Shirt – COS mens. Skirt – Topshop. Boots – Russell & Bromley ‘Outlander’. Sunnies – Blyszak

Puffer coat – WAVEN. Turtleneck – Uniqlo. Boots – Russell & Bromley.

I’ve always lived close to children. Well, doesn’t this sound wrong, let me start this sentence again.

London is littered with schools everywhere, and one cannot avoid living away from a school unless one owns a farm or lives inside a Sainsbury’s car park. In all of my seven apartments in the past ten years, our windows would immediately face onto nursery school playgrounds (which at any given time resemble a Ryanair plane-full of devil babies), ‘meet-me-by-the-bike-sheds’ bike sheds, and music rooms inhabited – every Mondays and Wednesdays – by not-very-musically-gifted sixth form kids. The noise was unbearable at first, but funnily after a while it became white noise that I needed in order to get about my day.

Now, hearing kids spilling out of the 336 bus, rumbling on about homework and Snapchat at 8:05AM is my cue for that first cup of coffee, and the school chime (in England there are no bells to be saved by apparently) is my green light for a cheeky mid-afternoon snack. This borrowed Back to School routine has never been more reassuring post-fashion month (DECADE, I swear). Here’s a digital spritz of L’Eau de Box of Crayons and some primary colours by way of Russell & Bromley Autumn picks to lure them kids into throwing a Haribo or two into our office windows.

Top & Bottom – Rejina Pyo. Phone case – OtterBox. Necklace – Louis Vuitton.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away – far enough from a Starbucks (one equipped with a toilet) that warrants this rant a fairy-tale/hipster beginning – lived a girl whose name was Butter Fingers. She had the face of any ordinary girl, but possessed an extremely rare useless magical power, one that allowed her to drop everything – little or high in value – to the floor. Her fairy godmother had concluded that Darling, earth’s gravity must be a little stronger around you and had slid a card to a botox clinic before *poof*-ing off. The people in the village however, had banished her with pitchforks and selfie-sticks, to a leafy-yet-ironically-well-connected borough, after an incident at Oxford Circus station that sealed the fate, and name, of Butter Fingers.

It had been the height of rush hour, exactly five hours past the hour of noon at which the sun is at its highest – villagers retiring from a day’s work poured into the under-passage of Oxford Circus Station, all four entrances choked up to the brim. Butter Fingers had been on an excursion, one of her busier days – ending with an appointment making BLARRHGHER cupcakes and that of similar unimportance. She had shuffled along into the station with the throng, sharing in agitation with the day’s exhaustion, and joined the bottle-neck queue up to the ticket barriers. Just as she reached the double-gates and pulled out her magical oyster that grants entry, out spilled the entire contents of her bag. Keys, phones, wooden ladles, anti-bacterial gels… even the DIY cupcakes tumbled onto roadkill. Domestic/foreign coins rolled towards the escalators, and she’d lost in the Schrodinger’s cat query: Is the phone screen cracked, or intact? The station ground to a halt, and then, an uproar.

It was since that day, the villagers dubbed her Butter Fingers. Or Lube Collective, for those who remember the incident. Marinating in self-shame, she’d since thrown out all flap-less bags and stocked up on OtterBox Drop+ Protection cases, and lured a man to carry all peripherals, who she eventually married. She resorted to a life online, dedicated the rest of her life to a blog (the laptop nailed down to the desk), and lived happily ever after.

FIN.

Top – Rejina Pyo Trousers – COS.

creative direction SHINI PARK editorial assistance SIMON SCHMIDT in collaboration with OTTERBOX

Blazer – Each x Other. Blouse – Raquel Allegra. Bag – Baraboux

Dress, bag & Shoes – Louis Vuitton. Trousers – Zara. Sunnies – Dior.

I feel like a big part of the process of becoming an adult, is the ability to brutally edit down some very broad choices in life to an easily digestible-yet-not-so-round number of three. How many little pigs? Three. Musketeers? Three (not sure if those particular ones are life choices…). How many people in a priest, a minister and a rabbi joke? My point is, three is a catchy number, and that’s the number of takeaways I can find in my past 7-days Deliveroo log, and number of words in one of my favourite phrases: Just get naked. (Or I’m lovin’ it)

I’ve spent most of my 20’s leasing space in the beauty pouch to what would now be collectively a sizeable lipstick assortment, which, if laid side-by-side and compared, would simply divide into three categories: the everyday, classic red, and the pizazz. As shown above. The dark purple gothy glittery number doesn’t even make it into the bag.

So this is a story we shot during PFW, celebrating Bobbi Brown’s new Luxe Lip collection as one of the digital ambassadors, and also an semi-official dubbing of the three colour categories that I’ve nailed down and can now move onto my next ‘three favourites’, in the grand path of becoming an adult.

In collaboration with Bobbi Brown & Shopstyle.

Trousers – Zara. Bag – Gucci. Watch – Larsson & Jennings. Trainers – Isabel Marant.

I did receive a fair bit of warning before heading to the Maldives: that the islands will take my heart and drown it deep, deep down the Indian Ocean; that I will experience a kind of feeling not so dissimilar to love, or absolute bewilderment. Like the first time I tried Chipotle? I asked, and they all said EVEN BETTER. So I packed high hopes, along with six bikinis, because another someone said most of my time will be spent chasing Pixar characters under water. I assumed they meant Nemo but packed more racy numbers just in case they actually meant Mr Incredible.

Conrad Maldives is 30-minute seaplane flight from capital Malé down into the bluest bit of the globe – by atlas standards a practically invisible clutter of tiny islands located south of Sri Lanka, with a probability of accidental discovery from zero to drunk-and-randomly-clicking-around-Google-Earth-satellite-view. As the seaplane expertly skimmed down onto the glassy sea, I couldn’t help but feel like a bond girl, seeking refuge on a glamorous island with the aid of an international spy – nevermind the ill-digested plane food and a muffin top.

I had never seen such unadulterated scenery, such literal exhibition of colours, and immediately took up on bumping up adjectives to superlatives: bluest sea/whitest sand/bestest trip EVER…and so on. Indeed just like my first time at Chipotle. And just as I ran out of words starting with ‘A’ to describe the view over a coconutty welcome drink, a smiley Maldivian in white beckoned towards our water villas. Modern and minimalist in style, constructed of de-saturated sea wood, and pulled together by the occasional splash of blue furnishing, mine was one of 71 water villas on the island. Although, the whereabouts of the other 61 was a mystery I never managed to solve.

I felt right at home, if home was a house above crystal clear water and a glass globe horizon for a view. This feeling of privacy was something I’d never known I cherished in hotels/resorts, I suppose more so that I was to spend the next few days alone, wrestling with a tripod and remote for photos.

As the sea lapped at the beams of the villa and the outdoor Jacuzzi gurgled every so often to compete, I was already unbuttoning my heart to give to the sea at the Conrad Maldives. And I’d soon learn that no amount of snorkelling or diving I’d be able to retrieve it.

Stick around for part 2, and once again a happy 10th birthday to Ithaa, Conrad Maldives’ undersea restaurant – more on this later.

Park & Cube was a guest of Conrad Maldives, all views and opinions are my own.

Swimsuit – Victoria’s Secret

Hunter Regent Street 83 – 85 Regent Street, W1B 4EW

Rubberized trench-coat by Hunter. Sweater – COS (similar). Trousers – Zara (similar).

Wearing: Rubberized trench-coat by Hunter. Sweater – COS (similar). Trousers – Zara (similar). Sneakers – Isabel Marant ‘Bart’

One of the few things that London teaches a newcomer is the staggering power of WEATHER as a conversation topic – no matter how awkward your new uni friends are, or how deep an armpit you’ve already found yourself lodged in on the Tube, mention the magical words of ‘It’s horribly grim out there’ and watch friendship blossom. Even with armpit dude. London is notorious for being the butt of all international weather jokes (snow – don’t get me started on that one), famous for raining on parades, and for a long time I assumed the slanted strokes of the Union Jack flag symbolized the typical angle the rain pours in this city. You know, like how the Uruguayan flag carries a smiley-face sun (it makes ALL the sense). And no umbrella is built for sideways rain – not even the ugly, functional ones – so you get wet in all the wrong places… then make friends with strangers. The truth is, the weather on this island is exactly where the cheeky, self-deprecating British humour stems from, the very reason why the new Hunter flagship on Regent Street resembles a barn, and why a flash mob alighted a number 88 bus and ritualized the opening wearing neon-trimmed ski-hats and rubberised trench coats, serving backflips to Singin’ in the Rain remixes. I mean, the store elevator is lined with grass! Rainwear is given a Hunter ‘do, championed by the steely-eyed new Creative Director Allaisdhair Willis, designed to be worn not just to take cover from the elements, but to anticipate with a tune whistled. If you’re into shaking fists to the sky here in London, you might as well make it a dance move and enjoy it.

This reminds me, I just counted the number of umbrellas in my doorway and they add up to a grand total of nine. But do I stick my head out the window before leaving? I do not, because I am a badass Londoner and can fight the rain with my bare fists.

In collaboration with Hunter; outfit photos with the help of my lovely Sarah.