The Just-Got-Out-Of-Bed Look

There is nothing quite like those lazy Sunday mornings, and let's be honest, they were never a chic affair for any woman, until now. Dolce & Gabbana has taken a true gentleman's homely staple and translated it into a hip, elegant, feminine ensemble. It has made the effortless style, that only a gentleman can acquire on a lazy Sunday morning an intriguing choice for a woman on a glamorous night out. However I think I'd much rather see this silky number on a well-built guy, minus the robe.

Any thoughts?

"Can I Roll Wid Chu?!"

"Can I Roll Wid Chu?!"

Contrary to popular belief it seems easier to pick up a man in New York than a great pair of jeans.

We stepped off the plane anticipating all the unique treasures we thought we were bound to find on our little shopping excursions. And let me tell you, we were hardcore. Waking at 8am, trekking through Manhattan like some crazed shopping junkies on a mission, returning to the hotel at 10.30pm then leaving for dinner by 11pm. To be honest I didn't come back with as many great finds as I thought. Maybe it was because of the meager 3 days we actually got instead of the five we thought we were getting. 

With every street that we found a decent shop there was a guy on the corner trying to charm us 'English girls' with lines like 'Hey, hey, hey, can I roll wid chu?!' and 'What's poppin over in London'?' and various marriage proposals and promises to find us next time they were in London. The forwardness of these men was astounding. One of them even asked us for our number (as a group). He didn't care which of us gave him a number; any of us would do. Ah you can see the English charm had definitely been lost in translation with these American boys.

Anyway, regardless of that, Barney's department store was the highlight of the trip. We walked around in awe like kids in a candy shop, stroking, caressing and studying each beautiful garment in great detail to see how it was constructed. An appliqué dress by Christoper Kane stood out with its extravagant embroidery. I was amazed how he could create a dress in one block colour that was so striking because of the different textures and mediums he used to adorn the dress. It's weighty design created something structured and almost architectural. So there we were gawping at this masterpiece and I turned to a friend and said 'I dare anyone to live the day we have in here and not fall in love with fashion, if only for a moment.' You simply cannot deny the sheer craftsmanship that goes into creating a dress like that. This is where fashion meets art, seamlessly.

I ♥ Christopher Kane

So although you may find that uptown New York is a place bursting with great design you can't help but notice that in the case of fashion it's either one extreme or the other. Myself and my friends all agreed that this is where the British and the American high-street differs. The british high-street has a coveted capability of delivering high-fashion design at reasonable prices. Whereas finding high-fashion design at a reasonable price in New York is few and far between like finding a man in Nottingham, my university town, with its 1:6 ratio of women to men. Yet in New York, with every Avenue and Boulevard lurks a man, decent or not, waiting for you to walk/'roll' by. To summarize: New York has an abundance of men whilst British cities have an abundance of fashion, the type that makes you sigh.

I ♥ The Jumpsuit...

...and my new Agent Provocateur wedges, more NY finds.

Honesty, in this situation, leads nowhere. A smile and a flirt can get you to St. Pancras before 22.00

Honesty, In This Situation, Leads Nowhere But A Smile And A Flirt Can Get You To St. Pancras Before 22.00

I struggle down three long flights of stairs with an almost unbearable load. Bright pink, almost broken suitcase, practical but huge Nike holdall and a classic patent-white Mulberry bayswater in tow. I have to take the long way to the tram stop in fear of my luggage toppling over down the stairs into some handsome stranger. The time is 18:34. Wow, it has taken me the best part of 15 minutes to get thus far when usually I would be at the train station by now. 

But you guessed it, I was late for the train.

A further struggle and I arrive through the automatic doors in a loosely fitted, slouchy white tee under a vintage Pink Soda sequined vest brandishing an interpretation of the American flag, both worn off the shoulder. A pair of thick black leggings with a minute zigzag rainbow thread running up the back tucked into a pair of knee-high, flat black boots. Oh and not forgetting my newly purchased black trilby which, according to a friend is 'a bit indie.'

I queue, as you do, collect my advance tickets and go to the ticket counter in a bid to reason with a stern too-old-to-care woman with badly dyed red hair which failed to cover her full head of grey. To cut a long story short... I was denied getting on the train even when her cold rejection reduced me to girlish tears. Yes, I know, pathetic. So I had to cough up an extra £50 to get to London. Damn Northerners! Oh and to my dismay, I handed the ticket inspector on the train my previous ticket (which was apparently 'not worth the paper it was printed on' according to Miss my-hair-reflects-my-bad-mood) and it was accepted! 

The moral of the story, to paraphrase my mother: 'If you miss your train when you're young, pretty and fashionable, DO NOT go to the old woman for help. She'll be jealous. Go to the blokes on the platform. They'll have sympathy because you're young, pretty, fashionable and missed your train.' - Thank you mother, I'll try to bear that in mind.