The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker (or as 2017 would have it, the fishmonger, the grocer and the cold press juice maker) have all welcomed my homecoming to Chelsea Green with open arms. Or perhaps, have only batted an eyelid or two as I fall back into the routine of brazenly claiming their storefronts as a scenic prop to better show off my latest acquisitions.
This is the one that is being written with my computer precariously balanced on an overpacked suitcase, sandwiched in between a gargantuan McDonalds (total blasphemy when in Rome—sorry, Milan says geotag), and late boarding at Malpensa airport, so you will have to excuse brevity (/total lack of sense).
Milan really did feel like it was trying to cruise right past me. Perhaps my schedule wasn’t as packed as NY or London, but the city was new to me, so I had some hard driving to do if I was to keep up with the wacky racing fashion set. Fortunately, I had just the shoes for the job. They see me rollin, etc…
The week started as carb-full as it ended. There was rigatoni and gnocchi, garganelli and spaghetti—sprinkled with parmesan a plenty. And let’s not forget the ravioli… Also accompanying most high fashion courses: a large dollop of your preferred Swarovski crystals, served just the way you like. Covering every inch of the clothing as spotted while nosing around backstage at Vivetta, where a bright red pant suit made me stop right in my tracks! Or shimmering ever so slightly, just here and there, as demonstrated by Arthur Arbesser.
Meanwhile, the millennials clearly have been living on the Atkins diet since birth, if the Dolce show is anything to go by. Obvi carbs are more important to me than oxygen (I actually cried of happiness when my allergy test confirmed that I have zero issues with gluten), so no hard feelings at not having been asked. I’ll take running to get pizza over prancing down the runway Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and yup, even D&G Sunday—which coincidentally was the message spelled out by the rainbow finale at Alberta Ferretti. Coincidence? I think not.
I would go on, but my gate is boarding, and I still have a few snacks for the plane to buy. Touchdown in Paris.
Carb-fully yours, Cam.
Coat: Rejina Pyo (this one cool too) || Shoes: J. W. Anderson || Clutch: Loewe || Necklace: Alighieri || Shirt: Jil Sander --- Pics via Tagwalk.In partnership with the Swarovski Collective — Final stop, Paris!
Never not on the hunt for a new go-with-everything white button up. And a new brunch spot. Or three. So spent a flash day in Paris taking Karen Millen‘s new white shirt line on a tour of all my favourite spots around the city. Read all about it here.
“His name is Martin and you live in London, so this is basically the parent trap”, assessed my trusty sidekick, Hannah.
90s kids will know.
The minute our Mercedes driver put out his hand to introduce himself, I had to physically restrain myself from going into the full handshake, in all its 18-move glory. **Cue me humming iconic theme-tune instead**. All the signs were there, and seemed to point in that direction: this week would be the week I was finally going to be reunited with my long-lost style twin. Oh boy, how exciting!
As we Maybach-ed our way (#sorrynotsorry, Annie does have a limo after all) to our first stop of the day, I felt very lucky to be back home in England. The fashion in this city is so colourful and expressive, and Sadie Williams’ geometric presentation with splashes of Swarovski crystals was the first reminder of all the eclectic ideas to come. This was followed by a powerful feminine hit by the king of experimental, J. W. Anderson. Square cut toes, and cutout sweatshirts parading in a seemingly chaotic manner, which seemed to echo the personality of the girl he wants to dress: flirtatious, rebellious, a little unpredictable. I could def be all those things, J-dubs.
Still no sign of my separated-at-birth sartorial duplicate. Onto the next show then, eyes peeled. And suddenly dazzled by Faustine Steinmeitz crystallised affair, as embellished denim-wear flirted with the now ubiquitous sexy puffer jacket. One thing for sure, we won’t be cold next Winter either.
Martin is getting tired of my humming.
And then there was Joseph. Oh Joseph, you do know your way to a woman’s heart. As loose-fitted, yet somehow tailored, one-pieces floated past me, topped with Alighieri gold, I couldn’t help but notice one of the girls sitting on the far side of the room. As we stood up, I gasped. There she was. Synchronised down to our matching ribboned hair ties (mine incidentally freshly cut from the hem of my jeans that I’d decided to DIY that very morning).
As we made our way in unison to the last show of the day, the wonderfully feminine Emilia Wickstead, whose beaded creations made me wish I lived in a Jane Austen story, I couldn’t help but smile. Here it was: in your honour, a royal streestyle flush…
Back from my holiday and desperately trying to avoid all of my resolutions and responsibilities, at least for one more day. The only solution is head-to-toe black, to better melt into my dark London surroundings. How long does Winter last again?