Cara, Cara, Cara. She’s DEFINITELY the model of the moment. 90% (rough approximation) of my Twitter feed has posted her looks from the Fashion Weeks and every magazine I’ve picked up this month features her, or has her on the cover. There’s no doubting she’s the model du jour and quirky/amazing/cool/ (insert any number of other positive forward slashes here.) For me, the equally ubiquitous model, yet less well publicised, is Juliana Schurig. She’s fronting campaigns for Topshop, Zara TRF, Sandro, Moschino among others and is inescapably striking. In what feels like a description from a Tyra make-over moment, her change to platinum blonde seems to have propelled her into the upper echelons of the modelling world. She is faultless in all her recent campaigns and editorials and I particularly love her appearance in the Marant-esque Zara look book for February. Be in awe and wonder, “Cara who?”

I have a sudden love for all things Nike. I can lay the blame solely at one blogger’s feet, those of Claudia Helen. Please peruse Helen Glory and be in awe.

(Original image courtesy of Helen Glory)

My daily clothing need can unfortunately be very formulaic and mundane. For work, my inevitable go to piece is the COS shift dress. For play, it’s a Topshop Leigh super soft skinny jean, accompanied by something jersey on the top. However, as soon as I walk through the door, I feel the need to put on what’s affectionately come to be known as “my uniform.” I’d love to lie and say it takes the form of matching cashmere loungewear. The truth however, is it’s something far more disparate and tattered. As a grown adult and parent, I’ve been forced to time ration this need for comfort; a little like the drinking of wine, it’s now only acceptable after 5.30 p.m. (weekend restrictions do not apply.)

The only timed I consciously curbed this inclination to be comfortable around the house, was while I was pregnant and the few months after I gave birth. Style wise, this is a very tough time for women. You fear any slovenly behaviour will be judged and perceived as a sign of weak parenting or an inability to cope. You’re desperate to feel you haven’t lost “it,” whatever “it” actually is. The irony is, this is the time in your life when you deserve to feel the most comfortable, as your body can be utterly torturous and unforgiving. I remember buying a beautiful Topshop maternity dress with awesome asymmetric elastic straps. I proceeded to squeeze my new form into it, one strap above the bump and the other below. I went to work feeling mightily cool and stylish, the desired effect, only to discover I had worn the dress back to front as I removed my bump from the elastic harness that night.

So today, I felt enraged on seeing the Daily Mail’s unique perspective on fashion in pregnancy. The only time I usually click through to the DM’s website is to read Lorraine Candy’s column, as I respect her journalistic integrity. But this morning a small Twitter furore led me to look. The beautiful and always stylish Edith Bowman was on the receiving end of the DM’s sharp-tongued debased “journalism;” they described her outfit as “made for radio,” amongst other unnecessary jibes. I refuse to link to the article and drive ever more traffic to their ridiculous website that’s frankly on a par with the content of Take A Break magazine. Edith is pregnant and pregnancy dressing, as I’ve just discussed, is filled with emotion; you want to be proud of your pregnancy, comfortable and cool. I feel that Edith fulfilled all of those criteria in her outfit choice and for her to wake up today to such a pointless article with unnecessary, unfounded criticism, must have been tough. The fact that the article was written under the anonymous, generic guise of a “Daily Mail Reporter,” makes it doubly infuriating.

DM, I implore you, improve the quality of your work. No person, be they pregnant or otherwise, attends a formal public function without putting a significant amount of effort into their attire. If I were in any way “famous,” I dread to think what you’d make of my uniform.

*Disclaimer – This article was written in pyjamas*

Nostalgia is a very strange beast. Its intoxicating smell draws you in and awakens memories you’d forgotten existed. Some definitions cite its meaning as a “yearning for something lost.” My own experience is of a warmth of happiness, as my mind is taken back to a time I thought I’d lost.

Reality Bites engulfs me in nostalgia every time I watch it. For me, it represents my latter teenage years. Fully ensconced in the dorkdom of my youth, Reality Bites allowed me to indulge the image of the uber cool young adult I hoped to become. The characters were not aspirational in the sense of being deemed financially successful. They were all however effortlessly cool; the disillusioned youth of the Nirvana grunge generation. I was in love. I wanted to be Winona Ryder. I wanted to have her floppy, undone hair and suddenly felt the need to try better all the hopeless, disaffected bums I encountered at university. If you were a teen in the 90’s and haven’t seen this film, shame on you. I implore you to watch it. You’ll be humming My Sharona within minutes of it ending.

For Chrimbombobulo, the husband bought me a Bella Freud candle. One of these iconic, “Ginsberg is God” ones. I’ll be honest, I was completely in awe of its aesthetic beauty and requested it for how it could aid in styling our home. Again, being honest, I had no idea what scent this thing of beauty would emit. I was intrigued on opening it to see its chosen fragrance was fig leaf and tomato. Within seconds of opening the box, let alone lighting it, I was transported back to my grandfather’s green house. My father’s father could be quite an emotionally detached man but he came alive in the refuge of his greenhouse. He loved to show me how to care for the plants and take cuttings but my favourite time was the end of summer and the picking of the tomatoes. I’d spend hours lovingly removing all the different varieties of tomato from their stalks, while my grandfather told me stories from his youth. I’m now transported there every time I light this beautiful candle – merci Bella Freud.

Please excuse the at times, saccharinely sweet tone of my post, this is the effect nostalgia has. I hope some witty cynicism will return to my writing soon.