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.

Satisfaction

Sometimes in life you get ripped off. You know the dress is overpriced and the mark up is extortionate. You know the boutique owner has 3 European holiday houses and is sending her boys to Eton because you pay for her dresses at prices ATI (according to the idiot).

At the time of purchase you are very aware of all of this; however, you somehow seem compelled to make the transaction. Some type of "must have" adrenaline is pumped through your veins and you seem to believe that this particular dress may just change your life. Dramatic and some what extreme I know.

You fight London Transport; holding ever so tightly the bag, your clutch and your travel card. You whip the dress out of its tissue paper, you place it on the best hanger you own and you wait. You wait for an occasion special enough to bust it out, merchandise it up and reveal its greatness to the world.

On rare occasions your special dress may disappoint (if within 28 days I suggest using your return policy); however, yesterday was not one of those days. Yesterday, I donned my ludicrously overpriced Circa Vintage dress and its greatness was finally admired. There was no disappointment here; 11/10 for wearer satisfaction, both the dress and I felt simply lovely and enjoyed yet another a glorious British summer day out.

Love Letters

Following on from my virtual reawakening at Paul Hunt last week, I decided to do a little more research into home grown talent. I recalled a sneak peak of the whimsical label Grbac back in 2006 and thought I would let my “perfect coral” manicured fingers do the walking and see if she ever amounted to anything.

I was silenced. With a Central Saint Martins degree, the delicacy of Dinnigan and a small dash of creaming soda, it seems that not only Queensland but Australia may have found something truly special in Brisbane based Juli Grbac. Her website is one of the prettiest I’ve seen since Alannah asked us to "please wait while I paint the perfect lipstick pout". With an overflow of femininity and a pallet of sorbet colours, all of a sudden I was in cocktail dress heaven.

Now, there’s a very good chance I’m a few years behind with this discovery. With a highly coveted spot on the Australian 'Project Runway', it seems Grbac is already a major player in the Oz fashion world. Late discovery or not, I’m extremely over excited about what’s on offer in my new place of dwelling. I apologise to Juli and her pretty frocks (and am kicking my own shins) for not picking up on her successes earlier. I also, therefore, look forward to picking up some “last season” sale items on my return home later this year. For all my lovely global readers – here’s a slice of what Australia’s New Generation has to offer….. soft and simply beautiful.

The Princess Diaries

Having a terribly creative mother, who can DIY anything can be quite handy in this business we call fashion. Having a terribly creative mother who can DIY anything; but lives in the Southern Hemisphere is unfortunately not that handy at all and in times of desperate measure, is actually completely useless.

Sometime ago (Jan 2006); I spotted the prettiest head piece on HRH The Crown Princess 0f Denmark and kept the pictures on hand “Just In Case” (you never know when you’re going to be invited to a Royal Christening in Copenhagen right?).

"Just In Case" I don't ever come across a Danish baby, I figured the Cartier Polo this coming Sunday could be the perfect society event to don such a regal accessory. I decided to put in an international order for a look-alike over a month ago; emails and pictures have been heading back and forth across the globe between yours truly and my terribly creative mother,  in search of this soft flowered hair arrangement (note: not fascinator) and this morning it arrived.

In all its royal glory, The Mother Ship didn’t disappoint. There’s nothing 'General Admission' about this beauty. It’s a shame I don’t have tickets to the Royal Enclosure – this head piece is most certainly fit for a Princess and an Australian one at that.

My 'Queens' Plaza

With my UK work VISA looming over head, future places of residency have been quite the topic of conversation. Considering I always bat for Queensland and love the (cheaper than Sydney) luxury of inner city parking, making a stylish entrance back to Brisbane is highly likely in the not too distant future.

To ease me back into the Brisvegas way of life, I decided to don a floppy hat, a pair of pretty flats, pack a shopper and sit at my mac for a ‘virtual’ day out in The Great South East. I began with a Blonde Venus style stroll around the edgy, multi label, street wear boutiques in Fortitude Valley. Terribly cool and dare I say funky (such a lame 90’s term but I can’t seem to shake it). I then skipped across to hail the oh so dapper Mr Paul Hunt, originally at the head of the ever growing, James St, leading the way for a number of big Aussie name stand alone stores. He apparently now retails from a larger French inspired New Farm studio - a must see for lovers of couture. The afternoon saw me pop across to Emporium and………… Sweet Mother of God! Who is Jean Brown? Have I been away that long? Am I that out of touch? What? When? Who? How? Que?

It seems Miss Brown has raised the Brisbane bar. I fear that by housing an abundance of super brands such as McQueen, Treacy, McCartney, YSL and our old friend Mr. Blahnik, JB may be adding a whole new level of stress to the credit crunch effect with Brisbane fashionistas alike. I’ve been told there are two Jean Brown stores in Emporium, the original stocks accessories (real Balenciagas of course, not the scary back street Hong Kong kind that can be found in Paddington if you look hard enough – shock, horror!). The second store, which opened more recently, is Jean Brown Robe, stocking pretty Chloe frocks for those who live on Hamilton Hill or just know how to manage their money a little better than I.

With tickets to a few shows and high teas during Brisbane Fashion Festival along with visits to Jean Brown on the cards (of the credit variety) it looks like Virgin Blue will be the ones missing out. No longer will I need trips to Bondi Junction and Chapel Street to satisfy my fashionable needs down under. Will The Emporium be my new Mayfair? Brisbane, I think I’m in love.

The Money Shot

I’m a straight shooter. With me there’s no fence sitting, shades of grey or batting for both teams. I always pick a side, I choose black or white and…… will always bat for Queensland (as long as it's 20/20 - I don’t have time for sports that last for a whole damn week – what’s with that?) Hence, my problem with shoes that are a ‘bit of this and a bit of that’.

I own two lovely pairs of shoe/boots, the ‘shuboot’ as coined by many a blogger in the blogisphere. My problem being, every time I put them on I just don’t feel right and somewhat incomplete. Strange I know. 9 times out of 10 I will remove the shuboot and replace with either a shoe or a boot. I seem to struggle with this middle ground.

This is something I’d like to rectify. For 3 reasons:
1). The Shuboot is 'terribly chic' and 'terribly chic’ is something I’d like to be.
2). Due to our very fickle industry, I fear the Shuboot craze may end any day now. The two pairs in question were awfully expensive and it seems such a waste. I need to jump on fast or my outlay will never be justified.
3). In 2020, when the Shuboot is resurrected, I want to be able to say to my daughter, “here sweety, wear my shuboot. It’s vintage (circa 2008).

How does one embrace the ‘in between’ shoe? Maybe I should experiment with the dress over the trouser theory just to get me in the mood

Animal Crackers

Sometime ago now, I inherited a fur coat. Yes, readers, that’s right, a fully fledged, non PC, non faux, caramel coloured, rabbit fur coat. I was terribly grateful at the time and at 19, on a student wage (pocket money from the parentals), I was delighted to be receiving free vintage clothing regardless of where it came from or who/what was hurt in the process.

Now, however, in my wise old age, there is no possible way that I can plead ignorance to the protestors outside Harrods on a Saturday morning (out of my way damn it I just want to get to the Mac counter). Nor can I disregard the infamous Anna Wintour tofu pie scenario. How could we forget? These past events have proven that fur and clothing are two items that struggle to mingle without conflict. I will admit though, that apart from these over publicised moments, my education on this very topical issue is limited. None the less, my opinion is inextricably strengthening.

I can’t pin point the exact moment that I decided the right thing to do was to part with the coat or the reasoning behind it. I guess it came out of nowhere really. I am not an activist of any kind or even an animal lover for that matter (stems from never having a pet), but as a human being who simply values life, I just feel it’s the right thing to do. This may be somewhat hypocritical considering my carnivorous ovo-lacto diet and the fact that I wear leather coats, shoes and bags. Some may say I’ve fallen for popular cultural beliefs or that I’m jumping on some type of anti fur band wagon. I honestly can’t tell you the ‘whys’, but whatever the reason, I figure it has to be a good one right?

For what it’s worth, I’ve never worn the coat in question (for superficial reasons: its too big and boxy) and I have many great (well fitted) fauxs in my wardrobe so it surely wont be missed. Wearing a faux, means I can relax knowing I’m doing my bit for the fauna but those around me will be none the wiser. I mean, lets be honest, a great faux is hard to separate from the real thing. I figure, if I ever have the hankering for the warmth and luxury of an evening fur, I can throw my faux over my LBD for a little glamour minus the conscience.

Without too much reasoning, I’m simply sacrificing my inherited rabbit fur to the fashion gods. At this point I may not be able to give an in-depth analysis as to why (although I feel that my recent visit to Australia Zoo may have something to do with it) and I may not be able to save the precious life that brought me the coat. I cannot make tofu pie statements, douse people in red paint (huge in the 90’s) or even have the time to stand around chanting with a placard. I can, however, part with the coat as my little bit towards this great cause. One small step towards the bigger picture I hope.

Ps. Any ideas about who the fashion gods actually are? Ebay? Maybe not - making money out of one’s guilty conscience?….. There's another whole issue/post in that one.

Batting above the average

For a girl who never has any money and apparently spends it all on superfluous fashion, I ask you this - Where are all the labels? Where is all the luxury? There are no pink and white boucle suits or red soles in this humble wardrobe, I can tell you. Where all my cash goes is any ones guess (or maybe it's in the pockets of market stall owners and ludicrously over priced vintage boutiques) but a quick wardrobe once over and Christian, Ralph and Yves just don't seem to get a look in.

There is this lonely Burberry scarf though (a gift from a friend of a friend who works in head office). She had a great day out yesterday and didn't seem bothered at all that I teamed her with a sweet little no name dress and a pair of second hand boots. Then again she doesn't actually have the ability to communicate now does she? If she did, do you think she'd have a problem hanging out with commoners?

How the other half roll

When I lived in Brisbane I complained that the shop assistants in pretty pin stripe at Cue bothered me too much when I was "just looking". Here in London I whine that the skinny jean wearing Top Shop 14 year old is always on her break when I require "a size 4 in these please" (UK shoe size that is). I was, however, the recipient of some serious customer service this weekend that can only be described as 'pure awesomeness'.

Sat morning saw me casually wander into the outstanding Circa Vintage on the Fulham High Street - a favourite of fashion savvy celebrities and wives of investment bankers. As I, unfortunately, fall into neither category, making a decision to purchase from this outrageously overpriced but unbelievably beautiful boutique, required an overnight marinade and a couple of "should I or shouldn't I" style phone calls. So, with a * special dress in mind, I left. To marinate.

click the circle marked x to reboot your slide show

A good 5 quid later (I really need to get onto this SKYPE thing) contemplating the “is it worth it question?” along with financial advice from those who know and care for my spending habits, it was decided. I simply couldn’t get this dress out of my head. I had to have it, it belonged with me. It would be mine.

It was, however, a non trading Sunday when I finally came to this revelation. In the city bonus and celebrity world, trading hours do not apply. Big gun, wealthy, consumers have the shops trade around them and as luck would have it, on this very rare Sunday, trading hours didn’t seem to apply to me, the humble fashion blogger, either. I met with the lovely shop assistant (now saved under 'Gaia from C.V' in my phone) early Sunday evening and the transaction of goods was completed. I’m led to believe that this is what the privileged call 'By Appointment'. My Dad simply declared it "Bloody Good Service".

Above is a sneak peak at what this lovely store has to offer. If you happen to own a flat in the great South West, have a husband who works for Goldman Sachs or you recently won Xfactor - why not drop in (preferably Monday through Sat) and don’t forget to ask for Gaia. She's bloody great!

* I have decided to keep my purchase under wraps for the time being as I plan to unveil it in full supremacy at an up coming special event. Keep an eye out for it - it is truly special and makes me very happy.

You can leave your hat on

I’ve affirmed on these pages in the past that I’m not a fan of the fascinator. A plastic hand band, synthetic flower and spray of feathers just doesn’t do it for me. I am a long time hat wearer; however, understand that the fascinator is often the middle ground for those who lack “hat wearing courage”. However, with all the inexpensive DIY products available and designs to copy why do weddings and outdoor activities bring us so many tacky headband/hot glue gun arrangements?

Just when I had declared my hate for this style of head piece and vowed to never wear netting and feathers together on my head, the lovely Sacha Olsen appeared in my inbox – a fellow Antipodean whose millinery skills are really something to admire. I literally take my hat off to her (the play on words here continues to amaze me) and I’m dying to get in on the action. I just adore each and every piece and love, love, love the fact that the term fascinator is void from her gorgeous new website.

Sacha (getting her first mention on the internet here at MOMTD) trained under the watchful eye of Rose Cory, former Royal Milliner to the Queen Mother. From recollection, the Queen Mum always wore fabulous head attire with those lovely long jacketed suit combinations. I’m not quite sure Liz would have gone for this bird creation though (note: the flights of fancy phenomenon this SS, birds are everywhere). I, on the other hand love something a little kooky and crazy and hope to don something from SachaOlsen.Com when I head to the Cartier Polo later this month. The question is, do I go with something from this collection or go all out and order custom couture? Possibilities are endless.

Tea's Me

Sometimes in life you simply stumble upon greatness. You may not have intended to 'discover' on that day or to be inspired by where you were heading, when all of a sudden, there you are, overwhelmed by the beauty and encapsulated by the experience.

Last night, I attended what I thought was to be a preview for a new Notting Hill based catering company, aptly named Tea’s Me. With such an appropriate name, along with the prospect of free bubbly, canapé and cake, I just couldn’t resist the invitation. However, upon arrival I was pleasantly and fashionably surprised to find this preview incorporating a gorgeous vintage dress and accessories sale. On this very ordinary first day of July I had accidentally found myself in heaven – cocktails, cup cakes, wall paper and dresses. Ladies, This is London.

Contact Carla on: 07830021391 for catering details

[Insert gasp, shock, horror at price of jade coloured dress - yikes!]

Living in a glass house

Competition is a part of life; there really is no escaping it. From fighting the sweaty suits for a seat on the tube, to stepping over a colleague for that elusive pay rise – you really have no choice but to participate or you’ll simply be left standing and struggling to pay the rent.

I do however have a genuine fear of competition based on one’s appearance. Beauty contests, talent quests and bride of the year style events tend to frighten me. Actually I try to stay as far away from any type of competition or pageant as I possibly can. Considering I now write on a public space open to criticism and negative comments and the fact that I spent a good 80% of my childhood on the stage, I am unsure of how I can justify this phobia. Regardless, fashion competitions always seem to evoke a knee shaking, hand trembling reaction from me.

While some women say they dress for themselves, others dress for the man in their life. The most astonishing for me are those women who declare they dress for other women. The thought of dressing for a special event with the intention of being scrutinized and criticized by other attendees makes me super uneasy and somewhat squeamish. I have always dressed purely for myself. I dress for the fun of it and I dress because it makes me feel special. I know full well that the boyfriend does not appreciate every outfit I arrive in. I also know for a fact that now and then he thinks ”what on earth is she wearing?”, but if it makes me feel good, I wear it.

As you all know just recently, I attended the fashion race day of the year and lets be honest there was some hefty competition on that field. In the lead up to the event, I was very much looking forward to the style stakes including the royal crowd with their royal bank accounts, conservative suits and designer headwear. I knew I would be in the presence of many stylish ensembles, but in planning my own outfit, I didn’t allow myself to be swayed by what others would be wearing. If there is one rule I always follow, it is that my event attire is styled by me and styled for me. I may ask the opinion of a sales assistant, a flat mate or send a quick Iphoto to my Mum for approval but at the end of the day their comments will not reflect my final decision. If I like it, if I feel special in it, then in my eyes, it’s a winner!

When putting together my outfit for Ascot, not once did I consider that I may be ‘judged’. Naïve perhaps? Maybe…… We all know that women judge women, whether we are vocal about it or not. But choosing to be judged is another matter. Wearing a number and standing on a platform while a group of women in large hats judge who they think is the best dressed is quite unnerving for yours truly. This is not to say that I don’t completely appreciate (and possibly envy) those who have the courage and self-assurance to put themselves forward. A family friend recently stood at the top of the fashion dais at an exclusive race day down under and by my standard she looks simply stunning. She is however “a winner” in all she does, a true achiever and a champion at many things. This young beauty is old hat at winning fashions on many a field and has been Belle at many a ball. I think she would put Kate and Chelsea to shame with this outstanding black and white combination. Kudos to the ladies who line up to be judged. I could only hope for this type of confidence. This year at Ascot, I was happy wearing my frock minus the line up and wrist number. Besides, I would have got sun burnt up on that podium.

End of an era

As of late July the in/famous Cornucopia on Tachbrook St in Victoria will be no more. Sadly, this treasure trove of vintage goodness is closing. At this point there is no exact date and no apparent reason, besides “I’ve been here for 40 years” (Jerry – Owner/Curator) so I’m guessing it's just time to go.

I’m a Cornucopia regular, however, this dusty, over crowed space is not for the impatient or shy consumer. You will need to a set aside a good hour or more to sort through the racks and racks of coats, suits, skirts and dresses - from personal experience, a lunch hour will never suffice. The coats are crammed so tight it actually requires strength to push them apart. There are so many chiffon shirts, that as soon as you remove the first from the downward slanting rack the others simply follow - onto the floor. The shoe shelves are a mish mash of what used to be some type of colour coded arrangement, oh and having a torch handy would also be an asset as light in this department is quite limited (just in case you had one hanging around in your tote).

If you fancy getting really involved, you best be prepared to ask for some major shop assistance. Hundreds of dresses from the yesteryear hang from ceiling rails and require a ladder, a hook, a grey haired man and a good 14 minutes for you to get even close. Accessories sit in a long glass display cabinet but cannot be seen for all the random bags, gloves, scarves and bric-a-brac that’s sprawled on the counter. The hats - well it’s nearly impossible to get your paws on those little gems, they sit on a shelf behind the accessories counter and only some serious go go gadget arms will get you a piece of that action.

Over all, it may sound like a less than attractive shopping experience but I’m not sure ‘user friendly’ was a term Jerry ever intended to have associated with his store. Simply put, Cornucopia is what it is, take it or leave it. An eclectic mix of second hand accessories to boot, true vintage beaded delights and quite a few diamonds in a whole lot of rough.

Sadly, it’s closure means an end to a tradition that has been handed from many a stylish mother down to her fashion savvy, vintage loving daughter. It will, however, remain in history as one of the best of it’s kind in our fashion capital.

Try to get in before it’s all over to grab yourself a bargain in the sale and experience a true vintage shop like no other. Do, however, remember to pack a sandwich, a torch and arm extensions. You're in for a long afternoon of delightful discovery.