Things I hate about the fashion industry

Hi, remember me? You're favourite reluctant blogger? I cannot even begin to explain how bloody late this blog is, when was the last time I posted? Ah yes the closing ceremony of the Olympics and not even the paralympics. I have to say I am a little heart broken at the lack of complaints I have had for my absence!

You'd be disappointed if I didn't, as I always do, give you my excuse. You see Work placements, guest bloggings, fashion editorings and third yearings leave little room for my voluntarily, low-readership, no-revenue blog, but hey I missed ya! Now this week's blog could have been any number of my neglected ideas in the past weeks of my Filofax, pencilled in in an effort that I might gather up the gusto to get on and blog and the amount of drafts I have lingering on blogger is just a little bit pathetic, so I'm gonna make use of some of them.

So while I've been away I have been fully fledged full-time working in the fashion industry to the point of saturation what with TellusFashion, The Bristol Tab and British Style Bloggers (yes, that's your cue to read all of my incredibly well written entries.) And having worked properly in the fashion industry now, and by properly I mean not just talking about myself on my laptop at home which I have recently stomped on and now has a crack in the screen so its a holy miracle that this post is going up, I have begun to recognise things that I really hate about it.

(In case you hadn't guessed this is symbolic of a love/hate relationship with fashion)

It's like when you start living with a boyfriend (I have no experience with this so this is purely guess work) and you start noticing those annoying habits, that is what has happened to me with the fashion industry. And like a boyfriend, which to me work actually is cause I'm a career monster who would rather work my arms off than deal with a dribbling moron, I still love it more than anything in the world (apart from maybe my sullen flat mate who I have to keep reminding that I love because she isn't in the best  of moods due to illness) but I just need a way of venting and so here we go the things I hate most about the fashion industry....


Ego
I'm not on about other people's but my own. Being in the fashion industry and especially a journalist in the fashion industry I am required at all times to think the very most of myself. I have to believe that my word is gospel and that my taste is the only taste that matters in order to convince you lot that what I write isn't just a load of garbage. Blogging is an especially indulgent thing, sitting here typing complete and utter trash about myself and assuming that everyone cares that I cracked my laptop. They do not.

Run-throughs
This is something I experienced on Fashion Week. It is where a designer takes you through their collection piece by piece encouraging you to touch them and waiting for you to comment. Never done anything so awkward in my life. You are never going to tell as designer that you hate their clothes so you have to say you like them. But how many ways are there for you to say 'mmm yeah that's really nice' and 'yeah I like it' hopeless.

Street Style Photographers
Came across a fair few of these in London and there is no positive way around them. If you don't get picked to be photographed you feel like the ugliest, most unstylish person in the world, especially if someone takes a photograph of your companion and tells you that you're 'blocking the frame.' And if you do get photographed you suddenly pull the most awkward pose in the world and hope to God that it doesn't go to print.

(Kiss of death)

Pretentious
I'm already quite the pretentious little brat and spending a month up in London did not help the situation in the slightest. Here are some of the hugely pretentious things that living in London encouraged me to do: 
-ate lucky charms bought from Selfridges for breakfast
-purchased champagne flavoured Vaseline
-bought beef wellington and even worse milk (twice) from Harrods
-pre-drank on prosecco and then bought 3 further glasses on a night out
-bought a six pack of Sanpellegrino Limonata
-asked for extra bags in selfridges just so it looked like I bought more
-crossed roads assuming cars would stop for me
-expected to just walk into shows and not be on the guest list having a 'do you know who i am moment' same with clubs and not even grotty ones, I'm talking Mayfair. 
-got my nails done 3 times in the space of two weeks at 3 upmarket spas. 
-ordered Purdey's at lunch.
-bought my shower gel from Penhallogans and cake mix from selfridges. 
-wore both a feather gilet and a wool coat at the same time. 
-pretentious enough to pronounce Mary Katrantzou's name correctly and even correct others on it.        
-pretentious enough to remain expressionless throughout an entire fashion show without the help of filler. 

(Despite all this I have remained unpretentious enough to still drink vodka out of a Fanta bottle in a public loo, though it was the Liberty's loo.)

(Wouldn't be surprised if you had no time for me after this)

Heels
Obvious choice. Women who wear heels to work obvious have chauffeurs and aren't stumbling about on the tube's escalators like a newborn giraffe.

Fashion Week Posers
Possibly the most offensive part of fashion week. A select few, and they are easily spotted, hang around outside Somerset House purely trying to get papped for street style. Recognised by standing head on, alone,  performing repeat visits to Somerset House and conducting fake phone calls. You can tell that these are fake phone calls because the phone conservation doesn't include conversation, and the phone is held away from the face so as not to ruin hair/ makeup.

(This nonsense is what I'm on about, and please check out the groin area)

Designer's Bows
At the end of every show designers come out to take a bow. They are without a doubt the most pathetic bows I have ever seen, more like an awkward squat. They try and spend as little time as possible on the runway. Not being funny mate but I spent a lot of time sneaking into your show, I want a decent bow.

(Peter Copping at Nina Ricci, awkward as ever)

Shallow Industry
I watch programs like '999 what's your emergency?' and can't help but feel like I am picking a totally selfish career choice. I'm not helping anyone. I'm encouraging you that there is a right and a wrong way to dress and actually being who you want to be doesn't work and that everything revolves around looks. Not very liberal ey? I'm required to judge you by your appearance (well not specifically you, I'm sure you look beautiful) but worst of all I wouldn't want to do anything else in the world. What a selfish bitch.

Well there you are, you have your blog post but now I have serious doubts about my career choice. Nice one.

Hopefully see you next week!

A good sport

So here I am writing my Olympic special blog post on the very last possible day, the closing ceremony. You're lucky you are even getting it today, as I am nursing a terrible hangover, head in the toilet situation, absolutely charming.

I don't wanna here any complaints though thanks, I can promise you all that I am out of my slump now and have been contributing to other blogs, going to work, the gym (I know can you believe it?) and covering my car in decorations for yesterdays annual carnival, so I have been preoccupied by every day issues. 

Now with it being the Olympics and me being a regular gym go-er and all (regular being once a week at a push) I thought it was about time that fashion nerd produced some kind of sports wear post. I have been avoiding it for the last two and a half years because although I understand that sports wear is a necessity in most people's lives and sometimes even a choice, I really honestly cannot stand the stuff, nor understand it. I refuse to spend money on trainers so I have been wearing my converse to the gym. Did you know that trainers cost like upwards of £60 and you have to actually enter sports direct to purchase them?

(Absolutely unforgivably gross)

However after 20 years of avoiding any kind of physical exercise, my sudden (Usein) bolt of enthusiasm means that I have to start wearing, sports wear, dun dun dunnn! And having avoiding any physical exercise since leaving P.E. behind me it does mean unfortunately having to spend some of my hard earned cash on keeping JJB afloat.

I'm not vacuous enough to actually believe that I am going to look red carpet ready on a treadmill, my face might go a red carpet shade though. However I refuse to believe that Lycra is the only way to go when it comes getting your sweat on. I am prepared to do the leg work (literally) and find myself something that doesn't resemble a Star Trek uniform to wear.

(Definitely seen someone jogging in this)

I can't help but feel like I could be on a hiding to nothing considering the fact that team GB had Stella McCartney tailor making their sports wear and yet they still look like a bunch of goons (especially in the opening ceremony, I mean gold lame hoods, really Stella are we in Blazing Squad?) So if one of my very favourite designers can't produce a half decent looking piece of kit what chance do I stand at Sweaty Betty? And that's at a push that's pricey P.E. kit that Betty is.

(90's boy band or what?)

Despite my complete and utter loathing of sports gear, (and I'm pretty sure the rest of the female population shares this loathing, I mean who actually enters a JJB without wearing a balaclava to hide their identity?) the fashion industry, season after season, tries to convince me that sports gear is somehow the thing to be wearing. Frankly I'd rather wear a pubic hair jacket. Surely it's a clever ruse concocted by the government to enforce us obese Brits into sport by only providing gym kits to wear, because honestly why else send it down the catwalk? 

(Not feeling it Rag and Bone)

Maybe I need to look at it all a bit more objectively. After all I spend hours of my life tirelessly reading fashion magazines cover to cover, scrolling through blog posts, pinning and repinning up and coming trends on pinterest, and sportswear is one of those trends that seems to be sticking. I embrace all other trends regardless of just how hideous some of them can appear to be (who can forget wearing fake glasses for the entire summer of 2009.) And my advice is always 'don't look at a piece of clothing and think about whether you like it or not but whether it will look good on you, something you like can look awful on you where as something that looks great you will learn to love.'

I guess it all comes back to bad P.E. experiences in primary school, getting picked last, kids laughing at my wobbly legs when I ran, getting to the front of the line at rounders then just walking straight to the back again (yes violins out please) I mean if you hate Peter Andre your not gonna want a t-shirt with his face on it even if it is the trendiest thing on the planet (which it is.)

(Cannot be real)

This little self analogy has not bought me any closer to discovering a way of wearing something nice to the gym, I might just give up and wear my ball gown or just not go. There must be one aspect of sports wear that I like (feel like I'm in a mediation meeting and am having to think up a compliment for someone I hate) think Martha think! SWEATSHIRTS! I love a sweatshirt, I spent much of my trip to New York hunting down a Knicks sweatshirt and  failing miserably. There is something of a Lana Del Rey, gangster-ironic cool about wearing a sweatshirt. 

(I want one so bad)

This is a very big step, a piece of sportswear that I do not loathe. To sum up there are a few things that the stylish sportsmen can do to keep their gym kit on the upbeat. Listed below.

1. Keep it personal
There is no reason why a little bit of you can't make it's way into your wardrobe. If you like girly things invest in a pair of the Liberty for Nike trainers. You're a designer gal (with a bit o' spare cash) get yourself some Chanel dumbbells. You don't have to wear a lime green Lycra vest just because that's what they wear in the Powerade ads.

(Pretty and punchy)

2. Blast from the past
Save yourself a bomb by taking a trip to rokit.co.uk and nab yourself some sports gear from the only era when it looked any good, the 80's. Quirky American sports logos offer that cheer leader bounce and enthusiasm that we all could do with on the air stepper.

(Cute, huh?)

3. Accessories!
The only aspect of the Olympic kit I admire is the gold chains athletes tend to live in. Ghetto gold works wonders with sports wear, whether it's a big ol' pair of creole earrings or a name necklace just add a stick of bubble gum and you got yourself easy-breezy-edgy-suburban-aloof-chic in no time.

(On the money)

4. Stick it to the man
Don't be dictated to by the major sports chains. You don't actually need to wear a sweat absorbing, aerodynamic super vest if all you're gonna be doing is 10 minutes on the exercise bike. Your ordinary t-shirt is not gonna catch fire.

5. Don't wear your pyjamas
I know that no one actually wears pyjamas to the gym but you know what I mean. So many people make the biggest effort to look their very worst, it's like you're trying your very hardest to look ugly. Stick that 'I heart Christmas 1999' top back in the draw buddy!

6. Look elsewhere
If you are neurotic enough to buy actual sportswear do me a favour and don't visit the high street chains (JJB, Sports Direct, blah blah blah.) Oysho, Zara's sister store, does nice jazzy little sports numbers that just fit the bill and at a very reasonable price. (oysho.com)

(Oysho)

So there you are, a comprehensive guide to sports wear from the girl who doesn't know how to use a treadmill. I wouldn't listen to me either.

Happy Olympics everyone, see ya in four years!

Good Will

This is the part of my blog where I usually apologise for being late. And yes I am late, what is it, coming on for a month now? So rather than boring you all with yet another apology I thought I would make use of the fact that my blog is ALWAYS late and that I am a useless journalist who probably doesn't deserve a job in the industry, and turn it into this weeks blog feature. This is, therefore, a blog about will power.

(This is what my life, the daughter of the owner of an ice cream parlour, is like, but with a little less tash)

Once upon a time I wrote a blog about not caring, Laundry Day Living- give it a whirl, and I was talking about what a busy little bumble bee I was being and how sometimes I take on too much and need to slow myself down. Well if you were a big fan of that  particular post you might not want to bother with this one because  this week I will be talking about how I need to speed myself up.


I, my friend, am in a slump. Those of you who know me, understand that I like to keep myself busy. If you have ever looked through my filofax (yup sad enough to have owned one from the age of 16) you will see weeks of filled appointments, tasks that I've set myself, deadlines that I need to meet. Well that filofax has been looking awful lonely recently. I started my summer so well, complaining about having nothing to do so therefore volunteering myself to every news publication I could and doing a whole 6 hours of solid exercise a week, I was just about ready to take down Mike Tyson. But now my filofax is slumping and my lightening legs are looking pretty slumpy too.

(I hate Cassey Ho, I was doing her exercises and was never smiling like that, she must be on crack, at least)

I realised I was in a slump (can I just take a moment to assure readers that I am in a slump, not a flump which is a British marshmallow piece of confectionery, as I understand that this would have been confusing) when I actually cried, CRIED, real tears when I couldn't find my make up wipes. I was practically hysterical when I later couldn't find my pyjama top either and as I lay topless under my summer duvet sobbing I realised I honestly needed to sort my life out if it has become that uneventful that not having matching pyjamas is enough to set me off. Those of you who know me will know that this completely out of the ordinary because A.) I am so emotionally unavailable that I was once called 'inhuman' for not producing a tear at My Sister's Keeper (please don't judge me) and B.) all of my pyjamas look like they were picked out by Carol Thatcher.

(I wish I was looking a patch as attractive as this in my nightwear, though preferably not reading 'House and Gardens')

I am sure each and everyone of you has been in my position. That position being where you adopt an 'f**k it' attitude. This can be caused by many things, and can also cause many consequences. Whether you are in a quandary about which London post code you should live in for your September internship, or perhaps you've watched a sad film (Magic Mike to be precise) or you've just been on that bread free diet for far too long eventually somethings gotta give and you say 'f**k it.' Before you know it you've gone into your overdraft buying yourself solo Cactus Jacks shots and playing a chicken nugget eating competition with yourself. Sad times. It was this attitude that had landed me with such non events in my life  that I cried at the loss of Boots own make up wipes.


My point is, once you've slipped and you've tasted that sweet taste of freedom (wheat in my case) it's very hard to shake off. I mean there's not a lot of point hitting the air stepper at the gym if you're only planning on going home and secretly stuffing your face with your sisters Haribo 'fruity frogs', low point. And no matter how many times I tell myself that tomorrow I will eat only what a rabbit would I still wind up munching on a piece of chocolate cake for breakfast. So what is the solution how do you get your will power back, stop loafing around and start acting like a real human being and not Homer Simpson? Cause at the moment the thought of typing up essays for free (ie like this, for no one but yourself to read) and eating food that comes off trees sounds awfully unappealing when I know what I'm missing, ie lying on the beach feeding off fried cheese.


The short answer is you just have to do it. Have one productive day and the rest will follow. You have to give yourself a scare, stop leaving everything cause inevitably it will get bigger and more and more difficult to deal with, my filofax is getting fuller as is my stomach. As Nike would say, 'Just Do It' (please don't copyright slap me.) I often find clothes shopping slams me back to reality. If I naively take a certain size (please, I'm a lady) into the changing rooms and find out I need the next size up, it's like being faced by Gok Wan but not, because he's not there to give you a hug or a makeover.

(Compulsory Made in Chelsea reference)

Other things you could do to re motivate yourself is buy yourself some stuff to be motivational about. Like say you wanna get loads of work done, buy yourself some shit fancy filofax and pens and pencils (I am currently looking at a lovely mulberry filofax on ebay.) You wanna lose a stone? Buy yourself some dumbbells. You will, if you're a poor student like me, use these items because it will be a total waste of money otherwise and let's face it putting stuff on ebay just to have people dispute you the whole time is no fun. However if you are rich and have this money to throw away then I can't help you. 

Above all put pen to paper. Writing things down always, ALWAYS, makes things seem more achievable. My very favourite artist, Rob Ryan, once very wisely said; 'Why does putting things down on paper somehow make things seem more manageable? Is it because it is a constructive act when inside you feel destroyed?' Well OK, I don't feel 'destroyed' but he was bound to exaggerate, he's an artist, but he is also a grown up and successful which must make him right. So get your parker pens at the ready!

(Well there you are then)

I think the main thing is to have a starting point, something to kick you into first gear. Mine was this blog. Martha Thursday is always about being late and making excuses, and putting things off and yet here I am on a Thursday writing a blog. A good place to start? I think so. I am almost tempted to rename myself Martha Friday so that I can claim that I am, in fact, early. An even better place to start. 


Oh filofax, how I've missed you.


Though I might add that I decided that doing this blog would be my starting point for re motivating myself on Sunday, so I've already procrastinated for four days. Oh well the sun doesn't shine every day! God only help me when the Olympics start...


Speaking of which Olympic theme post next week kids.

Whistle down the wind

So hey, how are ya? Its been a while right? You might ask what has happened to the terribly organised Ms Thursday from two weeks back. I have been being terribly organised elsewhere. Writing for my columnist job over at BSB (take a look if you haven't already.) And sorting out deposits et al with robbing estate agents for my flat in Chelsea, yes CHELSEA!

I will give you a moment to weep with jealousy.

I promised you on my last post that I would be writing about true love, this will not be the case as that idea is now based on something that happened sooooo long ago that it's a little irrelevant, and I like to think Fashion Nerd is pretty up to speed. 

This week I have been up in London to go on several viewings around pokey studio apartments, where I would, quite frankly, be better buying an IKEA wardrobe parking it outside my place of work and living in that for a month but I feel like that would be frowned upon at the Putney Bridge. In an effort to make the experience a little less painful I invited my dear friend up with me to reward ourselves for hours (maybe an hour and a half at a push) house hunting with a slamming night out on the town.

(We did almost look as out of place as this)

So we headed out of our hostel (I know who do I think I'm kidding with my Chelsea flat?) dressed to the nines and travelled the lengthily length it takes to get from Willesdon Green to the Kings Road. We very nearly turned around and went home and not because our feet were hurting. Without wanting to sound completely self involved and vain beyond belief we received a lot of unwanted attention. You know the drill, whistles, 'wahayys' and someone even took it to the next level with a 'Yo.' NO.

It's not like we were walking down the Kings Road dressed like friggin Barbarella, our going out style reflects classy teen vogue shoots (I know that we're not teens, but no one dresses their age in that mag) not an FHM shoot. At one stage a group of builders, why is it always builders?, called his group of mates to have a gawk. I mean come on! Have you no shame?

(See what I mean? No teen is that stylish, we usually haven't moved out of flared jeans by this stage)

What I want to know is what I am meant to do in these situations? What do these men who are, let's be honest, often batting way above their weight expect me to say? (You think I'm being cocky but one man actual had a centre parting and sandals with socks, I like to think I could do slightly better.) Are they expecting me to shout 'Hey buddy! Get up on this!' 

(This could be any of us back in 1993)

I actually find it humiliating and I'm not the only one with the Daily Mail reporting last week that 3/4 of us think it's inappropriate. And I It's bad enough to have to take the tube and then stagger through Chelsea in your going out gear without some toothless truck driver pointing out to everyone the fact that your legs are out. No wonder women were tutting at us, we were encouraging disorderly conduct in the royal borough! 

Maybe I'm just being really uptight about it? I mean some women genuinely love this attention. I have this, now, ex friend of mine who actually used to count the amount of car honks she used to get and would practically produce a pie chart every time we saw her like we were meant to be impressed or something? I suppose it could be considered flattering that out of everyone on the tube, the man who has to cross his legs to hide his 'pop up and say hello' has chosen to sit opposite you and stare at you in a creepy way whilst trying to entice you by provocatively eating his salt and vinegar crisps.

(It was on a par)

It's not so much the fact that men are enjoying my outfit that I object to because, as my friend pointed out, 'at least we know we don't look shit', its the way this point is addressed to me. I am not a football team I do not need to you to shout 'get in' and 'wahaay' for me to understand that you appreciate my choice of outfit. If you came over, tapped me on the shoulder and politely told me how much you appreciated my wardrobe choice and pointed out what an excellent eye for colour coordination I have then that would be just lovely. Especially if you then bought me a 'Flawless' cocktail (costing £35,000 at Movida's night club London.) Then I would understand your appreciation rather than feeling like I shouldn't walk home alone.

(He's got it right but he's obviously gay)

Many people would still argue that it is my fault for attracting unwanted attention. I'm sorry but am I meant to go out sporting the costume cupboard from the Sound of Music to avoid getting an 'oi oi'? (and even Maria got lusted over by Captain Von Trapp.)  At one point I said 'I'd feel less self conscious wearing a cucumber costume right now.' Why should I feel intimidated by my choice of dress? Contrary to popular belief, it's not unwanted attention. God forbid, two years of being single and someone finding me attractive on the Kings Road is a blessing, it's just the wrong form of attention. 

So fellas, builders, van drivers from across the nation open those lug holes, for the sake of myself, your wives, your daughters, your sisters, please refrain from the following phrases: Cor' blimey, yeesss, wahaaay, oi oi, take your belts off, I just wanna bang her' etc. The following actions are also pretty taboo: high fives, whistles, car honking and absolutely no way ever do you squeeze my bum unless we have been bumping and grinding for at least 6 minutes. Follow these rules and you are far more likely not to receive a double V sign from myself or the rest of the female population.

As it is, the only drink I got offered for the whole night was several swigs from a cheap wine bottle that belonged to a very sweaty man who was later thrown out for being incapable of speech. Charming.

What to expect when you're not expecting

My weeks at the moment consist of very little. So I have blog pieces planned weeks in advance. Why am I late then? Because believe it or not I have been exhausting myself silly doing pilates and going to the gym, and those of you who know me will recognise that this isn't like me at all. I do surprise myself occasionally, I actually spent £50 on work out gear the other day and did something that I swore I would never ever do, give money to JJB Sports. You might then ask why I am not doing a blog piece on this seeing as it's such a rarity. But having planned my blog pieces weeks in advance I feel as though I ought to give 'em a whirl.

My weeks at the moment are very repetitive. I obsess about the fact that I am on a bread free diet. I occupy my time on pinterest or a weekly trip to the cinema. And whenever it was 2 weeks ago, I went to see 'What to Expect when You're Expecting'. It was alright, one of those situations when the trailer has the funniest bits in it and I much preferred Rock of Ages which I have seen twice this week. But anyway it got me thinking about babies. 

(There you are, best bit of the film on the poster, you don't need to see it now)

I realised about four years ago that I don't think I want kids. It happened when I was watching some channel 4 nonsense about babies being born. This once normal woman was writhing around in pain, it was like something out of a slasher movie and was made all the worse by  the close ups. I kept trying to leave the room but my mother assured me that once this brat was born it would be as beautiful and magical scene as when Ariel turns into a human and kisses Eric on a beach. 

It was not. Having the baby, for me, was the worst bit. This poor gal who's been huffing and puffing and contemplating a divorce for the last 8 hours has now got this wailing baby in her arm who cannot seem to contemplate what a lucky thing it really is to have such a beautiful and dedicated mother. So yes it was there and then I decided that I wasn't nice enough or patient enough or have a high enough pain threshold to endure child birth or children. (I also have huge commitment issues so marriage is probably off the cards as well.) 

(This is a more successful mother who is semi conscious enough to put rollers in her hair)

This then immediately categorises me as a bit of a weirdo. I realise that. When it comes to filling out passport forms in the future I will be that bitter teary gal who has to tick the single and childless boxes (and I find forms stressful enough as it is, they do, quite often, reduce me to tears.) 

You've seen what tabloids do to celebrities like Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz (ironically Diaz stars in What to Expect when You're expecting, bit of a kick in the teeth), both middle aged, single and childless and branded as miserable, un-marriable and sometimes with lesbian scares.  But to be honest if at the age of 43 I have the career and the body of Jenn then I would feel like I had succeeded in life. And if I did look like that I would have far too high opinion of myself to think that anyone would deserve my hand in marriage, and who would want to wreck a bod like that with a baby?

(I could honestly go on and on and on)

Despite the fact that both these women have amazing careers and are beautiful they are still illuminated in the media as being a blip in the world of women, and the media is fascinated with them because they can't categorise them into a 'normal' woman box, and they are seen almost as a novelty. As you can see above. Is it really that weird not to want a family?

I am hoping that one day all my crap will calm down and the most patient man on the planet will settle for my neurosis and I will suddenly be plagued by maternal instincts rather than a desire to strut down the Kings Road with a heavy pout and dripping head to toe in Celine. But what if it doesn't? What can I expect if I'm not expecting?

Most of my friends have a 'plan' and they all consist of quite similar things. Married by the age of 26 is a general consensus. 2 kids by the age of 30 you know the drill. I have a plan but it is far more selfish and ALL career orientated, finishing internship by the age of 22. Full time employment by the age of 23. Executive by the age of 30. And I will be equally devastated if my plan is not realised, what is the equivalent of adoption or a sperm bank in the career world? Freelance? Or yet more internships? 

Christmas might be tricky. I mean as lovely as my flat over looking Hyde Park will be, it might be a bit lonely with a Birds Eye, who am I kidding, sorry Harrods turkey dinner for one. But then I could be one of those fabulous people who jets off to Sardinia at the drop of a hat and spend Christmas day sunbathing and assuming yoga postures. But then again,  it could always end up with Christmas with the parents...

(A very happy Christmas indeed)

It all comes down to being selfish. I am, although not wanting to admit it, entirely selfish as are most young people my age. The thought of not being able to just say 'right screw it let's go out tonight and drink copious amounts of wine then stagger over to Oceana for some cheesy repetitive dancing' makes me despair. The prospect of staying in night after night is just not for me.

I think the final nail in the coffin is the idea of responsibility. I like to think that if I did have a child it would be the most stylish babe on the block, however I do not think I am readily capable of rearing a child and shaping it into a well rounded human being. It would surely be an alcoholic by the age of 12 and possible even more cynical and sarcastic than I am.

(I honestly think any kid of mine could easily end up like this, or worse)

Do not get me wrong, I do not hate children. This is a silly thing to do as we were all children once and I know that I am probably more demanding, spoilt and selfish than any screaming toddler outside an ice cream parlour, I'm just a little bit more reserved about it. I like to think that at least one friend, after one too many chardonnays might make the mistake of wanting me as a Godmother at which I would try my very hardest not to outshine their mother.

(I did once play the fairy Godmother in a play, shows what a good actress I must be)

To conclude, what to expect when you're not expecting vis a vis the following. A.) a truly nice house, clean, how you want it to be, of IKEA show room standard, B.) Jennifer Aniston's body. C.) Freedom, you can go out whenever and wherever you want. D.) Companionship, you won't find yourself talking in constant baby speak as the only people you have time to see are your own kids, you have as much time for friendships as you want.

But as with most things every positive has a negative and here are the negatives of being childless. A.) a quiet house, unless you get yourself a dog, or a stay at home hubby it's just you on your own in that big ol' terrace SW3 house. B.) bad body, because you've realised that you actually want a baby and its all too late so leads to a biscuit binge. C.) Lack of freedom, you don't have kids? You don't have the get out of jail free card. You're boss won't cut you any slack and you won't have a job that allows you to take time off with your kids. D.) Loneliness, all your friends have babas to cope with so their social life is off limits as is yours.

So there, we're not biased over here at Fashion Nerd and have provided a for and against argument at the last minute. Even after those depressing figures I am not feeling even an inch maternal. Perhaps I'm a boy. Anyway, I look forward to all your offers of Godmothership (is that a word?) over your little darlings and I am quite happy to offer baby/maternity style advice for those who need it. And who knows maybe my tune will change and one day I will be doing a post on maternity wear? But then again maybe not.

(She'll be sad if her water breaks over those boots)

Next week the truth about love. See you then my wonderful loyal fans who have obviously all voted for me in the Cosmo blog awards, click the pink box at the top right of this page if you haven't!

Working Girl

It's Thursday, Thursday, Thursday! Happy Thursday everyone! How're you all feeling about life?


Now some of you may not be reading this post until evening time or the weekend because you've been busy bees working all week, and as many of you are aware Thursdays are a working day. This leads handily onto to this weeks blog topic, the wonderful world of work wear.


Ever since I picked up my first TeenVOGUE at the age of about 12 (I was very age restricted, I didn't watch my first 12 rated film until I was in fact 12 so this was pretty outrageous for me, reading a teen magazine and not officially being a teen) I have been OBSESSED with what women wear to work. I have dreamt of the day that I can actually look at ELLE's work wear spread and consider buying something without looking like a pretentious idiot, no one likes someone who works in an ice cream parlour to dress like a white collar worker. 

(Miranda Priestly, the Queen of work wear wonder, despite being fictional)

My fascination with smart dressing probably explains my fierce loyalty to shops like Reiss and why perhaps one friend of mine describes my style as 'someone who's about to meet the Queen.' I live in the country side and I am quite partial to wearing a low heel on a day to day basis. 


You can therefore imagine my joy when I am finally given the opportunity to dress like a pretentious, crease free working girl, I will be giving Emily Blunt a run for her money I can assure you of that. This September I will be work placing away in, can you believe it, London with an SW6 postcode, not quite SW3 but who's complaining! This has then lead to over addiction of pinterest creating a 'work wear board' and squirrelling away outfit ideas. (I'm not buying anything yet, because I will have obviously have lost at least 5 stone before September so my dress size will have altered.)

(I do hope that I can give her a run for her money, she is terribly well dressed)

Anyway, so what do you wear to work? In this blog I'm going to assume that you are all working in high class jobs that require Reiss' complete a/w collection (to be honest I probably went into my line of work purely for the outfit perks) and that you're female. So away we go after that terribly long introduction...


1. Trousers
It is well known that trousers symbolise authority, 'who wears the trousers' and all that so they will go down well in office. Like Melanie Griffith in working girl but without the bad hair. And with pyjama dressing on the up you can just role out of bed in the morning and jump on the tube, and let's face it your hair probably will look like Melanie Griffith. Here are the pick of the best.

2. Dress
If you're like me, you'll appreciate the importance of a good dress. I like to have several that I can rely on to make me look like I've made an effort when really I've made none at all. One with a sophisticated print and a nice fit that might detract from the fact that you've been up all night drinking (I have several of these on reserve for when I have to pretend to my mum that I'm not hungover.) It also adds a little bit of fresh air and femininity to the office.

(The shoes will do nicely too)

3. Shirt
An obvious choice, for both the female and male genders, or in between, we're so PC here. There is a way of getting it right though, and I think Gok would agree with me here. Too, too many women think that wondering blindly through Marks and Sparks and grabbing the first fitted pin stripe shirt they see is enough. It is my pet hate. Go for a softer shirt, fitted makes you look cheap and masculine and has that school girl feel about it, I'm sorry but it does. Pair it with the perfect trouser and you've got easy breezy  work wear chic. 

(The entirety of the Prada s/s 2000 collection is my work wear ambition)

4. Shoes
The delight of a new job brings with it the excuse for more shoes. I have just bought a further 2 pairs! When it comes to work you need to be practical but pretty, shoes are one of the few areas where you have free reign, but don't go for anything too extravagant because you need them to go with a lot of outfits. We can thank Miuccia Prada for giving us the perfect work shoe. Her s/s 12 collection saw the rebirth of the court shoe and made it socially acceptable to wear them again. Formally on a similar no-no par to the fitted striped shirt the court shoe is the perfect work foot wear as it provides enough height to be smart, but not too high so that you want to kill yourself by the end of the working day.

(Pair o' these will see you right)

5. Accessories
Now this is where you can get creative you lucky things. In an ideal world I would be purchasing a Hermes Birkin, but come on this is only a placement for Christ's sake! But you can go a bit mad otherwise. I don't suggest that you go to an interview donning your finest ear cuff but once you've got the job give your outfit a bit of personality. Metal collars and interesting hosiery are winners with me.

(Ombre tights with a black allover outfit= weekday winner)

6. Coats
Now this isn't a huge aspect of the working wardrobe because you can pretty much wear any coat bar perhaps denim. Yes I should mention that actually, denim is pretty much forbidden in the workplace unless you're a painter or a builder. But I wanted to purely highlight my desire for a feather gilet. A Chanel-Esq jacket will go down equally well, though it might suggest that you are in the money which therefore might discourage a pay rise (or any pay at all in my case!)

(Celine a/w 12- work wear heaven)

And that's your lot. I was going to mention skirts but they follow similar rules to the dress, just don't do a Bridget Jones and go too short, no one wants to be the office slut. I also realise that buying an entire new wardrobe for a work placement is perhaps a bit excessive, especially as I am already Reiss' loyalist customer.  Now all that is left to say is take it away Dolly Parton! 

The Back Up Plan

Don't worry this post is not at all based on that God awful film that J-Lo starred in!


Before we get started, some of the more observant amongst us will have noticed the pink cosmopolitan blog awards icon to the right of this post. Do us a favour and nominate us! Please, please, pretty please, think of all the wonderful posts that have brightened up your days! Just click on the image and follow the instructions! Thanks babes. 


Apologies, as always, for the late posting. I have been busy, being a columnist on another blog (British Style Bloggers take a look!) and being all grown up sorting out my work placement etc. Which brings me onto this week's topic.


So as we have all surely noticed, we are growing up. My most common conversation with friends at the moment is 'God, next year is my last year at uni! After that I will have to be a real grown up!' When I say a real grown up, I mean someone with a full time job, their own house, a dog and who's on the verge of getting married and having lots of babies.

(This is what my life is soon to look like, but with less false grins)

I am currently immersing myself in one of the above (not having babies, heaven forbid.) No, for my final year of uni I am to do a work placement module. Being the arrogant, self important brat that I am, I expected to send my CV off to ELLE and receive an instant reply with not only an offer for an internship but an offer as assistant editor. This was not the case. Turns out that me and half the globe want to work for ELLE and my CV got sent straight back due to an overstuffed inbox.


Since then I have been badgering half the written world to give me some kind of work placement, though I am perhaps being a little specific because I refuse to look anywhere other than London, London with an SW3 postcode. Even after securing a work placement it has been stressful. I feel like I've finally forced some bloke into going out with me and it's too good to be true and now that he is I'm like a psycho girlfriend and if he doesn't reply to my emails that day I get paranoid. I don't know whether to call, should I call? Or maybe add him as a friend on facey, no no no wait for him to add me. 


I did call and my work placement is sorted, thank the lord! But that's not my point. My point is, what if it hadn't gone to plan? What do you do when your plan goes to pot? What happens when you don't get that dream career and rather than that SW3 postcode you get offered DT7, (yeah that's Dorset and we all know how I feel about that.) I'm pretty sure no one in the history of their life has said 'well I'd love to be an investment banker but if that falls through I'm quite happy to be a milkman.' I mean does anyone actually have a plan b?

(I'm not sure I'd make a successful mime- notice how I'm using children's toys to illustrate the post, as that way I can't offend any full time working mimes)

Went to see me old mucker, local bestie the other night. And she had the plan b of kings (though ironically kings don't tend to need a plan b with all that dosh and being set up for life and all that.) She has to be the most fickle person I know when it comes to 'what I want to be when I grow up.' It has ranged from teachers to writers to child psychologists and it varies daily. She may not know what she wants to do but by gum does she know what she'll do if that day's plan falls through. She will and I quote 'get head hunted by a travel journalism firm' and then pursue a career travelling the globe. How lovely, and completely water tight.


If you are lucky enough to just snap up jobs and liaise with Made in Chelsea stars amongst other celebs like one particularly annoyingly successful friend of mine. Then what happens next? Does your plan A become the back up plan? Do you just lose ambition completely and feel like there's nothing left to achieve? Probably not, I am just saying this because I am completely jealous that the last celebrity I met was the Mayor of my village who shook my hand on coming second, not first, second in the jubilee shop window competition.

(I think I could do Andy Sax's job, and we look so alike as well...)

In life I like to think that I'm a glass half full kinda gal. I don't think I'm a happy cheery optimist because half the time (as regular readers may have noticed) I love to whine and moan and be quite the cynical little bitch. However I do ooze self belief. I am naive enough to believe that my countless volunteer articles I have written, and my dastardly good looks will be enough to land me the job as editor of ELLE. But when it comes down to it,  it's not what you know it's who you know, and I'm afraid my little black book leaves much to be desired.


I do have a sort of back up plan of my own. Though it is as equally unrealistic as my friend relying on being headhunted to be a travel journalist (I'm sorry sweetie, I love you but I just think your plan is a little far fetched.) If the impossible happens and I don't somehow wind up being the most desirable fashion journalist not only in the UK but the world, I will pursue a career in stand up comedy. I've been told I'm pretty funny and I'm pretty sure I could give Ronnie Barker a run for his money (especially as he is no longer living.) If 'Live at the Apollo' are struggling for space then I will make a spin off movie for the Harry Potter series. Something along the lines of 'Harry Potter and the job seeking journalist.'

(One Ronnie and a Martha doesn't have the same ring to it as the Two Ronnies really)

Now I can hear you all having your doubts, I know that perhaps there are a few holes in this back up plan but to be honest its my only option. I can't fall back on a career as a waitress because, let's be honest, it's too late for that. TGI Fridays will not appreciate all my writing experience, or my unenthusiastic approach to other human beings for that matter. My sarcasm and writing gift give me no other career option than taking Lorraine Candy's job. I also recently applied for a job at Gregg's, didn't even get called for interview. It wasn't even a swish Gregg's in Cabot Circus or anything it was just on some estate. Completely overqualified, that's the only solution. 


Anyway I would like to dedicate this post to my very trendy friend, who actually doesn't need a back up plan because she got her dream job in London. I may have to avoid her for the next few months because I'm  that sort of person who finds it hard to be happy for other people when I'm too jealous for words, but at least I can say it in writing.


Join me on Thursday (hopefully) when I will be discussing the very grown up matter of work wear. And then the week after for the even more grown up issue of babies (how organised am I, blogs planned two weeks in advance?!) Oh and don't forget to nominate me! See ya real soon!