It Ads Up

A colleague lent me a 1988 edition of Vogue over the weekend and as I reclined at home with a cup of tea and Cindy Crawford’s youthful beauty emanating from the front cover, it occurred to me just how much has changed in the past twenty three years. There was even a 20p off coffee voucher somewhere in the middle, inserted within the restaurants section.

Okay so the wide-shouldered, angular silhouettes may cast little difference between an ‘80s edition and a current one, however rather than wading through the ads to find the content it was the other way around. With just a few advertorials on skin products, Horlicks and Debenhams, equally interspersed with articles on everything from health, fitness and beauty to travel, fashion and horoscopes; the real age of advertising seemed a long way off from Condé Nast’s flat-planning. With ads being thin on the proverbial ground it was a real joy to cut straight through and read the thoughtful and academic editorial: commentary on relevant designers such as Eileen Gray and Joe Tilson, notes from playwright David Mamet and debates of current political relevance (which at the time centred on the new education bill). Unlike the contemporary version which is stuffed to the gills with predominantly fashion and beauty and ads. Even the cover should tip us off as to the economically sleek content within, particularly when compared with its 2011 peer…


The Eighties marked the era of Margaret Thatcher, higher taxes and budget cuts. Vogue featured a spread on Thatcher entitled ‘Political Dressing’ and raised the point that advertising plays a significant role in the success of any political candidate, particularly a first lady: ‘Politicians and their dress have become a matter of considerable interest. All now wedded to the television camera and the advertising campaign, they must be sure that the way they look stands up to the scrutiny of a public that is skilled in the reading of images.’ So fashion is an ad campaign? But what are we endorsing, ourselves or the craftsmanship of designer and high-street seamstresses? How we look can dictate a number of things: whether we succeed or fail; whether we carry ourselves with poise and confidence; and whether we buy Vogue or not.

It’s all in the advertising really. How we look is a projection of how we would like others to see us. So while Thatcher would don modest mid-calf skirts, neck-high blouses and tailored jackets hoping to instil confidence and respect in her voters, Yves Saint Laurent would don peonies and a glam-looking Milla Jovovitch to instil consumers with an aspirational need to use its perfume. Good looking people, well-photographed products and catchy phrases all concocted to sell. But while Vogue circa 1988 did it subtly, Vogue circa now shoves it up our noses, in our faces and down our necks at every page-turning opportunity it gets.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I class myself a ‘Vogue Woman’ along with the rest of the trend-following lemmings alighting at Oxford Circus station every morning, however, having this ’88 point of reference really opened my eyes to how society views us. Yes 21st Century Vogue covers all the same reference points, culture, politics, fashion etc; but the sheer extent of advertising in modern-day magazines points to the fact that more than ever we are driven by money and materialism.

So here’s a thought for your Wednesday afternoon – particularly those of you who (like me) work on Oxford Street (or in one of the other fashion-heavy districts of London) – when you trawl the stores on your lunch-hour are you buying things because you really want them, or are you just buying into the glittery trap of all-consumering advertising?

A Fashion Night Out

Suave, sexy waiters bearing glassy black trays,
Of tubes of Prosecco and assorted canapés.

Furs and velvets, chiffons and silks, all crying out to be touched,
The spectrum of jewel tones in emerald, amethyst and ruby are this season’s fashionable must.

Complimented by soft greys and blacks, something shimmering catches my eye,
The black sequinned sleeve of a body-tight dress winks from the rail on my right.

Wellington boots with embellishments looking like equestrian overlays,
Ranging from leopard-print to sequins, makes light of rain-sodden days.

Perched on a black marble shelf I spy footwear that makes me exhale,
Shoe-boots emblazoned with buckles and studs call me over to check their details.

Too heavy to hold, let alone wear, I replace them and move onto the next,
Lace overlaid pumps in yellow and mauve, I consider bouncing a cheque.

Beautiful bags in leather and suede, buttery soft to the feel,
In browns and deep purples, camel and grey, I sense myself starting to reel.

The InStyle editor beckons us close to pay tribute to this incredible brand,
An assistant comes over and gives me history-in-brief of the polka dot shirt in my hand.

The shop-floor seems endless and I circulate further, roaming from one end to the other,
I step into the men’s side, forgetting myself, yet greeted by a hot Dolce lover.

But the one piece that repeatedly beckons me forth is protected by clear solid glass,
The most exquisite necklace I’ve ever seen, outstanding in look and in class.

Evocative of Tom Binns’ charm-laden creations, its amethyst stones twinkle bright,
Set in a chunky pearl and gold chain I imagine with which outfit it would look right.

A pear-shaped stone at the end of the chain, perfectly accenting the clasp,
My eye is suddenly drawn to a ruby version and unthinkingly I let out a gasp.

I stand and reflect if my desire is warranted to free these most beautiful things,
From their glass-cased enclosure of visual display, it’s a crime to keep them within.

Reluctantly though, I turn on my heel, taking one final look back,
At this wondrous trove of treasures and more, and assistants in top-to-toe black.

A black and gold bag is placed in my hands as I depart this most stylish soiree,
Filled with cosmetics and a magazine, unbeknownst to those glaring my way.

Sporting a bag bearing one of the most iconic of all fashion names,
I float home on a dream cloud of fabric and colour, now sure of my long-term aim!

It's a Fashion House of Cards...

Omg!! Word is that US brand American Apparel may be at risk of bankruptcy, signalling the end for my ultimate supplier of leggings, bodysuits and casual chic!!

One of my favourite exports from the US of A, American Apparel first landed in the UK back in 2006, to much rejoicing from Britain's fashion cognoscenti who no longer needed to rely on Bundle Box and friends' and relatives' trips to the states for the brand's fabulous cotton basics.

My beacon for 1980s inspired fashions; walking into their Carnaby Street store is like stepping back in time as mini shorts, fanny packs and legwarmers adorn the rails and models on display. On a trip to New York this January the weather was so cold I was forced to go out and hunt down extra layers - it was my good fortune to find the closest store to my hostel was an American Apparel. Kitting myself out in their wares, I survived the brutal chill. For that reason alone they should be saved!!! They saved me from frostbite and hypothermia!!!

With ad campaigns sometimes veering too near the line of indecency, American Apparel made their name touting their easy-wearing jersey pieces, multi-coloured leggings and diverse dancewear creations reminiscent of Fame and Flashdance. And although 1980s chic is still somewhat on-trend in the current stylistic climate, it appears consumers are less enthralled with the brand than what they once were. With sales depleted by 16% and $120m of debt, American Apparel could be not much longer for our highstreets.

I am officially in mourning, and am planning an emergency trip to stock up on as much AA apparel as I can possibly afford...!!

What style means to me…

When I grow up I want to be… stylish? Most young girls’ aspirations revolve around popularity, potential superstardom and fairytale endings with their prince charming. Mine were a tad more tangible. I wanted to be a writer, so I made myself a writer. I wanted to have curly hair, so I teased, tamed and tormented my waves into pre-Raphaelite glory. I wanted a style all my own…

…so this is me. Today. Lamé purple leggings. A pink tutu. A cropped tee over a black body. A satin pink bow decorating auburn curls. And my prized pair of purple DMs.

Another idealistic ‘80s fanatic you might think. But my style is about more than what I wear.

Style pieces itself together gradually, garnering elements from one ensemble or another, fads, fashions and phases. And though it may not be discernable as one stumbles through puberty and teen angst, a style all your own is being woven into the fabric of your being.

I have been channelling Eighties chic for years, through a vestige of big hair, leggings, and brightly coloured ensembles constructed in a bid to emulate my ‘80s icons. Born in 1985, my style inspiration derives from the quirky individuality of Molly Ringwald, Madonna and Mary Stuart Masterson.

As children, my brother and I would play dress-up, raiding the “fancy dress” hamper stored in the bottom of my mother’s closet. The floral leggings and oversized sweatshirts we donned were remnants of a fashion age that would shape the woman I grew up to be. I must have intrinsically known that I was a born devotee to the era of excess, as many items found their way into my wardrobe and stayed there, resisting the many desperate ‘clear-out’ attempts by my mother.

I spent my early teen years trawling through markets for vintage finds and reworking garments to achieve my longed-for ‘80s look. So much so that one Christmas evening, I abandoned the traditional movie and mellowing to create my own adaptation of a Katherine Hamnett slogan tee.

The ‘80s was defined by a generation of young men and women attempting to discover who they were and express their individuality. More than that, though, the big, bold ‘80s silhouette was a nod to tough times gone by and a means of armour with which to face the world. Having always been naturally drawn to excessorising myself with ‘80s trends, I grew to understand that my clothes served to simultaneously convey who I was while shielding me from the painful and difficult events in my life.

From my parents’ divorce in the early nineties and my father’s subsequent exodus to New Zealand, to the passing of my beloved Grandfather last year, I have modelled my wardrobe around my feelings. I surround myself with clothes and accessories that evoke a time I recall mainly via family photos and home videos, but one that fills me with happiness.

From a young age I developed a self-reliance and control that enabled me to deal with the loss, the hurt and the utter chaos that other people create. I realised I was the only person I could rely on. I wanted to be sure of who I was and what I was going to do with my life. My fashion sense and personal style derived from wanting to look different from everyone else. I wanted a style of my own. I didn’t want my fashion choices to be dictated by the fluctuating and fickle trends barometer.

Coco Chanel once said, “Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.” Fashions evolve as we do, and so too our style punctuates each stage of our journey through life. Once we recognise this fact, we stop surrendering to passing trends and learn about who we are.

It is easy to mistake style as only belonging to the striking glamazons who stalk the runways at fashion shows and the girls we know, who seem to have everything. They appear to conjure this flair as though out of thin air, while we trip over countless fashion faux pas in an effort to achieve it.

At times, growing up, I felt I lacked this quintessential element of sophistication that was their key to success. I observed my peers’ effortless style, presumably thanks to wealthy parents, and I yearned for the insider knowledge that would instil me with that same “je ne sais quoi”.

Living vicariously through the fashions exhibited on cult shows including Sex and the City and Gossip Girl you can lose sight of your own style and look to adopt something else. I considered imitating the polished elegance of a Charlotte York or a Blair Waldorf, but ultimately I knew that wasn’t really me.

The high street continues to celebrate the 1980s revival and I have plundered my bank account to indulge my obsession, forgoing reason in a mad panic to buy before the retailers refresh their stock with the next fashion phase.

Yves Saint Laurent said: “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” My style equates to my history, the richness of it embedded in every memory, every event I have experienced and every moment yet to come. It is what makes me who I am. And to me, that is what style is supposed to be: a window through which the outside world can look in and see ‘the real me’.

What's in a name

Carrie Bradshaw (nee Preston) is my screen-soulmate...



"You are a real girl about town. You love the city you live in and are always hanging out at the coolest joints. Most importantly you love your clothes – you dare to be different and are always sporting the latest trends before any of your friends. Although finding the right man is important, your friends always take first priority."
[Heart radio quiz result]

The number of SATC quizzes I take to discover my SATC soulmate and the answer is always Carrie!! My friends may think I rigged it because I covet Carrie's wardrobe, lifestyle and washboard stomach but honestly there are inescapable similarities...

We share the following: naturally curly hair; a career in writing (and journalism), a creativity which leads naturally on to how we express ourselves in life and in fashion; we dare to be different - I choose my clothes on the basis that I think they're gorgeous and fundamentally I want them to demonstrate my individuality to the world and the way I feel on any one day; our lifestyles - although I haven't yet acquired the 'walk-in-closet' I too live beyond my means believing truly that fashion does feed me more than food; like Carrie I too have my select group of very close friends with whom I share a sisterly bond (one of whom is distinctly like Miranda...) and I have found and married my very own Mr Big (though without the emotionally fraught preamble!!).

A final point:
Since her marriage to John James Preston, Carrie maintains her individuality and her name (Carrie Bradshaw). I have been faced with the dilemma of what to do about changing my name in the light of my recent marriage and have reached a compromise; in order to satisfy my husband's desire for me to take his name I have done this in an official capacity (passport, driving licence etc) however, as a writer I am able to retain my maiden name in all my by-lines and future works. In this way, I have achieved a happy balance between my married self and myself!!