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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).
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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.
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article or reflective of our grandmothers wardrobe) and everyone is happy to pass it off as vintage rather than out of date.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.
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.
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”.
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.
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.
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.
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