There is a special place in my mind, a cove, a nook, what have you – located in the general thereabouts of naughty-thoughtsburg and childish-schemesville. A little room that’s lined with premium faux-fur (‘stroke the furry wall, Albus’), and a make-it-yourself-burrito/burger/sundae/pho buffet in each of the four corners. And Henry Cavil as butler, in Olympic swimtrunks with ‘FAB’ written across the buttocks. We are not talking about the Maldives just yet, this space that I describe, is my ‘Happy Place’.

Swimsuit – ASOS.

Shirt & Bandeau – ASOS. Beach Pareo – Tallulah & Hope.

Ever since November 2015 however, my Happy Place has had a refurbishment. Now it is the exact replica of Conrad Maldives: white beaches with glassy water frothing at the hem, azure horizon that meets a cotton candy sky canvas, and all the amenities in a water villa. This is where I go in my mind, when my dude is particularly bewitched at the notion of explaining the supply and demand chain in the heaviest economist-lingo he can muster. I mentally snorkel out to the reefs and lather a wave underwater to a family of clown-fish while grunting the occasional Mmn, and ooh really‘s as he proceeds to pull out a complex-looking spreadsheet. Happy Place, Happy Place…

Park & Cube was a guest of Conrad Maldives, all views and opinion my own, as per usual.

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.

Bag – Marni. Perfume – Jersey by Chanel. Key clip – Whistles x Moxham. Coin pouch – gift from mum.

Coat – Charlie May. Cashmere sweater – Uniqlo. Trousers – Zara. Heels – Gianvito Rossi. Bag – Marni. Earrings – Dior. Watch – Larsson & Jennings.  Necklaces – Monica Vinader.

Numbered are the days I will be able to rely on the blinding morning sunlight as a slap on the face and get out of bed like a normal human being. Cue what I call the spinning beachball of death syndrome, wherein I try to convince myself, way past the 14^th snooze, that life does exist outside the micro-climate that is under my duvet. The clocks went back over the weekend and we had one of the most beautiful Sundays I’d seen in a while. I hit the flower market, prepared it’d be my last this year, and bought a bunch of dahlia’s for a tenner. By the afternoon I had managed to cross town to the V&A, wilting flowers in tow, which only confirmed the power of weather-influenced stamina, one that we were about to be deprived of, shortly.

Alas, the season of overpriced eggs benedict breakfasts ‘at that hipster place’ for the sake of a sunny morning is coming to an end. That, and a run around the block at random times in the day (because the weather is nice), which ultimately does nothing, really, for your diet. Try running on a morning that looks like stupid-o’clock in mid-November, then you can put ‘jogger’ back on your Facebook profile. My personal challenge is getting up at 7am this quarter, and limiting longing looks towards the bed down to one hour. What’s yours?

Photos with Mr. Tripod

Little sneak-peak of the Printemps x Dior Christmas windows!

And pile of meat for lunch before shopping, naturally.

Here she comes! I’m here Marion, kiss me.

Coat

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– Zara. Khaki silk shirt- Iris & Ink. Midi-skirt – ASOS. Heels – Christian Louboutin Corneille. Bag – Reiss Mira. Belt – LV via Vestiaire Collective; Outfit shots by Kit

I’m sorry if lately it’s just been Paris this and Paris that, but let’s be honest, you can’t really blame me, can you. Same way you can’t blame me for sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to eat Nutella out of the jar while burning up the refrigerator lightbulb, which is pretty much always. It’s universal magic, we all know that. And seeing that my life is spectacularly, extra, extra ordinary (mind the gap), a quick trip to Printemps in Paris with Kit for an early taste of Christmas should no doubt be considered, extraordinary. Especially when it includes sparkling windows and a whole world of Dior behind a sheet of glass. Glass of course, makes this magical world much easier to reach than 1) the thick wardrobe doors of Narnia, or 2) a brick column to Platform 9¾ – technically at least. Plus I bet that window smells like Miss Dior from the inside and actually full of Helium gas that’s leaked out from the balloons. Squeakiddy-squeak-squeak, sang the dolls.

Thank you Ykone & Printemps for having us! (See last year’s mini-Karl domination in Printemps x Chanel windows)

In Dior Joaillerie-Horlogerie boutique 8 place Vendôme; Hotel de Crillon

I must’ve simmered in the London pot little too long to think that stepping out with a lightly-packed bag while high-fiving the drunk neighbour at 4am is a very appropriate start to a romantic Paris trip. Drunk on a Sunday night, true hipster pirate freelancer spirit, aye? I should know, I’m captain of that ship. We’re sinking and all that. Anyway. On arrival I searched around for my driver (ho ho my driver, when would I EVER say that again) and spotted a man holding up a ‘Mr Parcchini’ sign. Naturally I glazed over and kept looking, thinking poor Italian man with a name that sounds like food. After a flurry of texts between Brian the PR, turns out Mr Parcchini (ParkShini) was to be my alias in Paris – I’m guessing the reservation was made by phone. So I said that’s me and from then on the driver couldn’t stop looking at his rear mirror, so I spoke in a deep voice to take the mickey out of him and all, buhehe.

Dior kindly invited me down for a day for the introduction of the spectacular Dior VIII watches – to be extra clear, it does not have six wives, one with a cocktail named after. Apparently 8 was Mr Dior’s lucky number! Look out for part two and three, because I’m in Seoul at the moment with acute exhaustion and the internet in this damn hotel costs £10 an hour I decided to skip the research this time and write this up in Word. It just underlined ‘Parcchini’ in a red squiggly line…