Behind every Women of Substance there is a wide-eyed girl, pivoting shyly on the heels of her muddy sneakers, cumbersomely picking at Sophie’s World curiosities in her mind while entertaining a rudimentary to-do list that will eventually keep her occupied for, what, the next few decades. I know this, because my mother is perhaps the strongest woman I know, and my absurd certainty on feminism (+ surprising indifference to the general cause*) and wild pragmatism, is to attest to years of nipping at her feet.

It doesn’t even cross me to think that a man could do what I do better. Or worse, for that matter.

When the Sainsbury’s Tu x Graduate Fashion Week samples arrived at the office for consideration there was no question that the collection was the uniform of girl with messy hair, that rolls her eyes at Dorito-coloured fart balloons and sighs at the ‘state of the world’, who eventually grows up to lead – a nation or a household full of mongrels in a foreign land. Whichever she damn wishes.

*I’ll come back to this later. **
** Will I, though? I haven’t yet had a chance to voice this out in a manner that justifies my existence as a female adult, supposedly strong and also representative of some social niche given the boxes I tick (Interracial marriage, immigrant, born of world’s top five patriarchal nations, blogger-cum-not…etc) But if my upbringing taught anything about actions and words, I won’t be wearing no wordy Dior t-shirts anytime soon until my actions prove it so. What I will eventually want to address though, is feminism based on merit over preferential treatment. So, back to *.

Mallorca is trying to shed its stag-do/first-teenage-expedition reputation and Park Hyatt Mallorca resort (their first in Europe) might just be the place to finally put the idea to bed. Just two months ago the first bed was fitted, the first Mallorquín-sourced stone walls to receive an inauguration from the summer sun, and the first fistful of Bottega Veneta bath products distributed across the 142 rooms and 16 suites. On arrival, we are momentarily confused as the car pulls up to what looks like another village on the island – complete with an amorous, leafy plaza, a cluster of restaurants and a handsome tapas bar – until our bags disappear up a hill on a golf cart driven by a tanned porter in white uniform.

We are received in a setting quite like a members’ club lounge (a signature Hyatt welcome), lined with ebony bookcases stocked with the works of Morello and Cernuda – not yet quite dusty. Our rooms, as airy as the breeze outside: a symphony of calming hues and modern fixtures. ‘Hola Shini Park’, read the service iPad, and our thumbprints break the room’s cherry. Moments after I unpack and splash some water on my face, the terrace lures me to a front-row seat to a sunset that blazes the pink walls in orange ember*. Practically a balm after what had possibly been the most ludicrous airport jaunts of my life (you may have witnessed me and Simon progressively turn nuts in the
span of 12h wait before the next available flight). Tomorrow,
a chorizo-scrambled eggs breakfast and an afternoon
by the heated pools await…

*Only if we could toss Gatwick Express and the lot
into that fire.