From Top to bottom: Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2004), Oliver Twist (2005), Inglorious Basterds (2009)
Etro
Isabel Marant
Kelly Wearstler
Shinola
Masunaga
Chloé
Harris Wharf London
Alberto Fasciano
Maison Michel
Y’s
KTZ
If you happen to know me in real life, or follow along on Snapchat, you know my reaction to fresh-baked pizza, glistening spaghetti, or a steaming burrito wrap: “YAAaaaARS”. As loud as possible, and with a roll of eyes that would knock down a ten-pin bowling line-up. One bite of said burrito would send shivers down my spine and I’d feel an odd sense that I, am in love, with this food, would like to procreate with it, sit under the stars, read poems together about salted caramel, and roast garlic over open flame. #LongTechnicallyInacurrateSentenceDontCare. So, what do I consider sexy, you ask? A bowl of phô wearing Agent Provacateur.
On occasion of Zalando’s #SHAREYOURSEXY #UK campaign with Calvin Klein Underwear, fronted by ultrababe Joan Smalls, here are a few other things that I think sexy: Food, great sense of humour underlined by dirty jokes and sarcasm – sharp enough to make sashimi out of any serious/non-serious situation – and nerds. Talk to me ONLY using lines from LOTR and you can be Ron to my Hermione (also must be proficient in at least two FPS games and own a gaming mouse).
What’s your Sexy?
Alice inhales a bag of potato crisps between each motorway exits on the M4, West out of London. My hands are on the wheels (11-2, I swear, Brian) and concentrating on juggling the gearstick and the clutch. Due to an unexpected delay to our journey we, quite literally, are riding into a golden sunset, and I can’t help but sneakily press a button to peel the roof off the Jaguar F-TYPE and put on Sade’s ‘Smooth Operator’. Yeah, I’d like to think I’d have done well with the girls had I been a man.
It’s another escape, although this time more an escap-ade, with Alice Gao of Lingered Upon, to celebrate her first time in the UK. Like I said before, this is my preferred way of throwing parties: borrowing handsome (read: sexy) wheels and nipping out to the countryside. (It seriously is the best way to spend birthday money, given all requirements such as age/driving experience are met) Screw elaborate, expensive soirees where you end up frazzled by small-talk/up in a closet – borrow a car, grab a versatile camel coat (like this Max Mara beauty called Manuela from Selfridges) and honk from your friend’s doorstep. Roof down, of course.
Our destination? The road. And eventually, Bath – town set in the rolling South-West England, much better known for its natural hot springs and 18th Century Georgian structure. And home to Cereal Magazine, a visit to which is also on our agenda. In the meantime, a thick milky fog settles and we wade through – mostly with trepidation as the road gets narrower – but gabbing about everything and anything, music purring away gently with the car.
In light of recent events that left the world sick to its guts (save for pockets inhabited by human degenerates chanting under the same banner), I had contemplated whether pushing yet another, self-infused, colour-clad story was the appropriate stance for a Monday morning. I had spent the weekend mourning for a city I loved, for the friends (from Beirut, Paris, Ankara and further) I cherish like family, and a humanity that proclaims to be under God yet Godless in action. There were moments of utter disbelief, powerlessness, of loathing; but this morning I woke up to a London enveloped in milky fog and odd silence, and decided to get on with things, with zeal – if not more. To love life and celebrate light, because if pre-school taught anything, it’s that thriving in your current disposition is the only effective way to deal with bullies. So dear readers, keep calm, and carry on – and rejoice in the fact that with this, we raise a middle finger to those who envy and terrorize freedom, love and peace. And here, an oufit post to raise the stakes – choke on that, bully.
With that said, my heart goes out to those affected in the attacks, regardless of resolution. I hope you find rest in knowing the world breathes at the same tempo today.
If you too, growing up, lived under a hand-painted sign that read Work Hard, Play Hard (possibly pinned near a stack of extra-curricular maths problems and a ragged vocabulary pad, contents of which has magically wiped out over the ensuing years after high school graduation and replaced by ‘bae’ or ‘fleek’) then come in for a hug. I feel you. To be fair, for my mother it was more of an ‘advice’, a friendly guidance, what have you, to self-assess whether I have earned the right for that evening at the bowling club at age 15 and accidentally letting eleven missed calls from the house phone happen. That’s when you shit your pants a little and accept the fact that you will forever suck at doing your own taxes, even as an adult. Because the truth is, that equation doesn’t actually cancel out, not to a tiger mum, to whom Play should be with purpose, like a Sims activity that has a blue progress bar on top of your head, like chess (+1 Logic Skill!).
I had started this blog as an escape from my university work load, working hard on my assignments (albeit all last minute), and playing hard on this blog. For years I’d kept it separate, used an alias that helped distinguish ‘real life’ business with ‘blog’ business, and piped on about having no ads. Then from a certain point it became apparent that more and more emails were being addressed to ‘Shini’, and I was being compensated for my efforts. There was undeniably a blue progress bar above my head, and it was filling up. My point is, when you apply enough ‘Hard’ to the equation, Work becomes Play, and vice versa – all you have to remember is to breathe in the middle, because sometimes it does get tricky.
Someday, perhaps I too can become Mayor of Pleasantview and go to work in a helicopter if I continued to play hard.