Picadilly, Soho.
Saw this girl with her friends, but was meeting a friend for lunch and didn't have time to stop her and do the whole polkadot dance, so just stalked her instead. It wasn't an outfit I'd particularly love in any way - that plaid patchwork pattern, and the shape of the skirt, and the old sneakers, but somehow, she seemed to glow on a dark day, a calm style icon in a storm.
Been musing on the subject of style, and style icons, and why I focus my lens on one person over another. I don't know this girl, whether she lives in London or is a tourist, but I'd bet my bottom dollar (or pound) that this girl got up that morning and pulled this dress on, realised she might be chilly and chose that jumper in a second, grabbed her bag and stepped into her sneakers and walked out the door. I'm sure she didn't agonise in the mirror whether her bum looked big, or if she was matching, or even if it was this season or not.
And that's the difference.
Or as Gore Vidal so famously put it: style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.
(I actually saw a vile woman on tv last night, being quoted at a Hampton party, saying that if she sees a woman in last season's outfit she just nods and moves on. Come on! Life's way too short!)
It's a gorgeous day here on the Fork, the birds are singing, my brother and his daughter, my 7 year old niece and BFF, Scarlett, are arriving any minute. We're gonna swim like mermaids and paint grandma's toenails in rainbow colours. Throw on any old thing, boys & girls, and go out and play!
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