i shouldn't be doing this; i should be making a little red riding hood cape and a "grandma rocks!" t-shirt for my daughter's fairy tale ball tomorrow, but i just iced 48 cupcakes and need a cup of coffee.
in the spirit of indulgence- see yesterday- i went to harvey nichol's today. and no, i didn't buy anything, i never do. well, not unless it's xmas, and then only in the food hall, for other people. or if it's my birthday, and then only in the cosmetics hall, for other people, if you think about it. i didn't try on any £900 dresses either (today anyway), but i did find myself extraordinarily breathless over the handbag you see above, and through a genuine mist of accessory inspired tears, i had a bit of a thought.
years ago, in another life, i worked in fashion. i was around various faces who were or have become household names, and the names behind the labels that most of us can't afford, but would like to, or at least are dimly aware of. fashion people, as we know, are notoriously "odd" lot. it is exceptionally cliquey and at times socially imprenetrable, and my primary impressions of the scene were that it was populated by people that had been bullied at school and were now exacting a particular kind of passive revenge- they had become cool. they had become the styleratti.
today, pawing this ridiculous object, moved by its very dimensions, i put something together for the first time- the incredible eye for detail, the need to create order and control and to communicate through something other than direct interaction, the trophyism, and, perhaps most of all, the rules...
true style and dyspraxia may just belong together like bread and butter.
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