Packing for an all-season European trip is tricky. Preparing to sustain reasonable fashion credibility however, appeared to be a bigger challenge. Dressing out of a backpack in Malaysia was easy – pretty, girly, summery things pack down neatly in a teeny bundle, allowing sufficient space for various-coloured sandals, strappy heels & an unused pair of sneakers.
My plans of treading the pavements of London as a sexy foreigner, were recently lost in vein. Not only did I lack variety, but the temperature just wouldn’t allow for any coordination what-so-ever. Donning the streets in as many layers as possible did not do me any favours. Seriously – its fucking cold here.
Jealous of the ladies in their vintage gear and familiarity of climate, i took occassioanl refuge in playing my favourite game – "give-that-dork-a-makeover". For those of you unfamiliar, this game involves sitting down with a latte (2 sugars) and mentally re-dressing women as they walk past. It is a terrible activity, I know -and the irony isn’t lost: believe me. I hope to mature enough one day so that such adolescent behaviour is beneath me, but for now its keeps me happy, so im sticking with it!
The challenge of the game is to address a woman’s current style with swift delicacy, so as to ‘makeover’ the next victim walking by ASAP. Often, the hardest part is finding contestants. Having spent a good deal of my time in east London however, all was not lost. This funky spot is home to random bars, vintage boutiques, and women that sound like Ali-G. Needless to say, some of my best work to date was done in these parts.
Most commonly, all-event attire on these gals include beaded tracksuits, sneakers or boots and some creative bling. Awesome.
The biggest atrraction for me was skinny black jeans. Given the right ensemble, this harmless garment is a no-fuss basic. In the wrong hands, however …deadly. Many an hour was spent un-bogan-ing unknowing pedestrians, in the comfort of my flared denims, and veiled hypocracy.
Until the rains came. Bloody rain! Unknowingly, my own jeans were too long and it took no time for the elongated fabric to absorb the puddles beneath and add to the already-freezing conditions. Damn! Game over. What I had failed to appreciate up until now, was the practicality of the skinny-jeans. This body-hugging couture keeps the cold out, and at ankle length, remains steadily away from the ground. How did I get it so wrong?
A few days of wearing leggings, and whining from the pain of it all, I went shopping with a mate for warmer attire. The result? Bloody skinny black jeans. Harbouring my Croat arrogance, I refused to let the obvious twist in fate defeat me, and have since continued on my merry way. Having tricked my internal-critique thus far, I remained content in my purchase, so long as i avoided any mirrors, photos or meeting of familiar faces…until bogan-jean karma slapped me in the face! Or ass rather.
Unlike the women I crudely redressed – who most likely chose their jeans with care – I bought the cheapest pair available. A week later, I spent a painful half hour scrubbing black dye from my waist down - stained from the inferior dye.
On reflection, I should have remorse for my bitchy antics. Apart from the obvious:
1: such immaturity wont bring me any closer to enlightenment;
2: the ass-scrubbing probably wasn’t worth the momentary pleaure of my London give-that-dork-a-makeover sessions; &
3: the universe doesn’t like 'nasty'.
Did I learn my lesson? Sure did:
the universe won’t allow me to be a bogan – it really is as simple as that ☺
