Monday, 15 August 2016

Cascades of Earliness

4.45am isn’t a time I’m used to. I’m more of a late starting girl, given half a chance: the kind who loves to laze in bed until mid-morning, reading and snoozing and listening to music (and, if I’m honest, spending slightly too long staring at my phone). But today I am up before the birds, shaking away sleep as I pull on tights, a polo-neck, dress, boots, shearling jacket. By 5.04am I’m in the car with my dad, clutching a flask of tea. We drive out of the village towards the mist. It’s thick, turning trees and hedges into flat silhouettes. Our car slips through the grey. Shortly after, the sky’s edges curl pink.

By 5.30am we’re standing at the top of the hill: a vast hill, looking down over valley upon valley of towns and fields. As the minutes go by, the heather stretching in every direction is illuminated – as is everything else, lines and details soaked clear with daylight. We witness the shift from shadows to green, mauve, blue, tangerine. The tangerine belongs to the clouds. They score the view ahead: great big scratches of light and colour. My dad fusses with his cameras (plural - our reason for being here). I sit on an anorak among the heather, watching. Soon I’m trying to note down everything I can see and hear, scribbling bullet points, only some of which make sense:  

  • ·      Traffic growl only sign of life
  • ·      crows – harsh notes
  • ·      hills holding their breath
  • ·      sheep bleating
  • ·      stillness up here - motion below

But none of it can properly capture the grandeur of it; the elation of watching a landscape wake up, lit by that huge, neon circle swimming up from the horizon; the sense of standing at the edge of a world that is only half-yours, that still, somehow, belongs more to the birds and the insects in the grass and the last gasp of night.

Then there’s the knowledge that this process happens all the time (though, of course, not always as marvelously as this) – a regular spectacle most of us don’t witness. Virginia Woolf writes beautifully in ‘On Being Ill’ about spending time staring at the sky, noting wryly, “one should not let this gigantic cinema play perpetually to an empty house”. But she also knows that the sights up above have “nothing to do with human pleasure or human profit”. They happen because they must. Our joy at these scenes is incidental.

This dawn rising is the culmination of a long weekend spent throwing myself back into the green, reveling in all this gorgeous expanse. I’ve said goodbye to Oxford, and, sad as it is, there’s something galvanizing in the temporary change of scene. There are books to read, slopes to climb, water to seek out, long walks to complete, muscles to tire out, projects to pursue. I’m craving activity and motion. But, at the crown of the hill, there’s just this: a dawn so impossibly beautiful, and so impossibly everyday.  

When we leave, the sunshine is bright, but there’s an autumnal bite in the air. In a few hours it’ll relinquish its grip back to summer, and the garden will be baking hot. I’ll sit on my laptop with all the doors and windows open. I’ll grab some time in the warmth, flowers around me, with Alice Oswald’s poetry collection ‘Falling Awake’ – delighted to find that the second half is titled ‘Tithonus: 46 Minutes in the Life of Dawn’. It will give words to the morning I could never have shaped myself, Oswald writing, “here come cascades of earliness in/ which everything is asked is it light/ is it light is it light”, and I’ll be carried through page after page: “there is amazement here turning/ wishfully pink above the trees”. She’ll talk of “the lurch the/ well-known slap of joy when/ bird-verse takes a regular line”, of how “a great proximity arches overheard”, of the ways in which “the sky’s a cloth the eye a passer-/by with mirrors”.

But here, with the promise of breakfast ahead, I’m still a passerby. The air is crisp outside the car. The mist is lingering on the fields, and we’ll be back home before anyone else is up.

In between all that rapturous watching, I managed to convince dad to take a few photos of me – having stashed away a vintage ballgown in the car. It was probably 6.45am by this point. It was only when I pulled on the dress that I realized how wonderfully the purple threads in the fabric caught and reflected the purple of the heather. First featured here, it originally belonged to the mother of a neighbour of my distant cousin (tenuous, I know). It doesn’t quite fit any more, ergo the strong ‘hands on hip’ poses: I am literally holding it together.

Tuesday, 26 July 2016

Notes on Having a Book Published

Outside, it had begun drizzling. I’d spent an hour faffing around, trying to find the ideal combination of red, white and grey. My bedroom floor was a blanket of clothes – dresses tried on and tossed aside again. By the time I’d slicked on my lipstick, the world outside was lowering and grey. Still, we went for it: hopping in the car, heels in one hand, a stack of books in the other. At the top of the hill we surveyed the scene; rain blurring the far-away horizon; gorgeous, slightly soggy hay-bales; fresh, damp, green fields. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It felt right. It felt like home. It felt necessary to clamber on the bales in heels, doing what I do best: posing in ridiculous footwear, in a ridiculous location, in a ridiculous vintage satin evening coat, balancing lots of books. To do that with my own books, full of my own words? A pretty unbeatable feeling. 

It’s been quite a time. A very quick slide forward from the academic world into the professional one: two months spent swinging between furiously typing things on my laptop, and lazing by the river trying to recover from exams. There have been looooots of celebrations, and scattering of great new opportunities. Oh, and there’s been the book. There was the launch, full of some of the best friends and colleagues a gal could have; the gut-twisting moment of knowing Notes on Being Teenage was making its fledgling way out in the world; the chance to write and talk about all the things I’ve been thinking about for years now and the giddy excitement, followed by a few days of bone-aching exhaustion.  Then there were the sparks of absolute glee on spotting it in places including Waterstones and Foyles. More than that though, there were plenty of conversations: the opportunity to talk with teenagers and adults alike about things I deeply care about, and they do too.

That’s what I keep on coming back to: the fact that there are so many more dialogues to open up. This is the tip of the iceberg, the edge of the plunge, the fringes of the fucking massive set of issues, possibilities and problems we need to unravel when it comes to being teenage today. I want to continue to play some part in that, to encourage young women keep on at it, to have faith in their own abilities, to know that their potential is huge. When statistics like this are released, showing that confidence rapidly plunges as girls move towards being women, we know that our conversations are still only embers. We’ve got plenty left to do to stoke them into flames.

But I’m optimistic. The more we talk and take action, the better. The more we speak up and make time to listen to others, the better. The more seriously we respond to young women’s challenges, the better. The more our books, films and other forms of media represent a vast, diverse range of women, the better. The more we let others know they’re not alone, the better.

In fact, the absolute best part of having written this book is the people who’ve contacted me to say: “this resonated”/ “I’ve never seen my experience reflected before”/ “it meant a lot to hear that.” If Notes on Being Teenage has achieved that for just a handful of young women, it’s already done its job. 

I’m also so proud to be part of a growing movement – something I’m going to expand on in my next post – alongside so many other women I massively respect, including Emma Gannon, Laura Bates and Louise O'Neill (as well as those with forthcoming publications like Akilah Hughes and Hannah Witton). It’s a good time to be writing, raising our voices, asking for better, and letting others know that there are so many, many of us thinking about social media/ body image/ style/ sex/ feminism/ gender/ school/ mental health/ self-belief and more. Plenty of us wanting to champion others. Plenty raising the volume. 

Talking of all things teenage, I’ll also be doing a round up of writing and features in the near future, but in the meantime… I wanted to let people know about three very thrilling things I’m up to in the next month. I’m at YALC this coming weekend, taking part in both their poetry slam (on the 30th) and the AskYALC panel on the 31st (tweet them here with a Q, and it might get answered during the event, where I’m appearing alongside Juno Dawson, Holly Bourne and Dr Christian Jessen, with all of us being kept in line by Gemma Cairney). Then I’ll be at Birmingham Waterstones on August 2nd to chair an event with Louise O’Neill and Eliza Wass. Come along for conversation about their excellent books. Then on August 26th, I’m heading up to Edinburgh for an event alongside Juno Dawson, where we’ll both be chatting about Mindful Teens. Somewhere in between all of that I’ll be trying to catch my breath.

I wrote two months ago that this is a time of beginnings and endings. It still is: and will continue to be for the next little while. But I’m intrigued to see what they hold. Hopefully more writing, more projects, more being vocal. Ideally some time off too. Definitely the space to play around with what comes next. (Side-note to any editors reading: commission me!! I finally have the time!) Hopefully a few more afternoons tottering around the countryside in ballgowns and stilettos too. 

My satin evening coat belonged to my paternal great-grandma, while the blouse was my maternal great-grandma's. The  trousers and heels are second hand. The books? Well, they're the model's own... 

Tuesday, 5 July 2016

Swimming in Oxford


I’m at home in water. The minute it’s warm enough to go without tights, it’s warm enough to be shimmying out into rivers, lakes, and (dare I say it?) waves. At least, I like to think it is. Sometimes I’ll still wimp out, dallying at the edge, wondering if retreat is better. But often the promise of thrill wins out: the chance to fold up flickering, busy thoughts with my clothes and towel, leave them behind on the grass bank. It’s a way to pitch forward into something very immediate, to emerge again at the end somehow scoured.

That’s what’s so wonderful about swimming outdoors. You are distilled down to a body, a set of breaths, two blinking eyes on a level with banks, boats, and the small battalion of geese floating past. Everything is sensation. Everything is sight. The world is reduced to what’s in front of you. It’s about arms pushing against the current, legs kicking, chin lifted above the ripples. It’s about the sky: whether that’s low, grey clouds, or a perfect blue wash occasionally cut through with birds. It’s about measuring out your own capabilities. When to go further? When to return to shore?


It’s a taste I’ve learned from my dad. He’s the one I’ve been watching dash in and out of lakes and rivers for years, screeching all the way. The guy who used to get in a Welsh mountain stream in January, clad just in trunks, water shoes, and a striped woolly hat. Now he’s a little less keen on the winter freeze, but still loves plunging into (moderately) chilly water. Though these days I’m sometimes the one, err, lovingly coaxing him in: “But you wrote a whole bloody book about it! Call yourself a wild swimmer! Wiiiiiiimp.” (He won’t thank me for this).

The book he wrote is called Dip. Published two years ago, it chronicled his experiences with depression – and the role that swimming played in his recovery. It’s beautiful, lyrical and honest, anchored in those brief moments of revelation to be found in each new swim, each new step away from the depths of his illness. It’s been on my mind again recently because the play I co-wrote with both my parents, titled The Man Who Turned into a Sofa, was re-broadcast on BBC Radio 4 (see my original blog post here). That’s also about mental health, about him, about our family. It’s up on iPlayer for another two weeks. Water turns up all over the place in that. In fact, my final line is, “I didn’t know if I’d see him swim outside again.” Sometimes I realize how grateful I am that I have done, that I continue to, that it’s now something we share.


Some of my best moments in Oxford have also been watery (or near-watery) ones. Evenings full of barbecue smoke and dips at sunset. Punting on the river. Wandering down the canal and out into the green beyond. Lounging on towels with books and picnics, a river close at hand for cooling off in. Hiding from the heat next to a lake under a homemade canopy strung out of scarves. Solo splashing at 6pm after a day running around London – hopping off the train and onto my bike, frantic to be in the cool. Group swims, all of us fanning out across the gorgeous, gorgeous water. Skinny-dipping after dark, the silk feel of river on skin.

Many of these moments have taken place in Port Meadow: an incredible, vast stretch of fields and water. Apparently the land hasn’t been ploughed for at least 4000 years. In summer the grass is peppered with people: dog walkers, old women reading books, teenagers trying to impress each other, families with picnics and children paddling in the shallows, couples wandering, huge gaggles of students with Sainsbury’s bags full of hastily bought food (and plenty of cans and bottles clinking around too). There’s something slightly untamed about it. Far enough away from the city to feel like you’ve escaped, but close enough to still hear the trains.

I’ve watched shooting stars there in high summer, huddled under a blanket with friends. I’ve stomped along the river’s edge in winter when things were bad, collecting myself back into something more solid as I walked. I’ve danced to ‘Wuthering Heights’ there. I’ve made it as far as the ruined nunnery twice, marveling at the buttercups. I’ve had heart-to-hearts there; laughed there; felt the warmth of good company there so many times.

In fact, despite a few visits just by myself, it’s mainly somewhere I associate with others. Nearly all of these moments are bright and glittery because of the people: a scattered bunch of brilliant individuals. The other evening I hung out with two of them, all of us trying to identify specific memories and specific nights there. They were hard to disentangle. One long round of swimming, cooking, eating, giggling, drinking wine, chatting, reading, lying on our backs with music playing and a huge silver moon above.


On the day my parents drove me to Oxford to begin my degree, leaving me nervously eyeing up everything I needed to unpack, they then took a trip to Port Meadow. Dad swam. Mum, unsurprisingly, stayed on the banks. While I was arranging images on my new pin-board, both terrified and thrilled by all the possible people I was about to meet, they were sitting in a spot I now know very well.

Up until recently, I’d completely forgotten that this had happened. Then a month or two back, I picked up a copy of Dip on sale in Blackwell’s. As I flicked through, my own name snagged me – from the ‘October’ chapter. There my dad detailed that strange day: dropping me off, driving away, going for a swim. I stood in the bookshop, transported back to my first, scary week of uni. I saw myself written about as someone else: younger, less assured, but eager for what lay ahead. I could make a distinction between her and me. It was a good one.

I loved dad's description of the swim best though – the sheer, giddy glee; the synchronicity of him choosing a spot that I would come to love so much; the fact that I’d entirely overlooked that connection, only finding it again as my own time at Oxford was dwindling. It felt right to rediscover at that point. Right to stand and relish it from another vantage point. Right to know I had a few months left to cram in as much swimming as I could while I was still here. So far, I’ve kept to that – though the rain hasn’t helped…

My dad took these pictures back in March when he visited me two days before my dissertation was due in. I was a frazzled ball of nerves and all-those-bloody-footnotes-left-to-do, but walking all the way to Port Meadow and back helped. At that point it was flooded: a lake sitting in the midst of the grass. I was wearing a dress I’d bought at a vintage market in Oxford the week before, and a coat given to me by a friend who no longer wanted it. Only a few months ago, and already a world away.  

Monday, 6 June 2016

Notes on Being Teenage book launch

I’m still finding it somewhat strange to think that my book comes out in a matter of days – June 9th, to be precise. All this time spent thinking and talking about it (let alone actually writing it!) and suddenly it’s going to be out in the world, doing its own thing: independent of me and my many, many hours spent hunched over a laptop. Of course, it already exists in various formats. Proofs have already winged their way outwards, and places like Hay and Birmingham’s Foyles have been giving customers a sneak preview.

This is a quick post, as much of my time right now is being spent bashing away at my keyboard (well, that and a few golden hours whiled away sunning and swimming and reading). Lots of brilliant things will be emerging in the near future, and I’ll be doing a big round up of all the various articles and other fabulous things I’m currently working on.

For now though, if you’re in Oxford this coming Saturday, please do join me for the launch of Notes on Being Teenage at Blackwell’s. It’s from 4pm to 6.30pm, and open to all. There’ll be drinks, nibbles and lots of celebrations. It would be wonderful to see a few lovely faces there.

Tuesday, 24 May 2016

Life Ahead

Oxford is green and gorgeous and full of flowers. The Botanical Gardens are ablaze with colour. Portmeadow looks bejewelled: bursting with buttercups. All those sandstone buildings caught by the evening light. The air is full of potential (and, admittedly, the odd downpour too). For me, it’s also newly full of freedom. On Friday I finished my exams: twelve hours’ worth of bending over a desk, scribbling and scribbling, completed. Hundreds of years of English literature studied. Degree done. Life waiting ahead.

I also turned 21 at the weekend: filling my time with conversation, coffee, cocktails, food, books, joyous company. The good stuff. The stuff to be grateful for. It left me so immensely thankful for this city and the people within it. I’ve found such riches here. It hasn’t always been an easy space to inhabit (my parents can confirm just how many times I’ve rung them in tears), but it has offered golden experiences.

People keep asking what it all feels like to be standing at this point, on the edge of these beginnings and endings, and I’ve repeated the same adjectives: exciting, thrilling, sweet. But they’re all perfectly apt. It’s exciting to have done so much, worked so hard, and suddenly to relish the completion; the release. It’s thrilling to look towards all the projects I can finally begin (and there are myriads). It’s sweet to spend an afternoon lying out in the sun with a book and no responsibilities, no expectations, no linger of guilt that I should be doing something else. Elating. Brilliant. Wonderful. Fucking fantastic.

I’m still tired too, and expect to be knocked sideways by the odd wave of exhaustion for a while to come. It’s been quite a year. Quite a three years. Ups and downs (and lots of unexpected left turns) aplenty. Just as it should be. Nothing bland about it, that’s for sure.

For the first time in my life I’m facing the prospect of taking all the things I’ve squeezed in around academic life – the writing, the modelling, the blogging, the other work – and giving them my full focus. My book also comes out on June 9th. It’s going to be taking me to some brilliant places this summer (more on all of this soon.) A loose idea I assembled and brought with me to university; a fully-fledged publication as I leave.

Putting together ‘Notes on Being Teenage’ taught me a lot, as did all the articles and interviews I worked on elsewhere. From being Junior Editor on Violet (see issue five for my interview with the smart, sharp Sarah Kernochan where we discussed storytelling and Hollywood sexism) to essays for places like Broadly, Refinery29 and The Coven, I’ve been given the room to think, research and do a hell of a lot of drafting and crafting.

In a few months, I also have a poetry collection launching. ‘Branch and Vein’ will be published by New River Press: an exciting new venture from two great poets, Greta Bellamacina and Robert Montgomery. Limited edition proofs are already available (see here for more info), with the full print run to come in September. There are poems in there about bodies, distances, family stories, landscapes, and an abandoned hotel. This still feels vaguely surreal and mindboggling. It happened relatively swiftly, and I’m astounded that I was asked to be one of the poets they’re launching with. Honoured too. I respect Greta and Robert immensely, and to play some part in their creative vision is a privilege indeed. There’s a gorgeous write-up of the poetry press on AnOther here.

I use the word ‘adventures’ a lot, but that is definitely what my time at university has offered. Adventuring in countless forms. Creative, personal, intellectual. I have a few months left to adventure and live in Oxford, before moving on elsewhere. But for now, I’m just revelling in it being today.

This shoot took place last summer with the lovely Laura Alice Hart. We ran around Oxford with wonderful stylist Holly Rebecca, while Tracey Cahoon did great things to my hair. It captured a very specific point in my life between the crux of second year and third year. Things were changing and shifting all around me. One of the images appeared on Untitled mag too.

Saturday, 7 May 2016

Dressing Like Prince (A Guest Post)

Whenever I think of my fabulous fairy-godmother Soma, I picture her clothes. Always immaculate, ever-so-glamorous, and perfectly her. She is queen of velvet, sequins and perfectly cut Ghost dresses. Over the years, she's added many riches (and a relish for champagne) to my life. There have been good outfits, great company, rigorous conversations, and the odd, joyous evening of martinis and dancing - not to mention some key moments of holding out a hand to my family when times felt dark. When news of Prince's death emerged, she was the first person I thought of. We mourned Bowie together earlier this year with a decadent night in Soho, and I knew that Prince was her other lodestar - another brilliant, convention-defying creator with an extraordinary wardrobe and energetic, honest lyrics. Given that I am deep in my final fortnight of university, with exams roaring towards me scarily quickly, it seemed fitting to give some space here for Soma's voice - alongside her visual homage to Prince, in full, purpled glory. She has deeply influenced my understanding and celebration of dressing up, and here, in turn, is someone who did that for her. I hope you enjoy her guest post.. 

Kinda, sorta my best friend: why I dress like Prince

When I was 9 or 10, playing truant and reading Shakespeare in the bushes, Prince burst onto television screens and into my heart with ‘When Doves Cry’.  The song was accompanied by a video of a creature, in silks, frills and eye-liner, vrooming out of suburbia on a purple motorbike, his lover riding pillion, heading for woods, water, sunlight.

In ‘When Doves Cry’, a voice combining man, woman and beast sings of lovers flying from a pattern of inherited family abuse.  The city - funk, clubbing, the motorbike - is fused with Nature.  The lovers become birds, the percussive phrasing beating like wings.  “Maybe you’re just like my mother/She’s never satisfied/Why do we scream at each other/This is what it sounds like/When the Doves Cry.”  The song grasps at a tentative, tortured freedom that comes not from destroying the past but from recognising one’s roots and absolving them. 

I knew the set-up only too well: the needy mother, the hot-tempered father and the desire for a bond with a friend against the hostile “world so cold”.  With a chorus that repeats like a Greek tragedy, a virtuoso guitar tethered to a funk beat, disco keyboards punctuated by Prince’s screaming dove, ‘When Doves Cry’ has a push-pull effect.  It had me half out of the bushes but also burrowing deeper into their smoke and rustle. 

Like most of Prince’s music, ‘When Doves Cry’ blurs funk, rock and cabaret.  His clothes did the same.  Silk, velvet, cut-away, crop and lace, accessorized with satin heels, he glowed like a girl while retaining the swagger of double-breasted jackets, heavy cuffs, trench coats.   In 2016, it was psychedelic Nehru jackets and 60s tunics.  He married edge with softness, sleaze with regality.  Now living in the Welsh Marches, I pursue impractical ruffles, embroidery and slink: a sartorial twinning of power and romance.

It’s an index of how we conform our bodies to market rules that Prince’s height is mentioned so often, as if greatness in a petite male frame does not add up.  Prince embraced his body (often literally).  Performing ‘American Woman’ alongside statuesque Lenny Kravitz, Prince, swiveling in a skintight, blue catsuit, is electrifying.  It’s like watching an eel outswim a whale.  Prince plays with physical limits.  He’s the only commercially successful male pop artist with a female alter ego, Camille.  On ‘Sign O’ The Times,’ his ‘dance twin’, Cat, poses as Prince in a mini skirt – a visual merging of male and female.   He made her carry a heavy mirror to recreate his muscular arms. 

Prince found freedom – the freedom to relate, to forgive, to become one – by escaping name, form, gender.  He preferred to collaborate with women.  3rdeyegirl, his last band, sport tassels, braids and big guitars.  In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine in 2014, Prince said, “We’re in the feminine aspect now… men have gone as far as they can, right?”

Some people will tell you that Prince is ‘rude’.  Prince addresses this himself irresistibly in ‘Controversy’.  Prince is not simply ‘about’ sex; he is about emotional honesty.  “Some people call me rude/I wish we all were nude/I wish there was no black and white/I wish there were no rules.”  In the longer version, he then chants the Lord’s Prayer while you sweat on the dance-floor.  ‘Controversy’ was the first Prince vinyl I loaned to Rosalind.  She was leaving our shared green hills for Oxford.  I was just recovering from being disabled by pregnancy and starting to go clubbing again.  It’s the best funk anthem to individuality, within a framework of loving others.  

Prince made it okay to be me.  I met my idol and shared a stage with him - but that’s another story (you can read it here).  For the rest of my life, and his – when I sang ‘Adore’ for him in a local church on a pagan site after his death – I dressed like him.  His style, like his music, is elaborate, vulnerable and bold.  In, ‘When you were mine,’ Prince tells an ex-girlfriend he can’t quit, ‘You were kinda, sorta my best friend … I used to let you wear all my clothes.’  Prince, I’m always going to wear you.

It was a pleasure and privilege to have Soma write this for me, as it is to know her generally. And I'll be back, soonish! The sweetness of freedom is tantalisingly close. In the meantime, I hope you're all doing some damn fabulous dressing up too. If you want to keep up with what I'm up to (ahem, doing to procrastinate), I'm on Instagram more regularly at the moment. 

Wednesday, 13 April 2016

A Little St Michael Magic

Today’s the day. The launch of Archive by Alexa: the M&S archives opened up for Alexa Chung to plunder and renew. I must admit, when I first heard the news, I experienced a strange mix of thrill and frustration. Why? St Michael (aka vintage M&S, the name spanning from 1928 to 2000) has always felt slightly like my thing. A fusty, durable, quietly brilliant clothing line I’ve been collecting for years: nestling alongside Jaeger and Laura Ashley to form a very British vintage trio. Not a secret, exactly. Plenty of people will give a wise, knowing nod on mention of St Michael: the kind of nod that indicates they get it, and there's probably a similar inner squeak when sighting that distinctive black, white and red label when trawling charity shops or vintage markets.

I’ve been collecting it since I was 14: velvet blazers (in black and plum), a black and white kilt I wear every winter, the odd hat, big jumpers (I have the same one in four different shades: navy, raspberry, mustard, and white), several brightly patterned mini-dresses, culottes (again, in four different colour-ways: green, cream, terracotta, and floral), trousers, a pretty shirt or two... An endless array has wormed its way into my wardrobe. Some has left again: being too small, or just not quite right anymore. Other things are being added all the time.

I love it all the more because the designs veer between the very gorgeous, and the intensely, excruciatingly of their time (there’s a hell of a lot of synthetic eighties-does-fifties tea dresses knocking around). Some things I pick up with glee and carry home. Plenty of others I’ll happily leave to subside into their piecrust collared dodgy glory. But it’s always exciting to spot – to know that my second hand instincts are fine-tuned enough to sniff out St Michael at twenty paces. 

So given all this, I’m ambivalent over Archive by Alexa. I love, love, love M&S’s design history – and my head tells me “the more the merrier” when it comes to celebrating all those gorgeous shapes and patterns. There are some incredibly delectable looking garments on offer, which will be worn and enjoyed by many. Also, I can’t imagine how much fun it was to explore such rich pickings and have the privilege to update some of them (if I’m honest, maybe I’m just a tad envious).

Yet there’s still a little tug to my heart: the petulant, toddler-like desire to go, “no. I found it first. I don’t wanna share.” It’s the style equivalent of being impelled to mention that you knew a band before they got big. Silly and frivolous, yes, but oh so very human.

Still, perhaps I can subside into the smug pleasure of having my own small archive. It’s limited, but perfectly formed. I wear those big jumpers all the time, because they’re the comfiest things I own. My seventies striped mini is brought out every summer. The velvet blazers go with everything from ball-gowns to black trousers. That lime green and blue striped bikini spent a lot of last summer being worn to swim in the river. And just a few weeks ago, I located my latest addition: a shin-length, long-sleeved, high collared white dress with blue polka dots. I bought it from a vintage market for £3. And you know what? I’m wearing it right now.

Pictured above are a handful of images drawn from the last six years of blog archives, all featuring some St Michael magic of one variety or another. From top to bottom: St Michael plum velvet blazer, St Michael cream culottes on two different shoots, St Michael embellished black hat, St Michael striped two-piece, St Michael black velvet blazer, St Michael geometric print mini-dress worn first by me (with straightened hair) and then by a friend - Emma, for photos I took of her many years back. 

The blog has been rather quiet of late, and possibly will continue to be for the next month or so. I have my final year exams coming up, so have had my head down revising medieval dream visions and the like. More regular style witterings will be resumed soon. In the meantime though, go and have a read of this piece I wrote for ThandieKay on the women who inspire me most