A Cure for the Holiday Blues

Last week was one of the best in my life. I know that’s a pretty bold statement but when the whole seven days, back-to-back, are incredible, it’s hard to ignore the facts.

This was for a few reasons; mainly the company, the scenery, the weather, the music and the far away feeling that helped me slip into some kind of parallel universe. That’s how I always feel when I get home to English weather – like it was all a dream, in which sunshine is only experienced in a make-believe world.

The festival itself was the best I’ve ever been to because (dare I say it), it didn’t always feel like a festival. It was small enough to recognise everyone by the end of the week and friendly enough to want to recognise everyone. No V-Festival chavs at this party. And then there’s the beach. Awww. Now I’m daydreaming again. The water was the clearest, most turquoise water I’ve ever swam in without the worry of unwelcomed creatures and the sun was warmer than I could ever remember. The fact that a whole week gave us time to enjoy that, as well as the music, was another success of the Garden Festival.

So my cure, on return, is to daydream. Thom and I are already planning our next trip and where to travel next time we visit Croatia’s stunning coastline. We hear Montenegro’s nice but with Tuscany, India and Coachella before that, maybe it’ll find a bit of competition on the way. Until next year Croatia. 

Mastering the Basics

Cooking’s a funny one, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve never been a bad cook or poisoned anyone at a barbeque but there are just some things that take a little longer to master. Like the humble omelette. Now, you’re probably reading this thinking that I’m an absolute numpty if I can’t pull off that simple culinary quest but it’s one of only a few things that took a lot longer than most.

Lasagne was my first hero dish and I still have to make it at dinner parties where uni friends will be there. Haloumi with peaches, cous cous and honey mustard dressing was the post-uni, post-gym meal that was so quick and tasty that it’s still a staple today. I even cook roast dinners on occasion, with rather legendary roast potatoes. But the omelette is another matter.

It might be because I never really liked them. Mum made a cheese one for me once and I was sick. I also don’t really like onions or mushrooms, which most seem to include when you’re out and about. But when my sister – the self-confessed non-cook – made one for me, I decided it was time to sort it out. So I made my first one last week with cheese, tomatoes, peppers and spinach. Three eggs to start with so that I had more leeway when flipping. It kind of worked out but I realised more oil would have been beneficial. So every morning this week, I’ve been aiming to make the perfect omelette and, this morning, worked out that actually it’s the pan. A smaller pan with more oil and less eggs worked perfectly and although a good workman never blames his tools, the star-patterned IKEA pan just wasn’t cutting it. So there you have it – the perfect omelette in a smaller pan. Oil, heated. Eggs, beaten. Whites, fried (until nearly white). Filling, added. Half, flipped. Count down from 30. Hey presto. 

Stargazing in Hackney

This weekend marked the end of day festival season with the much-anticipated Hackney Weekend. Although I hadn’t actually looked at the line-up since I booked and wasn’t particularly fussed who was playing, due to it costing just £2.50, I was pleasantly surprised. We arrived early so as not to miss Bombay Bicycle Club, who were first up on the ‘In New Music We Trust’ stage. They were awesome and I was even more pleased, as I missed out on seeing them in April when they clashed with a friend’s 30^th. Following them were Santigold, who wore amazing costumes and even brought a pantomime horse to the stage. Enough said.

Ben Howard was dreamy, Florence and the Machine was, as usual, incredible and Rihanna’s headline act was out of this world. When Jay-Z joined her on stage, the crowd – who were already giddy with RiRi love – seemed to reach another level of energy; more than I think I’ve ever experienced at a gig of that size. We weren’t even close to the front.

The only disappointment was the ‘Special Guest’, who was left unannounced for so long that we assumed it would be a bit better than Dizzee Rascal. He played his latest track that seemed to be about not doing drugs; funny in an audience of pilled-up sixteen year olds. 

All in all though, a really well thought out and well laid out festival. The toilets were the best I’d ever experienced – apart from the queues – and the bar was never too busy. I think Radio 1 did a pretty good job. Let’s just hope they come back next year, when the hype of East London will have been and gone. Fingers crossed. 

Rewarding Coffee

I’m sitting in a Soho Starbucks, drinking a grande skinny latte and remembering the first coffee I actually enjoyed. I was 16 and in Romania, building a school for post-orphanage children and we had nothing. We ate stale bread and grapefruit and drank fizzy water (another taste I mastered on that trip) and black coffee with a LOT of sugar.

The likelihood is that I didn’t actually enjoy the coffee but its warmth and that sweetness of the sugar that took the edge off. Romania had some pretty miserable days when it rained and taking a coffee break was something we learned to love. It was comforting in a ‘we’re all in this together, let’s try to grow up’ way. It was also the only treat we had access to in the rural expanse of the village.

Needless to say, the caffeine was addictive and on returning to the UK, I drank more of it that ever. It was never very good though and as I gently adjusted to the comforts of home, I reverted back to tea. Now, I’ll never drink coffee at home but ALWAYS when I’m out. I think I still consider it a treat. Not that I drink it with sugar anymore or without milk but there’s something in its taste that reminds me of working hard for something important. It’s probably why I’m out of the house more and procrastinating less. And for that, it’ll receive my eternal thank-you.  

Defeated by the eBook

I’m beginning to think that the best way to get myself out there is self-publication. And with the ever-increasing news of independent bookshops going out of business and the fall of the printed novel being fuelled by the Internet and eBooks, it’s not a bad shout.

It’s a difficult one to submit to – writing for digital readers, rather than old school ones. That’s because I’ve never been a fan of the Kindle or cutting bookshelves out of the home. It worries me that our children will live in a white box and only interact through a remote control and the swipe of a finger.

That said, this New Year, whilst holidaying in Mozambique, I read so quickly that the Kindle of our new Marine friend seemed suddenly sensible. He got through five books, while I read two. He had more space in his suitcase while I weighed mine down with paper. Something I thought I’d never resent. In Afganistan, he told us, books are a rarity. Who’s going to want to lug them around when the Kindle can do that for you? They had enough to carry.

When I got home I looked at my beloved book collection and picked up the second in the Stieg Larsson trilogy. In rush hour, The Kindle got another point as I squashed myself onto the Central Line with a book that couldn’t get much bigger. I realised defeat.

Some people do like to read when they go to bed or in a comfy chair on a Sunday afternoon but I’m not really one of them. I read on the commute and a holiday just like most of the population and would probably do better to just buy a Kindle than keep filling my bookshelf. Whether I will or not is another matter but it’s suddenly becoming more apparent that the eBook is the future, either way. And if it’s going to be easier to get my work out there that way, then I guess that’s what I need to do. On my own. 

Out of Advertising

I think it’s fair to say that I’ve never been a fan of authority; the smugness of ‘the man’ as he tells you what you have to do, not to get fired/kicked out/arrested. And as I stepped out of full-time work in one of London's best advertising agencies, that feeling of freedom was surprisingly the last thing to hit. 

I did it because I wanted to work on my own stuff and was sick of the clients that battered your ideas down so far that they became unrecognisable and embarrassing to call your own. I did it because I worked out that maybe advertising was a load of bullshit that people did to make money instead of good work. I think the latter comment is actually unfair on some parts and that many agencies try to beat the client but time and time again, there are only a handful that succeed. It’s clear then where their loyalties lie. 

Raw creativity rarely gets seen and that’s why I felt it was time to follow my heart and turn my head to writing my own stuff. Two novels down the line and a film almost finished, the plan is to work as long and as hard as possible this summer to make just one of them a success. The dream was always to write and if I can do that on my own, writing what I want, for people that appreciate it, I'll never care about waking up. 

An Olympic Alternative?

OK, so it’s not often that we get to host the Olympics but is it really necessary to jump on every bandwagon it brings with it? Brands are doing it everywhere, from Weetabix changing their packaging to ‘Fuel Britannia’ and The National Lottery copying an age-old Hovis ad to the British flag popping up at every opportunity. There was even a TV spot last night that advertised the ‘Official Cereal Bar of the Olympics’.  What else will become ‘Official’? Toilet paper? Ironing Boards? High-Vis Jackets?

What might be more interesting is to watch is the backlash. I didn't win any tickets (although didn't apply for many) and although I’m interested to see what the games will bring in terms of culture and tourism, I live in East London and am slightly more concerned about how I’m going to get anywhere.

So who’s going to engage with us that way? 90% of the Londoners I’ve spoken to are hoping to escape the city for those two weeks, which must create a huge opportunity for the brands involved. Or should I say, those not involved? What if they gave us an alternative; a way to step back from the overly patriotic standard that’s been set since the Royal Wedding? An opportunity to take a breather from London life, that is persistent in its determination to ware out its dwellers. I, for one, would welcome it. 

Fashion for the field

As Mother Nature begins to tease us with a hint of sunshine poking through her perpetually lifeless trees, a tribe of seasonally affected festival followers have turned out their winter savings for the summer’s promise of life under canvas and musical venture.

But as recent years have shown, the festival season isn’t purely about the music or fresh air anymore. The accompanying fashion trends have taken hold of fields, parks and beaches around the world with an effortless nod to the Godmothers of easy-chic, Kate Moss and Sienna Miller.

It’s their attitude towards the trends that makes their style work so well – fashion almost becomes an afterthought to the practicalities that they first take into account. And summer 2010 is looking like another hot year for trends that are combined so gracefully with the awkward confinement of wellies and waterproofs.

‘Underwear as outerwear’ will continue encouraging trendsetters to flaunt a bit of skin, and with the delicate silks and sheer fabrics seen at Donna Karen and Michael Kors, dreams of the stifling heat needn’t be hampered with perspiration nightmares. Predictably following this trend, hemlines have crept higher than ever with the return of hot pants, boy shorts and looser fitting tap pants. While the same assortment of soft, feminine fabrics have crept into these styles, denim is still a viable option for those festivalites wanting a more practical garment.

In fact, denim will be back with full vigour this summer. Whether it’s ripped, patched or doubled up, there’s never been a better time to experiment with those 90s favourites that you never had the heart to throw away. After all, where would rock and roll be without the iconic trend that saw a whole generation pull on their Levis and let their hair down? This summer is harnessing that young, carefree attitude once again with the frivolous scatterings of faded patchwork. And the best bit is, the more home-made it looks, the better its style-credentials.

Three days without access to a shower or full-length mirror will play havoc with anyone’s ability to appear fresh and free-spirited. But this summer, hair accessories will be the perfect distraction from the unruly, unkempt tresses that will adorn campsites the world over. Exaggerated bows, bunny ears and feathers will be the only way to keep your hair looking neat this season, and – whilst dry shampoo will continue to provide a more ‘just-washed’ feeling – this year is all about the up-do. Aim for a quirky cross between vintage and ‘girl-next-door’, with attention grabbing proportions and a palette of sugar sweet shades.

Ultimately, however, festival fashion is what you make of it. It’s the perfect opportunity to step outside your comfort zone and experiment with styles you’d never look twice at on a day-to-day basis. This season there are trends that will make you giggle, shake your head and smile for all the right reasons, which – after all said and done – is the perfect accessory to any outfit.

Models on the border line

There were no words of rejection I hadn’t heard by the time I left the modeling industry. I was forever “two inches too small”, or “half an inch too wide”, which is why – as a plus-sized size ten – nothing ever added up. I’ve never fully understood the logic, as – while the hanger-like proportions of runway models are consistently scrutinized for their ‘unhealthy’ body image, and the boom of the plus-size industry is fuelling constant debate on the principles of fashion – the girls with the healthiest figures are being completely ignored.

Is ‘The Perfect Ten’ still something we strive for, or must we now go either way? I for one – who eats a balanced diet and exercises regularly – think that sacrificing my health for a quick buck is probably the reason I ended up behind the lens. But the industry is awash with girls that are, right now, weighing up the options between slimming down to compete with the super-waifs, or fattening up for a cereal campaign that only casts clinically overweight girls.

It’s hardly the image of perfection we’re led to believe. Part of me even wonders if this new fuss over the plus-size market is really just an extension of the way political correctness is heading. Are designers trying to prove a point by hiring bigger girls? Is it because they strongly oppose the size-zero? Or is it because the press will be living on their doorstep for the following few weeks if they do?

It baffles me that the initiative hasn’t yet been taken to launch an agency that specifically represents the girls from the in-between. It’s all well and good wanting to appeal to the masses by showing how clothes can look across the spectrum, but wouldn’t it make sense to find a happy medium? That way at least, people can strive for a healthy weight without conforming to the extremes that we’ve grown so used to.

Lara Stone is a prime example of how successfully this can be done. When she erupted onto the scene with her unique features and hint of curvature, industry professionals were bending over backwards to be at her side. Obviously, her looks are outstanding, and it’s not often that someone with such magnetism comes along, but is that because they’re not given the chance? The industry advises that measurements of 35-25-35 are the maximum that would be considered in fashion. Therefore Gwyneth Paltrow, Paris Hilton and Angelina Jolie would all be bypassed if they were unknowns, trying to launch a modeling career.

When it’s put like that, it’s difficult to imagine how designers can expect to find their muse. Isn’t that what they strive for in their models? Clearly there are plenty of beautiful girls out there that fit the ideal size requirements, but surely there are tricks being missed. There are probably hundreds of Angelina’s or Lara’s that aren’t being given a second look right now, purely because of their waist to hip ratio. And that’s the saddest thing. Despite all the hype about casting or not casting plus-size girls, they still fit into a category that has closed itself off. I’m just looking forward to the day that it will be OK again to wear a decent size ten.

The Rabbit in the Moon

“Just there. On its side. Almost upside down.” Chris spoke with playful irritation as I stared intently into the glowing mass. I couldn’t believe how redundant my eyes had been for almost 16 years as I squinted them tighter – rotating my head in adolescent frustration.

The stale air that hung outside the Centro de Placement felt hot against my hungry, sun-kissed skin, and the more I tried to see with his eyes, the more I felt them prying deeper into me. I dared not look.

I’d never seen the moon like that before. Never really studied it like I had the faces of my closest friends; the family that were slowly building around me. Instead it had always acted as a superfluous entity – the kind of accessory that you’d only ever notice when someone pointed it out.

And that’s exactly what Chris did. He showed me beauty in the things I’d forever taken for granted – the way that fields of sunflowers rose with the sun, following its steady journey before bowing west at twilight. His manner of explaining things, with such softly spoken prose, made my hopeless heart reach out to him in a way that I never imagined it could. And it hurt. Unbearably so.

Our nightly exchanges became a welcome release from the daily despondency of the orphanage. We’d watch carers unpack shoeboxes, only to share them out amongst themselves. We’d witness fully-grown men running naked across the courtyard when sunlight glittered through the trees. We’d mother the helpless babies of Ceausescu’s aftermath, when what we really needed was mothering, ourselves.

I grew used to it after a while – the melancholy lifestyle. Or maybe it was the contradiction I was offered after dark that became so familiar. Either way, Chris became a vital distraction – providing the guilty gratification that my reticent nature could never admit to.

Some nights, the bitter taste of vodka would burn at our throats. Its simple luxury was easier to come by than clean water itself, and the effects it offered were always eagerly welcomed. It lifted our spirits, and moved our thoughts back to where they should be – quietly reminding us of the fortunate hand we’d been dealt. Other evenings we’d watch thunderstorms in the distance, willing them to move closer, to dance underneath their powerful downpour. The night I remember the most, however, was when he showed me the rabbit in the moon.

“I see it.” The shrill excitement that ran through my undernourished body filled me with the most heartfelt of triumphs. I was so intent on pleasing him. As I turned my face to meet his, the glare from the dully-lit kitchen cast shadows over his gently ageing face, highlighting the fear in his eyes as he stared back at me with such shameful admiration. His thoughts were almost visible as my fickle frigidity teased him once again.

“I was beginning to think you were blind!” He broke the silence with the same lighthearted tone that I’d grown so fond of, before reaching for his glass. I looked away to light a cigarette; its soft, heady fumes calming the butterflies as I held my breath, feeling the smoke travel through each cavity in my body, before I slowly exhaled.

When I was 15, it never struck me that I was still young enough to enjoy the pleasures of youth. I acted up in conversation, and read tabloids to keep up with current affairs – all in the effort to present myself as a lady. Not a girl. It took three weeks – probably less – for Chris to show me that age wasn’t about numbers. Our souls were brought together in the most heartbreaking of circumstances, purely because of the relationship we’d previously held.

The awkward confinement he offered as my teacher disappeared every night we spent on that ramshackle terrace. Instead, he liberated my thoughts by encouraging them to wander in their own direction; helping me gain a new appreciation for the world around me. I quietly welcomed his principles on what actually mattered – and finally realised that life was more than what scientists and historians had to say. We were there for a reason, and while we didn’t know what that reason was, I found a lot of comfort in imagining.

It’s been eight years since that summer, and I’ll often forget the wounded smiles of the children in care. I’ll often forget the mural on the staircase – the one that turned the sky into land, and the land into sea. I’ll even forget Chris. But one thing that draws me back there – sometimes when I’m least expecting it – is when the sky lights up with each full moon, and the rabbit looks down in sweet reminiscence of the furtive secrets it held that summer.

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The 'I' in iPod

It’s 08.36 heading westbound on the central line, and while I’m cocooned in the armpit of a rather portly middle-aged suit, the train stops in a tunnel to expose the clandestine musical influences of my fellow passengers. Eyes dart and ears prick. With no space to make the potentially grace-saving move of finding the volume switch, it soon becomes apparent as to which of these commuters is partial to a curry in front of x-factor and who will be slitting their wrists come home time.

The portly banker shifts, and as he turns his face to within inches of mine – his eyes filled with terror – I realise that Geri Halliwell’s cover of ‘It’s raining men’, is coming from his very headphones. I can see it in The London Paper now. ‘To the girl under my arm on the central line, I apologise for the unsociable use of the “shuffle” button. Maybe we could make sweet music sometime.’

This isn’t to say that I have the coolest collection myself. In fact the majority of my iPod is cluttered with a ludicrously high supply of musical theatre ensembles, and of my top 25 most played, there’s only nine that I will admit to. On closer inspection however, these top 25 ultimately create a fairly accurate portrait.

The airy folk songs of Belle and Sebastian sit in perfect juxtaposition with the intricate melodies of The Rolling Stones, while memories of desolate beaches flood through my veins as Jack Johnson strums his guitar. If a picture says a thousands words, then a song will be the harmony.

But in the dawning of a new age of applications, we’re unwillingly having our libraries pushed to anyone in a fifty-metre radius and the power of the playlist is quickly becoming an unfavourable tool that not only dictates our musical personalities, but can expose a lot more to potential acquaintances too. For example, on a calculated level, my library would paint me as a seasonally affected, itchy-footed theatre graduate. The accuracy is disturbing. But if you knew that the living Adonis from the fifth floor was in fact owner to the entire Elton John back-catalogue, how would you feel? There are no longer excuses for guilty pleasures and privacy is quickly becoming a nightmare of George Orwell’s - pushing the boundaries of technology to a new generation of undercover CD stashers.

It’s not that we find Elton John’s music unpleasant; it’s the fact that his popularity has become stationary in the changing face of the music industry. He’s lost the edge that everyone is striving to discover; the unknown band that will never have a number one, but will command the line-up of 2012’s boutique music festivals – much like the way fashion trends are being dictated for two years time. The Adonis has lost his mystery, and along with it, his magnetism.

Ultimately, the shape of current demographics are changing. We are no longer categorised by race, age or wealth but by the choices we make in restaurants, fashion and music. So as technology and advertising have evolved to better target these interests, we, in turn, have changed our perception of cool. Girl bands will always encourage young girls to wear make-up and whinge their way to theatre school, while Bono will relentlessly provide the soundtrack to embarrassing dad’s everywhere. Hence every song produces an essence; a target audience that it hopes to break so that when we hear it pounding from the headphones of a stranger, we can already determine their agenda. They’ve become artificial pheromones built on the physiological need to befriend those who most suit our tastes or status.

So to retain some dignity in this fickle society, playlists are made to create the illusion of cool. There’s no need for brandishing the skeletons that are hiding within that MP3 device if they are sectioned before they can escape. It is something to showcase your edginess and intrigue strangers when your foot starts tapping to an unknown beat. It’s the kind of impression that gives you that look of acceptance from the indie boy and his skinny jeans; an impression that, despite its pretentious connotations - we all rather like.

Miss conceptions at Miss Commonwealth

Preconceptions about the world of beauty pageants are something that have been installed into us, through the media, for a number of years. So when I was invited to the Miss Commonwealth International competition this October, I was intrigued to find out about this undercover world of not just beauty, but the characters that take part in such a niche industry of perfectly ­– if not surreally – turned out young women.

Representing the 53 countries in the British Commonwealth, some girls had flown from as far as Jamaica and Canada to compete in the event, having won prizes in their own countries that had lead them to great recognition within the industry – something that the girls strive for, far above the monetary rewards that they are often likely to win.

They believe that this recognition will help them towards the work they do with charities all over the globe. Tove Pearce, a 17 year-old English contender for the Miss Teen Commonwealth crown – and winner of Miss Teen Charity – was representing Great Ormond Street Hospital, and hoped that by winning a title, it would help to promote their work. In fact, it became clear that winning the ‘title’ was something that all the contestants I spoke to were certain would improve the publicity of their chosen aid organisation.

Jayne Taylor was competing for the Mrs Commonwealth title, and appeared to be quite a pageant veteran – having competed for 23 years and having gained a whole host of titles including Mrs Great Britain, Mrs England and Mrs United Kingdom. Despite her obvious achievements over the years, she clearly had the most refreshing approach to the competitions themselves – seeing them as a hobby, rather than a lifestyle – and keeps a regular job to fund the reality of having a family in the 21^st Century. Her four daughters also compete, and she was proud to comment on the travelling they’ve got to do whilst taking part in various competitions – being treated like royalty all the way.

First-time pageant competitor, Attika Choudhary was representing Pakistan in the main ‘Miss Commonwealth’ category – specifically for girls aged between 20 and 29. Her entrance into the competition was down to her talent agent, who, after noticing her interest in working with charities, recommended that she took part in the event – due to the recognition that a title could give her.

Four rounds of voting would determine the winners of each category, each displaying a different outfit including national costume, casual wear, sports wear and evening gowns. The girls were all glad to hear that the bikini round was taken out of this competition – clearly due to the variety of religious views that are held across the Commonwealth.

Ultimately, having the chance to take a peek into this heavily criticised industry was an eye-opener to what really goes on within it. All the girls I spoke to seemed very level-headed and keen to use their winning title as a stepping-stone to future plans. And whilst they were all keen to glam up under the guises of hair and make-up, it didn’t feel like this was to any further extent to any other girls their age. It wasn’t solely about looking pretty, or being part of a performance; it was more about gaining the recognition they felt was necessary to succeed in a future promoting world peace – the ultimate goal of the commonwealth committee.

My Life-Style

Perched animatedly in the base of my Nanna’s decadently imposing wardrobe, I recall the first of many unforgettable moments that delightfully and whole-heartedly took my breath away. As I crouched amongst an array of opulent coloured firs, leathers and suedes, alongside rich brocade silks in hues of magenta, emerald and gold, my mother waltzed down the couple of steps that led from the en-suite, to the minimalist warmth of my grandparents’ bedroom.

 

The dress was timeless – a floor-length, figure-hugging gown in midnight blue. Around her neck sat the winter-white shrug that decades of elegant soirees had yet to tarnish; its feathers, softer than the blush of her cheek. I remember in that clock-stopping moment wishing for a future in those shoes, unaware of anything to contradict such romantic fathom. I have no memory of where she went that night – I couldn’t tell you the season, or the year – but I’ll never forget that smell of Yves Saint Laurent as she kissed me goodbye.

 

As the youngest after a generation of 17 boys, I was born into a great, and altogether rather daunting responsibility to be everyone’s little girl. My Nanna – probably the most glamourous and elegantly poised lady I’ve been blessed to know – was therefore most disappointed when, at the age of about two, I’d taken to wearing most of my closet at once. A classic collection of patchwork hand-me-downs would hang off my toddling frame – each day having personally taken the time to create fresh ensembles to greet my brother at the school gate. Mum always encouraged this slightly obsessive trait, objecting to my grandmother’s wishes of dressing me herself.  It wasn’t until I started school that I was stripped of that formerly unappreciated privilege.

 

Thrown into the uniformity of the British education system, it quickly became clear that the ranks of popularity were directly correlated to the length of your skirt, the height of your heels and the size of your bra. At this point, style was dictated by what Mizz and Sugar said would make dreamy boys take you to the movies – any personal expression, it was clear, would have to be put on hold for the next few years. I pleaded for Kickers, Adidas poppers and Buffalo boots. I made perfume out of buttercups and Palma Violets. I crimped my hair.

 

For my fifteenth birthday, Mum gave me a subscription to Vogue. I remember, as I peeled open its beautifully glossy cover, the overwhelming wave of intrigue that shot through me; a catalyst for the realisation that I no longer needed to conform. The models danced as the pages turned, and the features flowed – silk-like – as they conjured images of foreign runways and exotic shoots. I’d discovered a new place to escape to, unwind in, dream about.

 

For me then, style was about fashion, and the high street was my playground. Shopping became a substitute for all I craved in that unattainable world of flash bulbs and couture, and getting dressed became an art again. I was reintroduced to my two year-old self, this time armed with a teenage body and a £42 clothing allowance. At a time when throw-away fashion had begun to take flight, I’d meet friends outside Topshop and spend Saturday afternoons whiling away hours looking for inspiration in the mannequins – drawing us into every enchanting window. We inspired each other too, teaming together outfits that we’d never look twice at. Their eyes saw from the angles that mine couldn’t, and it created the eclectic style that we’ve all grown into – in our own inimitable ways.

 

It might be that all I needed was a wake-up call – a moment to slap me hard around the face and tell me that life revolves around more than understanding the latest trends, or having my favourite shoes lusted after. But even when Dad passed the phone over to my mother – to tell me the news that would completely change my whole world – I can remember exactly what I was wearing.

 

For two years, I watched her slip away, gracefully and heroically surrendering to the forces that sit just outside of this vulnerable existence. The fact that she never complained, never swore, and only shed a tear when she saw our grieving, highlights just another testament to her outstanding peculiarities. She fought, completely selflessly when she longed to give up, and took us shopping for make-up, hats, and wigs to keep her mind off things. She laughed when speech was too hard.

 

Today, my understanding of style is that it’s more of a presence – a feeling that can’t be offered purely through clothing or make-up or labels – but through projecting an honest image of yourself into your surroundings. Mum encouraged me to find my own style, never imposing, but gently guiding me to where I needed to go. She taught me about morals, elegance and inner-beauty before I knew anything about the tangible world of fashion and beauty. She taught me to read between the lines, and fall in love with the people that mattered – the ones that don’t need Chanel and Manolo to light up a room.

 

I’m sure in fifty years time, I will look back and cower at my curious attempts of staying at the cutting-edge. I won’t understand the newest trends, or the next generation of designers.  But maybe on the eve of my interment, my children will reflect in the same way as I do now – thanking their mother for every word of encouragement, every underappreciated submission, and every individual nuance that could be passed on, so that their life can be lived in the exact style that ultimately, only they can choose.

Welcome to a New Generation

In 1993 the British Fashion Council set up a scheme that, today, is considered by young designers and label heads alike, as one of the most influential stepping-stones into the fashion industry. The New Generation project ­– or NEWGEN – was the first of its kind to actively seek out and support emerging designer talent. 16 years later and the project has nurtured a host of famous names, whose career might not have been nearly as successful without the guidance and sponsorship that NEWGEN offered.

 

Sponsored designers fall into three categories – Catwalk, Presentation and Exhibition. Recipients of this sponsorship will then be given all the necessary tools to show their designs at London Fashion Week in the forthcoming season – in this case, SS10 later this month. NEWGEN acts as a promotional launch pad for these talented designers; who range from the newly graduated, to those with years of experience, yet still in need of a break.

 

It’s undeniable that the media profile built around the scheme is one of the strongest means to attract investment and orders, and whilst the monetary value of each sponsorship can range from between £5,000 to £10,000, it is the guidance and support offered to the NEWGEN scholars that holds the most significant importance.

 

The BFC won’t immediately back out after one season either. They recognise the support that young designers need at this stage in their career and can award sponsorship to the same designer for up to four seasons. It’s a refreshing approach. Especially compared to those with the sole objective of churning out new apprentices season after season.

 

In 2001, Topshop became sole sponsors of NEWGEN and have had a proactive involvement in it ever since. By providing show venues and commissioning special collections – available during fashion week – they have taken a particularly supportive role in promoting some of the most exciting design talent that London has to offer.

 

Alexander McQueen, Matthew Williamson and Giles Deacon are just a few of the designers that were once nestled under NEWGEN’s wing, and with this season’s plethora of vastly talented individuals currently adding the final touches to their collections, there is no doubt that we will see them take flight soon too.

 

The application process consists of three stages. After adhering to the eligibility requirements (being based in the UK, having a minimum of two stockists and a business that would normally have shown off schedule – as well as a collection consisting of womenswear or accessories), the designers are asked to provide two industry references along with their application. No samples, look-books or press material is required at this point, and it is from here that the panel will determine whose designs they will see in phase two.

 

The submissions process kicks off after the designer's application is accepted, and the guidelines are then sent out in the confirmation email. Up to six samples may then be requested from each applicant’s current collection, and it is these samples that will establish the final shortlist. It is only at this stage that interviews will be held, determining the final 14-20 designers that will be chosen to show at London Fashion Week.

 

A few things should be taken into account when applying for the scheme, such as that accessories designers can only apply to show in the exhibition, whereas ready to wear and millinery designers can show on the catwalk as well. Also, cash sponsorship will only be awarded to those designers taking part in catwalk shows.

 

The selection panel is comprised of an expertly-qualified bunch of industry professionals, including influential figures in media and buying, alongside a core panel of BFC insiders, of whom make the final decision.

 

If you are interested in learning more about this scheme, or the current sponsored designers, please visit www.britishfashioncouncil.com

We're hot on her heels

Already tipped by Vogue as being one to watch, Sophie Gittins – the 25 year-old Cordwainers College graduate, has much to smile about. After receiving a first-class honours degree in footwear design, the Essex-based designer sites being nominated as a finalist for the first ever Fashion Fringe Footwear Awards, as a highlight of her career so far. The prestige of this achievement is particularly impressive when you consider the early stage of her career. Pair that with the distinctive designs of her first and forthcoming collections, and it’s no wonder that she impressed the panel of top industry professionals, including Colin McDowell, Rupert Sanderson and Manolo Blahnik.

The success of her debut collection had industry critics dubbing Sophie as a definite ‘New Shoe Star’, and SS10 has the fash pack waiting with bated breath. “Opulent coloured suedes, leathers and snakeskins alongside rich brocade silks in hues of magenta, oche and green”, are the undeniably tempting words Sophie uses to describe her second collection – inspired by the Russian jeweler Fabergé. This season, 12 styles have been created, each with its unique stance on the 19^th Century luxury that Fabergé produced, and each taking the name of a key figure in the history of the Fabergé company.

Sophie is able to pinpoint an early interest in shoes as she reminisces over the beautiful quality pairs she wore as a child. "I've always been drawn to the creative process, and I love the idea of turning an initial flat sketch into something 3-dimensional that is not only aesthetically pleasing, but practically sound." Her fascination therefore with the heel-structure is something she is keen to explore in future collections. Due to the size and infancy of the company at present, her efforts must however, focus on creating simply stunning designs for the upper shoe.

With a dedication to, and love of research, Sophie's design process includes much more than just sketches. She draws inspiration from the arts, architecture, interior design and antiques – demonstrating her eclectic taste and influences that are reflected in her stunningly adorned Colchester studio. Dominated by a huge old haberdashery cabinet filled to the brim with antique trimmings and leather samples, the walls are kept simple to perfectly display her collection of vintage Vogue artwork and beautifully ordered swatches in a rainbow of delectable shades.

For the footwear followers amongst us, Sophie hopes to collaborate with more designers in the future. Her recent work with NEWGEN-sponsored Hannah Marshall, found her addressing new and exciting challenges that fitting someone else's design aesthetic brought. Chanel, Philip Lim and Yves Saint Laurent are top of the wish list as far as Sophie is concerned; and with the international recognition she is gaining from a string of key figures in the fashion industry, the dream is not unreasonable.

Sophie Gittins's Spring-Summer 2010 collection will be launched at London Fashion Week later this month.

Words by: Anna Harman

The unspoken reading

It wouldn’t take mum long to know when I was lying. At the age of about five, I had mastered the art of creating the perfect temperature on the thermometer. About a minute next to the light-bulb in my sticker-infested cabin-bed produced a fever just hot enough to mean that I could stay at home from school, but not too hot that I was rushed to A&E. This lasted a while, until my illness lies became progressively more extreme, to combat mum’s increasing knowledge of my tricks. I would claim that I had a headache, a tummy ache, a leg ache, a sore throat and sickness all at the same time. Not completely convincing. However, I was able to throw up on demand in those days; the last resort in these situations. Mum always knew that I was lying, so she’d make sure I was resigned to my bedroom or the sofa all day. Any digression would mean that I surely wasn’t that ill after all. I think it’s probably the reason that we never had any fancy TV channels. That would have definitely encouraged my young self.

Thinking about mum now, she was a pretty smart cookie. I soon got over my love of daytime TV and integrated myself well into school life – which I loved. I guess boarding school doesn’t lend itself to the same opportunities for escape as the local primary.

Mum’s stories from Godolphin always made me wonder why I wasn’t sent away to school though. The friendships she made and the mischief she got up to always made me dream of some imaginary world between Mallory Towers and St Trinian’s. Sneaking out at night to watch the trains and emergency knicker-swapping sounded like something straight out of an Enid Blyton novel. Her childhood always seemed ever so wholesome, especially when you consider that this was the sixties. I remember her telling me how she won the ‘most improved posture award’ one year, an award that – if you knew my mother – you wouldn’t doubt. Her elegant poise and flirtations with fashion painted her as an incredibly beautiful, yet humble lady.

I could only dream to inherit some of those qualities. I’ve taken her creative side – all three of us have, as well as her love of literature, gnocchi and mango. I’ve also taken her laugh. She would get the giggles after a glass of wine. I get the giggles over a lot of things – quite often in my sleep.

She would sit in the corridor when Tom, Pip and I couldn’t sleep. She bought me a typewriter when I wanted to write. She occasionally let us have just cake for dinner.

Despite her insistence that she preferred silence to music, mum’s ‘kitchen dance’ has probably made it around the world by now, due to Pip and I replicating it’s gawky style on every dance-floor we’ve ever encountered. The Beach Boys were her vice. Sunday afternoons weren’t complete without ‘Pet Sounds’ providing the soundtrack to a dance involving potato peelers, mixing bowls or saucepans, as props.

Sunday afternoons, as a matter of fact, were something I completely took for granted. I grew up thinking that it was normal to have a full roast dinner every week. She never let us down. It wasn’t until I moved away that it become intrinsically clear that I hadn’t inherited her culinary flair. Aside from her perfect lemon meringue pie and incredible Irish marrow chutney (of which the recipe rests with her), birthday cakes were her forte. All we had to do was dream it, and in a puff of smoke, we had biscuit castles, racing tracks, and even ‘Gizmo’ from Gremlins. We were pretty much the envy of all our friends – apart from the time Tom accidentally stepped on my number ‘3’, closely followed by me sitting in the remaining crumbs.

That was Trevone in 1989. Dad had rounded up every child on the beach for a game of makeshift musical chairs. He sang. I don’t know what was used for chairs. I guess the cake incident shows how competitive children can be.

Trevone has always been a pretty special place for us as a family. I don’t know whether that’s because we spent the majority of our summer holidays growing up there, or because it is the kind of peaceful, sleepy town that just evaporated tension. As holidays go, I’m glad I got to know another part of the UK before I got to know the world a bit more. For me, Cornwall comes close to paradise, and I hope to be able to pass that on to my family one day.

Reading back through the journal that mum wrote to me in her last months, she mentions that the biggest regret in her lifetime is that she will never see any grandchildren. I can’t see how she could be to blame for that. “I’ll come back and watch them” she scribes, in that so familiar yet illegible scrawl, “Good luck”.

I’ve got faith that she’ll come back in one of them, however. Just like Grandma came back in Pippa. And as the doves began to visit the morning after her passing, flocking the house just before the funeral, it gave me an abundant faith in another world. Before this point, I couldn’t say what I believed in. Now I can say, with as much evidence as I have seen, that there is a better place beyond this cruel world. We’re probably living with it underneath our noses.

I found this exert when my uncle Raymond died on January 1^st 2008. I think it sums up in beautiful conviction, what we are all capable of believing.

“When somebody dies, a cloud turns into an angel, and flies up to tell God to put another flower on a pillow. A bird gives the message back to the world, and sings a silent prayer that makes the rain cry. People disappear, but they never really go away. The spirits up there put the sun to bed, wake up grass, and spin the earth in dizzy circles. Sometimes you can see them dancing in a cloud during the day-time, when they're supposed to be sleeping. They paint the rainbows and also the sunsets and make waves splash and tug at the tide. They toss shooting stars and listen to wishes. And when they sing wind-songs, they whisper to us, don't miss me too much. The view is nice and I'm doing just fine.” 

Author unknown

“Never miss an opportunity to tell someone you love them.” It was a phrase I immediately became to cherish when a list of ‘rules to live by’ were handed to me by an incredibly well respected teacher when leaving high school. There’s a certain promise in that rule; a promise that presents more than admiration, but the ability to verbally offer yourself – wholly and truthfully – as a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, and a hug to melt into. After all, without love there’s not much more to live for, is there?

One stick or two?

For the last twenty years, one discussion has dominated mountaintop bars everywhere – which is better: skiing or snowboarding? Taking all things into consideration, we’re having a look at the contributing factors that charge this debate – with a conclusion that will no doubt continue to be argued, for many years to come.

Easiest for beginners

For beginners, skiing will take a few days of muscular control and good coordination to master the basics. As a technical sport, it takes an understanding of how your body works to get into the right rhythm, and having individual sticks attached to your feet will cause a great deal of frustration at first, particularly when trying to get up after a fall. Snowboarding can generally be easier to pick up, due to having less equipment to manage and just one board to control. Having said this, without the use of ski poles, it can become annoying when trying to move on flats.

Possesses the cool factor

For years, snowboarding has possessed the cool factor, and riders have dominated the pipe and park with gnarly tricks: 720s, McTwists, nose presses, and more. So as snowboarding became fresh and trendy, skiing began to date. However, in recent years, skiing has become cool again. As TJ Schiller performed a 1440 (4 spins) at the US freeskiing open, and the sheer velocity of the sport physically beats snowboarding every time, it’s become enough of an incentive for people to get back on two planks. Freestyle skiing seems to be the future of the sport and currently appears to have the edge.

Has the comfiest kit

In terms of comfort – both in the gear and on the lifts – it can be a bit of a toss-up. Snowboarding offers the comfortable ‘trainer’ style boots that can easily be manoeuvred in comparison to the awkward ski boots, in which you can acquire a definite swagger. Having less equipment is also handier when you wipeout, as there’s less to worry about finding, but the experience on the ski lift has to be won by the skiers. Just having the ability to separate your legs to sit down means that the feel is much more comfortable and the likelihood of falling is greatly reduced.

Will give me a better workout

The fitness factor is one that can’t be ignored. Where both sports require regular bouts of intense effort, and work essential core muscles equally, it appears that each sport excels in different ways. For example, snowboarding slightly takes the edge by burning a few more calories per hour than its competitor, whereas skiing creates toned legs and bums much quicker. Snowboarding is more of an entire body sport, working the calves and shins hard to facilitate the “heel-toe” motion, as well as the lower back and abs to keep the torso rotating. Generally, the steeper the slope, the better workout you will get from skiing – particularly on the thighs.

Most likely to injure myself

Injuries occur in every way you can imagine, from uncomfortable ski boots to over-confident boarders taking people out on their way down. To aid the eternal debate, we’ve taken a look at one of the common complaints that skiers will have, which is dodgy knees. “Torsional”, or twisting forces can be high when they are led by your feet, and if you have creaky knees or the potential to get them, then snowboarding holds less of a risk. With both feet attached to one board, the twisting motion is much less apparent, and the likelihood of landing on your knees is overtaken by the natural force pushing you onto your face or bum.

Better for different snow types

Most ski resorts you will visit were created with skiing in mind – hence the name ‘ski’ resort. If they weren’t, then they’ve slowly been moulded that way over time, and it’s clear as to which sport they prefer. The disapproving attitude towards boarders is aided by their knack of ‘ruining the snow’ and generally acting in a more carefree manner than the skiers. With less accessibility to the majority of runs at the resorts, Snowboarders have ventured further off-piste – exploring into the more daring environment associated with the sport. The fresh powder lines and deeper, softer snow are what snowboarders love, whereas skis work better on bumps and ice. This hasn’t put them off though, and there’s nothing more exhilarating than the feeling you get off-piste with either sport. Skiers liken it to flying, as the feeling is altogether different from what they find on-piste, bouncing their way through the softer powder.

So there we have it. The debate is over. Both sports are winners in their own right, and without the other to compare it with, neither would provide the same passion-inducing vibe that skiers and boarders grasp onto whenever they get into that old pub debate. Just get onto the slopes, with one stick or two, and understand that whichever one you choose, there’s only one way down.