2

It is with a smirk that I now reflect on how amiss my assumptions of New York were. It really is the city of love. It’s no accident that the capital is filled with ‘IheartNY’ merchandise; however it would be more accurate for ‘NYheartsU’ to grace the infamous $1 tees. If Paris is a designer clad judgemental mother-in-law and London a trendy trapped by tradition Grandma, New York is an arms wide open so good to see you best friend. For as I trepedatiously took to the downtown cobblestone laden streets in my improvised get-up, I felt the warmth of acceptance. With each block we passed I became aware of the eclectic fusion of fashion; power suits on Wall Street, statement accessories on the trendy TriBeCa set, knock-off apparel in China Town, indie glam in SoHo, boho  couture in the West Village, ill fitting suits and toe cleavage on busy business broads in midtown, labelled loafers on ladies who lunch in Park Ave, cycling shorts and bikinis in Central Park, b’ball caps and tanks in Harlem and a melange of adventurous and daring ensembles. It really did appear as though you could do no wrong by this fabulously embracing city.

When my luggage finally did arrive I welcomed my precious possessions with a new found eagerness and discarded my rehearsed and carefully composed combinations. Instead, waist sashes were clashing headscarves, tops were altered and layered and accessories refashioned with an experimental gusto I had misplaced since I put my sewing machine into storage.

As I experienced my own fashion revolution, as though in sympathy, the city was having one of its own, in the form of the bi-annual New York Fashion Week. My schemes of sneaking in unseen through a conveniently placed tear in the Bryant Park tent to catch a glimpse of the latest delicacies from Betsey Johnson or Badgley Mischka were clearly fantastical fantasies. However as I lusted longingly for the fairytale world within the tents, I was unaware that I was in prime position for what I still believe is the best fashion show I have and may ever see...

As the last model in Peter Som’s collection sashayed her way off the runway and the crowd applauded (all the while trying to catch even the slightest response from under Anna Wintour’s Oliver People’s), the REAL parade began. Down the red carpeted stairs came the throng of invitees...upper east side heiresses and wives of millionaires in their exquisitely styled ho-hum offerings, magazine types in ambivalent muted pantsuits, photographers in uniform tees and jeans, hair and make-up artists in more mind-boggling takes on black than one would assume possible, fashion interns in their best (and for the most part, entirely applaudable) attempts at designer on a budget and models on ‘lunch’ breaks in creatively conceived pairings of comfort and couture collection...all this blending exquisitely with the milieu of the 6th Avenue passersby at noon, unaware of celebrities and designers posing and air-kissing around them. This blend of high fashion with the street its canvas enthralled me and, if it was at all possible, encouraged me into an even deeper love of fashion and New York.

Waiting at the airport at the end of my delicious journey to the big apple with my bulging baggage, I found my gaze unusually drawn to the souvenir shops and next thing I was purchasing a collection of kitsch ‘IheartNY’ merchandise. My initial bemusement at how entire families kitted themselves out in the namesake tees had long since been answered; they DO heart NY. In a city that opens its heart to one and all there's really no other way to express your feelings for it. Even the most articulate wordsmiths would fumble at this task. So it is that despite all my efforts to embody this city in descriptive and adoring prose, I join the dollar-tee clad masses by simply but proudly declaring that “IHEARTNEWYORK!”

[Words and adventures supplied by Muds very own overseas correspondent. How exciting!! Mud Mail sashays the streets of the worlds most fashionable cities and gives us the low down. Look out for more super stylish fashion stories from abroad.]

There is a special kind of excitement and anxiety associated with selecting an outfit (or rather, an entire suitcase full of them) when your intention is to impress. For me this usually involves playing “dress-ups” or a mock fashion parade of mixing and matching, experimentation and accessorising that one of my girlfriends must dutifully endure (okay, okay, they love it!). Never have I deliberated, packed and repacked so much as in the lead up to my first journey to New York. I was so determined to impress that city and have it reciprocate my affection that this process consumed me in the preceding days...and weeks!

As a die-hard Sex and the City fan and recently addicted slave to Gossip Girl, I held certain expectations of the competition I would have in my bid to win the city’s heart as I pounded the pavement on Madison and 5th, Park and 7th avenues. Surely passing arms would swing a sea of Speedy’s, Spy’s and Paddington’s, slender frames would be swathed in couture from Alexander McQueen to Zac Posen and skyscraper high Loubs and Choos would become passé. While I pride myself on a wardrobe of old faithfuls and a handful of high streets, dotted with designers and a few vintage treasures, I felt completely out of my league at the prospect of walking alongside the Carrie’s and Blair’s, Serena’s and Samantha’s...but I discovered my concerns were entirely erroneous.

My first lesson came as I touched down in NYC...and my luggage did not. Assured that it would arrive by the next evening I was faced with the prospect of meeting my lover (New York that is) in my cattle-class creased clothes and simple sandals. My obvious instinct was to immediately fork over for some fabulous threads. After all, I usually happily raid the racks without any such valid reason. But whether it was my fear of being refused entry to any desirable shops in my aircraft attire (nightclub bouncer style) or my blind stubbornness, I decided I would cope. A quick detour to Victoria’s Secret was a non-negotiable (mental note...Mother was right...always carry a spare set of smalls!) before we reached the TriBeCa loft we would call ‘home’ for the next ten days. As my partner sourced emergency caffeine fixes, I managed to turn my tired dress, some safety pins, one of his business shirts and some makeshift accessories into what I believed to be a pretty damn hot little outfit. So, it was not the first date with the city I had dreamed of, but more a ‘like me or leave me’ encounter.    [to be continued]

The sewing room

I've spent the past week holidaying with my aunt. Whilst exploring her extraordinary home I happened to stumble across her terribly cute sewing room. It seems Aunt Sandy has a room bursting with haberdashery and a niece who can't have enough full circle skirts. So much fun to be had.

Waist of the time

Every season the same question - Where's the waist? Fashion editors are telling me to "Bring back the belt!.... this Spring/Summer its narrow, high and perfectly polished". Fashion TV are going with "wide low and super sleek". There's thick and studded, skinny and patent, high on the waist, way below the hip, metallic embellishments and faux skin. Hello complicated.

I figure the safe way out is to just wear one. I'm not sure where to place it exactly, what width it should be or what aesthetic constitutes this season. But from what I hear, we all need to belt up quick smart!  Cinch one high over a blazer or drape some leather low over a maxi gypsy skirt (ps. when did boho come back?). It seems if you're keen to make a major statement this season, add a belt (of any kind) and you'll bring instant fashion cred to any old outfit.

Random Emotional Setback

When I go through a break up I find the best possible way to deal is to avoid avoid avoid. If he drinks uptown I'm heading down. If we frequent the same gym I'm purchasing a tread mill. If he's Coles I'm Woolworths. If hes's Tesco I'm Sainsburys. There's no Ross and Rachel "lets hang out" scenarios here. You get the idea.

In saying so, I didn't cope so well when London Fashion Week decided to come to town. It was like my past reared its not so ugly head and I just wasn't ready for it. I wasn't wearing my best “run into your ex outfit” and I still hadn't lost that extra 3kgs that apparently reminds him of what he's missing out on.

I'd broken up with London a good 6 weeks ago. I'd been through the process. I'd cried, I'd packed my things, I'd had the painful goodbyes and will I ever see you again moments. I was over officially him. However, just when my new city and I were about to move onto the “not just a rebound but significant relationship” stage, LFW had to turn up looking better than he'd ever done before (how do they always manage to do that?). He took me by surprise. I just wasn't prepared for his grand return so soon. Everything looked so nice and shiny, like the new improved version. So edgy, trendsetting and of course so very British.

To cope with this return of the ex situation; I did what every red blooded, once heart broken female would have done. I splurged on an unnecessary item (tights in this case – I'm on a budget). Called my girlfriends for emergency happy hour cocktails. Drowned my sorrows and bored my support group with “why did I leave him again?” style questions. At least I didn't cut my hair.

The Costume Department

I'm sure it never really intended to play such an important role in fashion history. Once upon a time it was only seen on Christmas Eve during a terribly drawn out ABC version of The Nut Cracker. Today, it's worn by toddlers worldwide at their fairy and goblin themed birthday parties. The most copied being the “soaked by a bus version” on the opening credits of a stupidly successful television series. It seems these days, if you haven't worn layers of tulle and tried to pass it off as a skirt you're not really 'fashion'. Personally, I spent a good 80% of my upbringing wearing one (I have the toes to prove it). Therefore, have never been a huge follower in the real world. I tend to believe this soft, romantic, fairytale skirt has its place and that place is the stage. I admit, I was a fan of Carries tiered version but I've never had a hankering to replicate it. I've worn many petticoat versions under full skirts but never felt the need to expose them. Due to my somewhat dramatic nature and love for quirky over accessorised labels such as Alannah Hill; I often find myself holding back with outfit choices in fear of crossing the line from outfit to costume. A red and white polka dot dress can look sweet; add a patent round toe Mary Jane and I'm getting paid by Walt Disney to have my picture taken with children. The tutu unfortunately falls into this 'costume' like category for me. In a conscious effort not to look like Swan Lake I have always opted to leave the tutu to the professionals rather than risk looking like an overweight version of Margo Fonteyn. Today, however, in the snaps above, I've decided to push myself over the edge, cross the line and be a little bit crazy (said in sarcastic tone with jazz hands and major eye rolling action). Searching through the ballet cupboard, oh yes ladies this cupboard actually exists in my family home, I took the step, here's my best “tutu for the real world”- best keep an eye out for passing buses.

A project about an Australian runway

With 2 of the 3 finalists hailing from Queensland, there's no denying Brisbane is carving its own place in Australian fashion. Sunshine state resident, Lee Buchanan embraced rich royal blues and yellows, embellished brooch accessories and gorgeous embroidery fit for a Buckingham Palace ballroom.

However, it was neighbour, Juli Grbac (you heard about her here first!) and her self confessed "girly girl" dresses that won her the coveted crown. While judges were sold on the commercial viability of her frocks, I was loving her obsession with tailoring, fine fabrics and understanding of the female form. The wear anytime aspect of the collection was also ticking my box. I plan on investing in a few satin slips to be worn with opaques and pumps during the day and strappy jeweled heels come sun down.

This super feminine tiered number (grey, on model) was Julis star garment. I was also a major fan of the emerald and grape jewel coloured pleats that she injected into her show; giving the collection a little depth and shaking the muted pastels up somewhat. Look out for Julis spread in an upcoming edition of Madison Magazine. And if you're lucky enough to be involved in Melbourne Fashion Week, get yourself a spot at her show. No longer famous only for our enviable climate and big country town feel. It seems Brisbanites are putting their stamp on the style map, I have a feeling Grbac is just the beginning.

Kensington Gardens

The Peter Pan collar is back with a vengeance. I've been a fan since I was a girl (a small one; who didn't really want to grow up, but did). It now seems bloggers world wide are getting in touch with their inner J.M Barrie. If you don't have the patience for etsy or access to vintage fashion, I suggest you layer a round neck tight T over a long sleeved collared shirt (a small close fitting, flat collar with rounded ends that meet in the front would be best). Everybodies doing it (apparently).

In a blaze of glory

Whether worn with jeans and a retro concert t shirt or over a floaty feminine maxi dress, the blazer always seems to pull together a look. High School saw me wearing an over sized moron blazer of sorts (fit wasn't high on the agenda at the uniform shop). I dabbled with major shoulder 'paddage' at my first job interview smack bang in the middle of the 90's. While last week, I gave way to the power of trend and added a tuxedo jacket to my already overcrowded wardrobe. 

I'm predicting SS08/09 will see the blazer grow some serious tails. I stole these from a family member who once loved a bit of hot shoe shuffle (let's hope he's hung up his tap shoes). I'm loving them casually with jeans and may attempt throwing them over a cocktail dress in the future. I admit, they're a risk and I could have missed the mark completely with this one. If so, I guess I'll be coming home with my tail between my legs (pun so intended).

Here's looking at you kid

Today I'm in my home town. It's small - nice but small. My mother suggested a day out shopping, I said no. I explained I couldn't handle the small town staring "oooh look who's back". The small town gossiping "hasn't she put on weight". The small town looks "what on earth is she wearing?". My mother then sharply put me in my place. "They're not looking at you love, you haven't lived in this town for 12 years. They have better things to talk about than you, more interesting people to stare at and more scandalous people to gossip about. They don't even know who you are in this place". So I went, they didn't stare and I bought fabric. Lots of fabric. Lots of small town floral fabric. I'm not quite sure why. 

All wrapped up

For many years I've lived by the notion “if you have to tie it,  don't buy it”. It's quite a general, day to day rule if I'm to be honest. I accomplished the shoe tying skill a good year after my fellow class mates. I  still struggle to wrap odd shaped gifts and tie ribbons around them with only 2 hands. Let's not even start with my inability to use glad wrap successfully. Just imagine the level of fear involved with the terribly popular  “flatters every body shape” wrap dress. (Note to non dress obsessed readers: 99% of wrap dresses are made from jersey and of all fabrics this is the least forgiving. Making this iconic dress a triple threat. You have to wrap it around your person, tie it to the side and watch the lycra cling to last nights extra scoop of raspberry sorbet – c'mon, where's the fun in that?). In desperation, I once decided cut and quality could possibly be where my problem lay. Alas, not even a DVW could give these somewhat curvy proportions a pleasing silhouette.

Yesterday, however,  I was  convinced by my “wrap dress wearing friend” to once again try on the dress from hell. What a pleasant surprise. When I explained my woes to the sweetest store manager at Leona Edmiston (QP Bne) she explained, “the heavier the jersey (LE signature sleek jersey in this case) the more weight on the hem. The heavy hem then causes the dress to  fall down the body rather than stretch across it”.  I did a lot of smiling and head nodding having not a clue what she was on about. All I knew was that a discovery had been made, I was wrapped, tied and needed a lay-by form. Diane best watch her back, I think Leona's about to tap and unwrap her signature piece.

Everything old is new again

Trends come and go so quickly in this fickle world of fashion. One minute we all want to be sailors, the next Scottish dancers. Stripes, tartan, maxi, mini. One month our super skinnys are sitting below the belly button and the next we're pulling the wider leg option over our ears (exaggeration intended). So often I feel bound by the laws of seasonal trends. I need to become free of this as keeping up requires constant reading, watching and $$$$. The latter I most certainly am lacking currently.

Ironically the "old world" never really seems to go out of fashion. For some reason vintage (40 years and beyond) and vintage inspired can nearly always make an appearance, be respected and appreciated, even if it's not your thing. A slight nod to the bygone era (genuine article or reflective of our grandmothers wardrobe) and everyone is happy to pass it off as vintage rather than out of date.

Fashion week saw me prance around in this special number. A few observers commented "What a lovely dress - is it vintage?" "That dress is sweet, I bet it's thrifted and from London". Neither actually. It's Australian and brand spankin' new (no busted zips here ladies). It's just designed by a super smart lass who also agrees vintage never goes out of fashion and fortunately always seems to pay her bills.

.........are a girls best friend

For a girl who over the years has accumulated some beautiful jewellery, I just don’t wear it enough. My Mum is of the old school variety and has always had a penchant for tennis bracelets, lockets, fobs and solid gold bangles. I even met her in Antwerp earlier this year to scour the city for diamonds. A European trip simply for purchasing jewellery makes her a serious jewellery wearer and buyer (sucks to be my dad, no wonder he keeps putting off retirement). I, on the other hand have not inherited this love of expensive accessories. I wear a very simple pair of pearls every day. Now and then I adorn myself with some glass beads or costume style neck decorations. The real stuff just doesn’t do it for me just yet. At 30 I fear it may never become “my thing”. (Looks like my future spouse is high fiving himself right now!)

I do, however, fancy a pretty vintage ring and have spent hundreds of hours wandering market stalls and browsing antique websites in search of the perfect one. In my travels I came across this gorgeous website owned and operated by the sweetest girl called Raney-Mills. Her company Raney Day Rings is based in Boston, USA. I just had to share it with you. Cute to boot and from what I hear, prices and shipping are extremely reasonable. Start decorating your fingers ladies.

More recently, my most exciting fashion festival discovery was the surprise appearance of boutique jeweller Chelsea De Luca. Antique themed, old world jewels reminiscent of our grandmothers jewellery boxes, swarovski crystal encrusted hair combs, and some gorgeous deep coloured velvet cushions make for a simply delightful store experience. Word on James Street is that De Luca is the next best thing in the Australian jewellery industry. De Luca's frosting is highly sort after for many red carpet appearances with Rose Byrne making the "Unflappable Flapper" her first choice at the Sex and the City premiere. For a girl who prefers the vintage brooch over colour, carat, clarity and cut - De Luca may be just what I've been looking for.

Blow drying, bobs and black

I've donned some of the most fabulous outfits this week as a guest (no longer an usher) at numerous shows during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Festival Brisbane. I lead a standing ovation for the tulled frills and slippery satin at Grbac on Day 1, I've developed a major crush on Paul Hunt (the man as well as the full skirts) and look forward to a little high street love when I attend the Queens Plaza Morning tea on Friday. 

I'm averaging 5 hours sleep a night (6 if I've pre planned the next days outfit). A blow dry in the morning has been limited to Monday and maybe Thursday (thank goodness braids are back and can be resurrected the following day). 

I have a whole new respect for Wintour and company. I now understand why the standard bob and black ensemble is so popular in the front row - bob plus black equals a good 7 hours in the sack. All this time I thought it was lack of creativity when it's actually sheer brilliance. A make over maybe on the cards friends. Stay tuned for outfit stories and fashion week criticism (of the constructive variety). I'm now off to take these tired eyes to bed.

Eureka

At first I was a little nervous that the land down plenty wouldn't fulfil my current hankering and obsession with vintage fashion. It's not that I lacked faith in the style of my predecessors, I'm a huge fan of pre war petticoats and the peter pan collar. I just wasn't quite sure our grand parentals placed enough emphasis on fashion in the early years to horde all of those special “just in case my great great grand daughter fancied this peacock blue velvet hat” style pieces.  I figured they were more concerned with digging for gold than worrying about the style stakes of their future offspring's offspring's.

That was until I stumbled across this sensational true red boucle jacket, complete with black gross grain ribbon detail and so gordy their great gold buttons. To my surprise all of a sudden I was Advancing Australia Fair, vintage style.

As far as my all Australian family were concerned I had nothing to worry about,“the first fleet were totally super stylin' mate stop stressing out about it”.

Drop it like it's hot

On the mammoth journey that is London to Brisbane, it's only wise to break it up with a little over night stay. Not even 13 hours, dodgy in-flight entertainment and 8 bags of economy class snack mix could keep me away from the cheaper than chips Hong Kong ladies markets.

My extreme reaction to back street shopping often has me somewhat perplexed. There's something quite exhilarating about being lead to a small room with wall to wall exhibits of designer bags. You know the zips will break as soon as you get back to your hotel room, but the secrecy involved in these covert operations is thrilling. It's not to say I don't get super excited about a good day out on Regent Street or at Queens Plaza, it's just, I don't seem to get the sweaty palms and fast heart rate when browsing the racks of Cos and Jaeger.

Why I get such a kick out of this dirty process when I very rarely purchase anything is anyones guess? I mean, shouldn't the adrenaline and satisfaction come with the transaction and the actual owning of the product? The truth is, purchasing one of these 'copy' bags does not sit well with me at all. Maybe its because I've spent too much time developing a conscious whilst reading fashion magazines and watching documentaries on you tube. Or possibly its the result of being ripped off too many times as a guilt free teenager when my Louis Vuitton Graffiti bag just didn't match up.

What ever the reasoning, I left HK once again with only a sweet little Jade broach (no fake label) and a perfume purchase from the always lovely Lane Crawford department store. At my age its time to leave the copy Chloe and dodgy Diesel for those gap year teenagers who are yet to learn the sadness behind the plastic handbags they will purchase on mass. 

So often we read articles on this sad topic and I'm sure we all have strong opinions on why the copy industry should be abolished and how its effected the retail economic situation of many brands. I'm terribly disappointed that the iconic Burberry check is no longer a lusted after fabric and that gone are the days when the LV monogrammed carry all was seen only on business class passengers.

I do admit, however, that I was left in awe when I witnessed the rope and string arrangements displaying copy bags and sunglasses on a recent Spanish mini break. I couldn't help but think - how very clever. The copy items sat on a calico rug which had 4 pieces of rope attached to each corner. At the first sight of local authorities, the 'retailer' pulled the 4 ropes and in a spilt second his 'shop front' turned to a sack and he was off as quick as Santa on Christmas Eve. These guys worked in teams, with a 'look out' that would signal at any sign of police, giving his colleague enough time to close the deal and be off like the wind. With skills such as this I started to wonder how the retailers in question ended up selling tacky plastic Prada bags and scratched Ray Bans for a living when clearly a career in engineering or athletics could have well been on the cards? Economics I guess.

I still call Australia home

I'm home. I love my country, I love my Mum, I miss my boyfriend and I hate my dog.

Thanks For The Memories

Today marks the end of an era. The next post I write will be penned (I'm old school) from the great mother land down under. Tomorrow I begin the 24 hour journey back to the lucky country. Here I plan to settle, decorate, shop, drink tropical fruit cocktails and write. 

I leave behind the city that introduced me to the power of Burberry, Harrods, Many A High Street and my first pair of Red Soled Shoes (all deserving capital letters due to the important roles they have played in the story that is "My Life").

It was the great city of London that brought Mud On My Tea Dress to life and in its honour I give you my best effort at encompassing my London style. I present to you....

Everybody's doing it

Sometimes when shopping (especially when on holiday) I tend to become completely consumed and immersed with my surroundings. I've been known to bring back fur trimmed hats from Russia (never to be worn again), Peruvian beanies that cover ones ears (what was I thinking?) and at one point I actually owned a genuine Hawaiian coconut bra (quarantined on arrival - thank god). At the time I think it's a great idea and I guess I kind of go with the "When in Rome......" theory. 

Earlier this week I returned from The Camden Market with this.  I guess for a minute I figured I was way cooler than I actually am.

Adjective: one of a kind (not comparable) 1.being unique, especially when uniformity is expected

The words vintage and one of a kind are often found together. So when your one of a kind/vintage shoes fall apart you sadly accept that replacing them may not be an option - 'ONE' of a kind being the operative word here. That is unless luck is on your side. Within an hour of arriving at The Camden Market this morning it seemed that the fashion gods were looking upon me. I had found, purchased and replaced my one of a kind/vintage (obviously not) granny shoe/boots in just under 60 minutes. Brilliant second hand shopping if I don't say so myself, here's my story in pictures:

(please note: blogger has been emotional this week and stole this post and all lovely comments - apologies to those who took the time to let me know how much they liked my new purchase. xf)

Le chic Français sans effort

Last night my boyfriend and I played the game ‘If I could be any other nationality in the world what would it be?’. My immediate response was “French of course, the berets, the stripes, the patisseries, the baguettes, the champagne – what’s not to love?" Call me clichéd but I’ve always loved a solid stereotype. The boyfriend’s reaction was a lot simpler, “Argentinean”. I was somewhat perplexed considering he already reigns from the southern parts of the Americas and is already 100% Latin blooded. “Why?” I asked “Football” was his response. Men, so nice and simple.

Enjoy a few terribly contrived snaps of Francis looking somewhat like a French cliché and not so much effortless.

A special souvenir

What's a girl to do when her boss slips her a little bit of bonus cash? Treat herself to her first pair of red soles of course. 

I Heart London

The undiscovered talent in this city is out of control. Those ragged music students riding the tube in ultra/skinny/slouchy black jeans lugging instrument cases much larger than themselves - the new Chris Martin possibly? That random dude with tattoos, spray painting a sleeping train somewhere in South London – Bansky anyone?

……and of course the most inspiring for me are those ridiculously fashionable students of the art, housed under the roof of many a fashion school here in our fashion capital.

Introducing Matcho Suba

Reigning from his homeland of Slovakia, skipping his third year and approaching his Masters at the London College of Fashion – Take a bow Mud, I think you have stumbled upon greatness with this one. We were lucky enough to scam a few private pics of Suba on his latest shoot with his 2nd year featured piece, an outstanding voluminous canary yellow mohair number. So very avant-garde and just gorgeous. 

Suba is most certainly another up and coming talented London face to watch. So many fabulous faces just not enough UK VISA time.

One Perfect Day

Today I spent the afternoon wearing a head scarf and visiting an old friend I like to call "Australian Vogue". All in the name of preparation.