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.

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

The thing about being a crippling introvert, especially when your two out of three words in your unofficial (cringe) job title is ‘social’ and ‘influencer’ (heck even ‘media’ is a plural, SAVE ME), is that you don’t really have friends. By friends I don’t mean the people you hang out with because they look good on your Instagram feed (same logic applies to ordering photogenic food that you hate eating, like muesli – what am I, a bird?), it’s people who actually listen to your nerdery (?), like explaining the difference between Windows 8 and Windows 10 (and why there is no Windows 9* **).

This very blog is the realization that, for the past seven-going-on-eight years, I’ve been looking inwards and playing in front of the looking glass. And for the better half of said eight years, my £19 tripod was a pretty good pal until the day it chucked my (thankfully inexpensive) camera down on the asphalt outside the house, blurted ‘DONE WITH THIS SH*T’ and hobbled off, three legs and all. I knew I had to find some real friends then. Obviously it didn’t come easy – I met people, looked for buttons to press, and occasionally offered ham. I mostly made friends with parking meters and foxes.

*Because Seven EIGHT Nine. LMAO. GET IT. Seven ate Nine.
** This is why I have to buy friends onlinest.

Dress – Tata Naka. Jeans – Stylenanda. Pumps – Zara.

Skirt – Tara Jarmon. Shirtdress – Stylenanda. (On Sarah) Dress – Tata Naka

Charlie wears: all Charlie May. Ring – Mara. Choker – Maria Black.

Fast forward to 2016, I’m proud to say this gang of dorks are friends. I may have offered a day-trip to Brighton (chaperoned by this crazy Asian lady driver), carby road-snacks and bottomless-ish Moët & Chandon champagne as bait, but I suspect they would’ve done it for nothing. Let me introduce: You know Sarah: sunshine personified, looks a lot like a goddess, humour like a merry bunny. There’s Charlie – designer, girl crush and the real culprit behind the minimalist movement (Philo who?). Emarr, rising star to the world of the fast-spoken rhymes – SoOo talented IT HURTS (Don’t check his Soundcloud, it’s just full of AWESOME, you wouldn’t like it). Last but not least, albeit not pictured, Simon – whom you all know if you follow on Snapchat (sparkncube) – my feminist, zealous, flaming-ball-of-enthusiasm PA (who I may or may not pay to hang out with me). Cheers, and thank you for the #moetmoment. Who needs hydraulics if five of us can make a car bounce to Dr Dre.

V-Sweater – Coach AW15. Leather wrap-skirt- ASOS. Front-slit trousers – Cheap Monday. Heels – Kurt Geiger (similar). Backpack – Coach Mount Plaid collection. Turtleneck – Zara.

Sweater – StyleNanda. Leather trousers – ASOS. Wallet – Coach Mount Plaid collection.

In light of recent events that left the world sick to its guts (save for pockets inhabited by human degenerates chanting under the same banner), I had contemplated whether pushing yet another, self-infused, colour-clad story was the appropriate stance for a Monday morning. I had spent the weekend mourning for a city I loved, for the friends (from Beirut, Paris, Ankara and further) I cherish like family, and a humanity that proclaims to be under God yet Godless in action. There were moments of utter disbelief, powerlessness, of loathing; but this morning I woke up to a London enveloped in milky fog and odd silence, and decided to get on with things, with zeal – if not more. To love life and celebrate light, because if pre-school taught anything, it’s that thriving in your current disposition is the only effective way to deal with bullies. So dear readers, keep calm, and carry on – and rejoice in the fact that with this, we raise a middle finger to those who envy and terrorize freedom, love and peace. And here, an oufit post to raise the stakes – choke on that, bully.

With that said, my heart goes out to those affected in the attacks, regardless of resolution. I hope you find rest in knowing the world breathes at the same tempo today.

Look 1: Off-shoulder top – StyleNanda (similar). White linen trousers – Gap. Shoes – Birkenstock. Bracelet – Zara. Watch – Larsson & Jennings. Sunglasses – Carrera x Jimmy Choo. Necklace – Mum’s Mikimoto

Look 2: Jersey Dress – Gap. Denim Jacket – Pinko. Sunglasses -Sunglasses – Carrera x Jimmy Choo. D’Orsay flats – similar

Well this is annoying. In my dirt-stained brick & concrete neck of the woods these two all-white-errythang get-ups would’ve won me some kind of a medal, if not a congratulatory hug from the bloke at the Turkish convenience store in front of whom I’ve spilled, not once but three times, just-bought green smoothie down my just-drycleaned silk top. The whole sun & cloudless blue skies sun setting altogether nullifies the difficulty of wearing white, it not only looks like I was born like dis, but heck, even the food is white in Barcelona (more on this later) – and evidently a spoonload of seabass and rice doesn’t do much damage to a white jersey dress. All my effort is thrown. I will never be an accidental contemporary artist. Either that or I’m getting very good with the fork since the last post and I’m actually aiming for me mouth, even under effect of white wine. Look mum, hands!

To tell the truth, if not for the white pieces from Gap for my style series on the Styld.by platform, I’d probably have scrabbled around Barcelona in my usual get-up looking like a cockroach under a lightbulb and that’s never a good look.

Outfit photos by my two favourite boys, Cup of Couple. Edit by Park & Cube