“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…
Now, how about that handshake!
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?
I’m not normally one for nostalgia. Onwards and upwards — always — is this Little Miss Digital’s motto. But with the current state of global affairs, the future is not necessarily something I want to be thinking about right when I roll out of bed in the morning. Hence the impromptu flashback to my high-school years, since traveling back through time via my sartorial pursuits seems like the more optimistic solution. It’s that or denial.
If you know, you know: we’re back in 1999, praying to the weather gods that it doesn’t start pouring, or your live-in super-flares will instantly get wet through to your knees, with zero hope of drying until the end of the day (cue frostbite). Effortless top-knot, faux-innocent gingham print and mandatory matching backpack in tow, and we’re off. Most probably, the only thing to worry about today is whether the girls are still mad about me spending to much time with the boy (and what’s for lunch, obvs).
Roll on world.
In partnership with Tory Burch — Croc backpack available exclusively at Westfield London.