Some Girls Overdo The Fashion Thing

Last Sunday, I received the best newspaper supplement of the year. It was the Sunday Times Style Magazine. This time it came oversized – 120 pages and easily dwarfs a Hello.

I am shocked by the sheer quality of it. The layout is fresh, youthful and jaunty. The writing is good, of course, it is after all, a part of the Times. The best about it is that it doesn’t feel pretentious.

Good writing that punches, with a tint of acidity that is just right. It is the kind of publication that isn’t deluded by the hype of fashion. It tells it like it is. The welcome letter penned by Tiffanie Darke and Claudia Croft reads, “We’ve said it before and we’ll say it again: trends are dead, individual style rules. And that, we hope, is what you’ll take away from our spring fashion issue.” Damn right, I like how you pitch it!
Inside, several pages were dedicated to personalised look. Two of shinjuku girls; 4 of how celebs wear it (the celeb in question is not Alex Curran – they are Julia Restoin Roitfeld, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley… You get the picture); an editorial dedicated to Alexa Chung (if you’re a fan…); a highly inspirational look book, 5 styles, 30 combinations that aren’t patronising like those in Look.
And check this – I say the best bit – an opportunity for Victoria Beckham to dissect her own collection – in her own words – with absolutely amazing results.
Finally, I will leave you with an article that resonate deeply. Have a good read!

“Some girls overdo the fashion thing” – Tom, 39, Stylist

I am not good with relationships, but I am au fait with style and fashion. I therefore feel entitled to point out that some girls overdo the fashion thing. One in particular. She was my type – leggy, brunette and fashionable. A well turned-out wiman is something I admire. Except that she was obsessed with wearing peculiar – sorry, cutting-edge – outfits. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for pushing the boat out a bit, but she was paddling herself right out into the middle of Lake Windermere.
She had a good wardrobe – some nice dresses, some sexy shoes – but she always prioritised fashion over flattery. Maybe she thought being fashion-savvy was attractive? Fine, but it didn’t cut it when her jersey harem pants made her look like she had an inflatable bum, or when her clumpy ‘asylum chic’ shoes made her look like she was receiving orthopaedic treatment.
And then there was straight-up embarrassing: it’s fun to be noticed, sure, but it was as if she was trying to attract the attention of social services. Casual outfits for pub liasons included an Ashish tracksuit with a to-scale sequined skeleton; a tiny Miu Miu fur jacket better suited to attracting silver gorillas; and leather leg straps that resembled Victorian callipers. I orchestrated a wholesome picnic on Hamstead Heath for us, and she arrived in a Walter Van Beirendonck full skirted dress with surgical truss-like accoutrements. She looked like a hospitalised Widow Twankey. People in the car park tittered. One man’s dog wouldn’t stop barking at us.
Perhaps this was a feminisit position – not to wear anything for anyone but herself. The problem was that it created an insurmountable obstacle between herself and the outside world. I squared with her. Why deliberately attract comedic attention, I asked. ‘I hate being a high-street girl,’ she retorted.
What’s wrong with a nice bit of Berardi or Mouret? Why wear shoes so precarious, you move like an AT-AT walker from Star Wars? I blame Topshop for delivering directional fashion for all. It was curtains for us – in fact, she’s probably wearing them now.

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