A little peek at what’s in my carry-on!
Sunglasses – Carrera by Jimmy Choo
Coat – Mango. Jeans – James Jeans. Shoes – Zara. Bag – L.K.Bennett. Rolly bag – Longchamp
Always personally a step late on fashion news, from start to finish this show was the usual Marc, a succession of delight: glimpses of pink coming through the queue into the show, the French maids that brushed the staircases Finalewith ostrich-feather dusters, and the near-complete darkness behind the doors. Almost too dark – guests were thumbing their phones, not to join the tweeting, but in attempts to illuminate the corridor to the showspace. Then came the hotel porters with mini torches, briefly lighting up the invitations and informing left or right in French. To the left, there was a black fountain that spewed water, also black in the light; to the right, a black carousel, flanked by two wrought-iron elevators each guarded by two doormen. A trainstation clock shone through the black horses of the carousel, its light gently riding down a pair of double escalators under. Upstairs, the corridor was studded with dark hotel doors. It was all too strange and familiar, and yet in my blissful ignorance, was a delight to me.
The clock counted down 60 seconds at exactly 10:00am, and unseated guests scrambled to find a corner in the dark. The models walked out balancing a Stephen-Jones designed ostrich headpiece, donning a collection that swung from glittery showgirl, to punk, to sports (of the rugby sort). The occasional denim, and the barely-there thongs. The choreography took the models through each of the landmarks, striding through the Mongolian lamb rugs, a ride on the carousel, then up the escalators, down the corridor, and down the elevator. At on point it felt like a funeral, a thought I’d quickly brushed aside before training my long lens back on a dress. At the end, Marc Jacobs , and across the floor I saw Anna Wintour starting a wave of standing ovation across the first and second row. The news reached me only as the lights came back on and the seats were emptying, during a frustrated attempt to upload a tweet, and accidentally reading others. Then everything just clicked. I feel a little foolish to have experienced it all in complete oblivion, but on hindsight, I think it made it all the more special – Marc’s last show, a grand compilation of the past seasons, a final mix-tape of sorts and something to remember for years to come.
I am a master at packing. Packing a chicken burrito into a semi-full stomach and then squeezing in coffee and a slice of apple cake after, that is. I don’t know about packing bags though, I’ve done it for six years during my BA travelling four, five times a year to go home and I’m still shoving everything under the bed, so to speak. I’ve been known to un-do pleats forever and transport wet laundry across Europe. Hey, it was clean and minicabs wait for no man. Rolling is my only trick, which means my suitcase is a hot mess with a few cinnamon bun-like things rolling around doing nothing at all. So it was about time I sought help from none other than Louis Vuitton, trunk-maker and packer since 1854, and just in time before flying out for the opening of the new Munich store*, and the release of the new LV 4-wheel Zéphyr trolley case. There really is a subtle art to packing, therapeutic almost, like sorting your life out. Do try these 5 tips out when you’re packing for your summer holiday, and be assured that you’re definitely not packing any luggage-related stress!
Oh, I guess I won’t need to look for an intern that will sit on the suitcase while I zip, afterall.
Thank you Louis Vuitton for the lessons! Visit LouisVuitton.co.uk to learn even more about the art of packing.
*Which unfortunately I could not make due to health issues…
The first few days of Spring, when you can make any sarcastic, over-exaggerated remark and funnily to some extent it will be correct, and for once you get to be a legitimate smartass. (Woo!) This is literally the most sun we’ve had the whole damn year, it’s so beautiful, I am like literally dying – normally this would be classic case of ‘I don’t think she knows what literally means but just nod and smile’, but in April, it’s all technically true! The sun is stronger by day and hanging around much longer; the trees are in full blossom and it’s finally starting to prove the apocalypse wrong. And in my own defense, the last bit is always true, no? Anyhoo. Following up on the previously expressed thoughts regarding my love/hate relationship with London, the sun really is a catalyst. It’s like coming home and finding brownies – it calls for a good snogging-on-the-couch session, which is what the above set of photos is, lucky you.
Ohh I feel like one of those plastic baby dolls that have eyelids that close when you tilt horizontally, or a roly poly toy… anyhoo, the world is swinging. I’d always wondered what sorcery was behind the mechanism for the eyelids, but I’ve figured it out now. Them dolls too must’ve gotten up at stupid-o-clock to get on a bus full of 6am bobbing heads and cerealy morning breath, and cruised down along a rose-coloured sunrise to have breakfast on the 40th floor at Duck & Waffle. I must’ve still been asleep when ordering too, because I asked for breakfast tea instead of coffee, and ordered sourdough bread with Nutella and a bowl of fruit in yoghurt – all the things we have IN ABUNDANCE at home. Hubby went for a glorious full on English breakfast with a cup of americano – perfect choice, really – so I challenged him to find North out the window and I stole a strip of bacon or five.
Book an insane-o-clock breakfast at Duck & Waffle (open 24/7, believe it or not, but book in advance) when you’re next in town, or a dinner, but make sure you arrive around 5pm for drinks and see the best show as the sun sets and the city lights up. The view is spectacular, and the lift down (Floor 40 to 1 express) adds to the whole thrill. The price-point isn’t too bad too – £12 for hubby’s full-on fuel on, and £7ish for my sleepyhead bird food, plus caffeine. It’s really an unbelievable way to start a murky-weather Monday, but now I’m going to bed and sleeping like a dead person.