I kid, but sometimes with all the various modes of transport I consider daily just to get from A to B within London it does feel like what a threesome might feel like: EXHAUSTING. (Or not? Tell me in the comments) (OMG PLEASE BE DESCRIPTIVE)

I don’t tend to write much about apps, not because I pride in some strict editorial integrity (heck I’ll write about adult diapers if it’s awesome), but this time I’ve quite genuinely stopped using all other taxi apps and moved onto Karhoo. So this post, effectively, is me saving myself from a week-or-so of embarrassing fan-nerding on Twitter, like I did when Deliveroo was on the rise. It’s everything you thought you need in a cab comparison app in one – pre-booking, real-time car tracking, post-trip rating, service levels, and choice from multiple cab companies – they even list taxi numbers in cities they haven’t yet launched in. Here’s three ways I use and abuse.

creative direction SHINI PARK photography TEAM PARK & CUBE produced for Kahoo




One of the last operational postcard London serviecs since red phone boxes became entrances to The Ministry of Magic

I may have lamented a few times before, how I – despite having eyeballs – decided it was clever to jump into a black cab in grid-lock traffic. So, aside from this genius making genius decisions – it still stands that London Black Taxis is the best choice when it comes to whizzing around within Central London for meetings. If not for the fact that you’re jumping into postcard London, then the thrill of cackling at others while you race through on the bus lane. Karhoo just modernises the whole experience really: summoning, tracking, quick automatic payments…

PENNETHORNES | Somerset House, Strand, London WC2R 1LA


Top – POLO Ralph Lauren. Culottes – Zara. Suitcase – Globe Trotter. Bag – J&M Davidson.


Isn’t it all about survival of the fittest, at the end of the day?

Contrary to popular belief, the London Underground is an asshole when you have a suitcase and a plane/train to catch. Especially in the morning and after-work hours, and even more so if you have to change at Bank Station. For some years I’ve been counting the taxi fare to the airport/station as part of the general travel budget and relishing the fact that I did not die of stress today. And FINALLY I can pre-book with Karhoo and avoid the poop-in-pants situation I normally get into after forgetting to book a car for stupid-o’clock, yay.



Alfred, call me a Karhoo

Since we don’t live in Gossip Girl world and nobody really owns a limo, this is the closest I believe I can get to hitching meself a Chuck Bass. The exec level has been my friend in times of 1) presentable arrivals at events (friend’s kid’s birthdays count, right?) and 2) extreme tipsiness when you suddenly feel like you can afford a swanky ride because you just found £5 in your clutch from the last time you were out.

TOWN HALL HOTEL CORNER ROOM | Patriot Square, London E2 9NF



Dress – Kalita. Heels – Gianvito Rossi. Belt. Stella McCartney


Dress – Razan Alazzouni. Blouse – Goat. Bag – Celine.


Matsuhisa Paris
Le Royal Monceau |

Having grown up in all the international schools Poland could throw at us, this fact I’m pretty certain of: mixed-race kids are sick of hearing other children ask ‘what are you?’ (‘a potato.’). And hence, I must offer my sincerest apologies – to my Albacore Tuna Sashimi with Jalapeno Pepper, at the newly opened Matsuhisa Paris – for asking WHAT ARE YOU AND WHY DO YOU TASTE LIKE A UNICORN. Because hot damn, guys – Peruvian and Japanese make a handsome blend.

Rewind to Paris a few Wednesdays ago, back in April. It would seem that we brought one small Samsonite on the Eurostar, as well as one order of soggy blanket of rainclouds that followed us from King’s Cross to perch at the edge of the Arc de Triomphe, which was but a stone’s throw away from the entrance of The Royal Monceau Raffles. As suspicions would have it – moments after check-in, the sky opened up over the 8th arrondissement. Sleepily, we abandoned Paris and fell into the Philippe Starck rabbit hole, perusing the design and contemporary art, so nonchalantly hanging about and forming a sort a hypnotic, surreal landscape – a live-in gallery of sorts… then eventually retired into the comfort of our suite, and counted reflections on the panelled mirrors in the bathroom for the rest of the afternoon. Peering from our second-floor suite balcony as the rain soaked the red carpet outside, the sound of Japanese Taiko drums thundered through the hallways as guests arrived for the launch of Matsuhisa Paris.



Shoes – Ganor Dominic. Jeans – Filippa K. Bag – Cekline. Sweater – Zara.



Chef Nobu has a sort of sunny disposition about him always – perhaps a memento from his many years in Lima – he bounces in and asks everyone at our table where we are from. He has stories for each – for Janni, who lives in Monaco, his favourite restaurant in the French Mediterranean coastline; my background confuses him slightly but he ends up telling the romance around the opening of Nobu in Green Park – his first European venture. He has the unquestionable charisma of the Japanese brand, a somewhat unicorn dish himself, emphasized even more as he stands under under the Stéphane Calais – Un Jardin à la Française ceiling mural in Le Royal Monceau.

Park & Cube was a guest of Le Royal Monceau, Raffles Paris





Silk slip – Hesper Fox..



Glasses – Ray-Ban. Silk slip – Hesper Fox.


Top & Bottom – Rejina Pyo. Phone case – OtterBox. Necklace – Louis Vuitton.


top: shirt & trousers STYLENANDA bag DELVAUX. right: notebook OHH DEER phonecase OTTERBOX earrings MARIA BLACK


Once upon a time, in a land far, far away – far enough from a Starbucks (one equipped with a toilet) that warrants this rant a fairy-tale/hipster beginning – lived a girl whose name was Butter Fingers. She had the face of any ordinary girl, but possessed an extremely rare useless magical power, one that allowed her to drop everything – little or high in value – to the floor. Her fairy godmother had concluded that Darling, earth’s gravity must be a little stronger around you and had slid a card to a botox clinic before *poof*-ing off. The people in the village however, had banished her with pitchforks and selfie-sticks, to a leafy-yet-ironically-well-connected borough, after an incident at Oxford Circus station that sealed the fate, and name, of Butter Fingers.

It had been the height of rush hour, exactly five hours past the hour of noon at which the sun is at its highest – villagers retiring from a day’s work poured into the under-passage of Oxford Circus Station, all four entrances choked up to the brim. Butter Fingers had been on an excursion, one of her busier days – ending with an appointment making BLARRHGHER cupcakes and that of similar unimportance. She had shuffled along into the station with the throng, sharing in agitation with the day’s exhaustion, and joined the bottle-neck queue up to the ticket barriers. Just as she reached the double-gates and pulled out her magical oyster that grants entry, out spilled the entire contents of her bag. Keys, phones, wooden ladles, anti-bacterial gels… even the DIY cupcakes tumbled onto roadkill. Domestic/foreign coins rolled towards the escalators, and she’d lost in the Schrodinger’s cat query: Is the phone screen cracked, or intact? The station ground to a halt, and then, an uproar.


…after an incident at Oxford Circus station that sealed the fate, and name, of Butter Fingers.



It was since that day, the villagers dubbed her Butter Fingers. Or Lube Collective, for those who remember the incident. Marinating in self-shame, she’d since thrown out all flap-less bags and stocked up on OtterBox Drop+ Protection cases, and lured a man to carry all peripherals, who she eventually married. She resorted to a life online, dedicated the rest of her life to a blog (the laptop nailed down to the desk), and lived happily ever after.


Top – Rejina Pyo Trousers – COS.
Marinating in self-shame, she’d since thrown out all flap-less bags and stocked up on Otterbox phone cases…



creative direction SHINI PARK editorial assistance SIMON SCHMIDT in collaboration with OTTERBOX



Created for
Moët & Chandon


The thing about being a crippling introvert, especially when your two out of three words in your unofficial (cringe) job title is ‘social’ and ‘influencer’ (heck even ‘media’ is a plural, SAVE ME), is that you don’t really have friends. By friends I don’t mean the people you hang out with because they look good on your Instagram feed (same logic applies to ordering photogenic food that you hate eating, like muesli – what am I, a bird?), it’s people who actually listen to your nerdery (?), like explaining the difference between Windows 8 and Windows 10 (and why there is no Windows 9* **).

This very blog is the realization that, for the past seven-going-on-eight years, I’ve been looking inwards and playing in front of the looking glass. And for the better half of said eight years, my £19 tripod was a pretty good pal until the day it chucked my (thankfully inexpensive) camera down on the asphalt outside the house, blurted ‘DONE WITH THIS SH*T’ and hobbled off, three legs and all. I knew I had to find some real friends then. Obviously it didn’t come easy – I met people, looked for buttons to press, and occasionally offered ham. I mostly made friends with parking meters and foxes.

*Because Seven EIGHT Nine. LMAO. GET IT. Seven ate Nine.
** This is why I have to buy friends onlinest.

Dress – Tata Naka. Jeans – Stylenanda. Pumps – Zara.



Fast forward to 2016, I’m proud to say this gang of dorks are friends
Skirt – Tara Jarmon. Shirtdress – Stylenanda. (On Sarah) Dress – Tata Naka
Charlie wears: all Charlie May. Ring – Mara. Choker – Maria Black.



Fast forward to 2016, I’m proud to say this gang of dorks are friends. I may have offered a day-trip to Brighton (chaperoned by this crazy Asian lady driver), carby road-snacks and bottomless-ish Moët & Chandon champagne as bait, but I suspect they would’ve done it for nothing. Let me introduce: You know Sarah: sunshine personified, looks a lot like a goddess, humour like a merry bunny. There’s Charlie - designer, girl crush and the real culprit behind the minimalist movement (Philo who?). Emarr, rising star to the world of the fast-spoken rhymes – SoOo talented IT HURTS (Don’t check his Soundcloud, it’s just full of AWESOME, you wouldn’t like it). Last but not least, albeit not pictured, Simon – whom you all know if you follow on Snapchat (sparkncube) – my feminist, zealous, flaming-ball-of-enthusiasm PA (who I may or may not pay to hang out with me). Cheers, and thank you for the #moetmoment. Who needs hydraulics if five of us can make a car bounce to Dr Dre.

creative direction SHINI PARK editorial assistance SIMON SCHMIDT in collaboration with MOËT & CHANDON #OPENTHENOW
Who needs hydraulics if five of us can make a car bounce to Dr Dre.




This sofa is my biggest triumph yet. I mean, have you seen the colour?
Let’s be honest, most anything can be justified by a carefully curated Pinterest board – this swing, for instance, was a hard sell to my significant, overly-pragmatic other. (A conversation that went a little like: “But WHY do we need a swing in the middle of the flat?” “I dunno honey, WHY do we need an appendix?! You know what, NO SEX.” “OK FINE HANG YOUR SWING”) This sofa is my biggest triumph yet. I mean, have you seen the colour? And I know to some of you a 2.5-seater is basically an armchair but by London standards it’s half the flat. Yet, I managed it. I sold the idea of a baby pink sofa to a Viking metal-head who only owns black t-shirts with either thunderbolts or illustrated virgins sacrificed on it. And he loves it.


From left to right: Potz Wonen interiors, Annika von Holdt, Skandiform designs


As much as I like giving my boards all the credit, what really piqued my – and later his – interest was the fact that this sofa was built and assembled in London, not 10 minutes’ walk from where we used to live back when we were students. Deep in The Sofa and Chair Company’s extensive showroom floor, hides a little fantastical room, filled floor-to-ceiling with pastel-coloured foam panels, with a hole in the floor that reveals Narnia. Amongst the pushing, pulling, drilling and hammering, there are glimpses of a Mayfair headboard, or a velvet chaise longue. That’s how Rose was built, six weeks of adept hands stretching the cotton Kobe Samba-38 across a 2.5-seater frame, 38 buttons pulled deep into the blue foam (on the plush end) and finished off with a grey piping and matching dark grey legs. And the best part is, all it had to do was to travel just under 11 miles to get to its home.




six weeks later…
I am elated to announce the birth of rose haribo park jr.


Disclaimer: this was entirely a personal initiative as part of the #PCMove, but discount was kindly given by The Sofa & Chair Company.