Crazy for Cara

All images found through THIS Pinterest board- where you can find the original source of each image. 

Now there's a phrase we haven't heard for a while: the 'it' girl. 

She used to be everywhere, more often than not taking the form of a Tatler-ready socialite, longing to sink her claws into Prince Harry. Of course, the 'it' girl had a limited shelf life, partying as much as humanly possible and spending ludicrous amounts of money before collapsing in a self-pitying heap as the gossip magazines fixated their gaze on someone prettier, someone younger, someone 'it'-er.

However, one really must question this term, for I fear it has become misinterpreted. In gossip magazines, for example, the term 'it' girl used to be thrown around to describe everyone from Big Brother rejects through to girls famous solely for their bedroom antics and posing in their scanties. 

I feel it should mean something more, for it could be the perfect term to describe the select few women who have gone beyond successful in their field, who have gone beyond famous, who have gone beyond iconic. Women with what is widely known as the x factor or, in fashion, the 'it' factor.

I can count such women on one hand. Undoubtedly, Edie Sedgwick is one, Kate Moss an other, and 2012 has brought us a new, exemplary addition to the list of genuine 'it' girls- a little Miss Cara Delevingne.

Don't know if you've heard the name?

Now, we shant pretend for one second that Cara Delevingne is just your average girl. There is no denying that the divine Delevingne sisters are from a rather well-to-do family, spending their teenage years partying with the elite while us mere mortals were getting tiddly on WKD dancing to Cascada and other such Europop. She has had a rather more privileged upbringing, but that has very little significance in the grand scheme of Cara's unfathomable success. 

Of course, there is another little advantage on Cara's part: the looks. She certainly has all the essentials for a top model du jour- the stature, the enviably endless legs, the wide innocent eyes and the sultry pouty lips. She has the big hair, the razor-sharp cheekbones, and, most importantly the worlds most incredible unruly eyebrows. In essence: she has the face that launched a thousand hate-tweets from One Direction fans when Harry Styles fell under her spell.

Oh, and at just twenty years of age Cara has already fronted campaigns for Chanel, Zara and Burberry, her most recent being a fabulously 90s DKNY campaign shot by Patrick Demarchelier (check it here). She has strutted her flawless stuff for Oscar de la Renta, Jason Wu and Stella McCartney and was recently ranked 25th on Models.com's top 50 Fashion models. Oh, and she has also walked for Victoria's Secret, an accolade that a select few catwalk models can boast.

Still, in this day and age, fashion models really are ten-a-penny. There are so many stunning young women who the fashion industry have grown to adore, but there is no denying that Cara has something more. With over 265,000 followers on Twitter, Miss Delevingne is a part of a new breed of supermodels. This lovely English girl is so much more than a coat-hanger who just so happens to look incredible in everything from trench coats to frothy couture, Cara is a personality in herself and also has bucket-loads of likeability. After all, what other model has fans (The Delevingner's) setting up a number of dedicated Twitter accounts, including Cara's Boobs, Cara's Chin and Cara's Thigh-Gap? It's safe to say that this little lady, who can count Rita Ora and Georgia May Jagger among her chums, is the face of 2012, and it looks like 2013 is certain to make Cara's star shine that little bit brighter.

Though a fabulously successful model in her own right, a little flick through the latest edition of Style.Com Print reveals that no one is more surprised by this rapid rise to recognition than the girl herself. She is charmingly unfazed by her success, and is not content with conquering the fashion industry, setting her sights on Hollywood. With a little cameo in Anna Karenina, it is little surprise that Cara is destined for so much more than catwalks and cover-shoots. 

  Alas, we are all are smitten, for Cara puts the fun back in fashion. Crossed-eyes and warped pouts are not often commonplace backstage, but as soon as Miss Delevingne is in the house, it's silly faces and smiles all round. At last, a fashionable figure who does not take herself stupidly seriously- a breath of fresh air. (Take a look at her Tumblr account, a case in point.)

So she's beautiful, she has a relaxed style which saw her take fifth place in Grazia's Best Dressed List of 2012, she is successful, funny, friendly and a huge hit in fashion circles. With all this in consideration, we really should give in to jealousy and despise this lucky devil, but we certainly do not. Why, most of us love her, and a number of tweets have confirmed that, indeed, we sort of want to be her.

How so? Well, Cara is terribly chic, but she's also ALMOST normal. She just seems like a girl having the time of her life, spending Christmas in her tiger print onesie, eating the odd McDonalds, and this is what we have grown to love about her. She's ever so slightly goofy, aptly described by Ruby Warrington as a beautiful gollum, but she's also ridiculously cool. 

Roll on 2013, Cara's big year, I don't doubt, and long live Miss Delevingne's unique brand of fashionable fun.

The Hate Can Weight.

Now I will not pretend to be a Lady Gaga superfan, or one of her "little monsters", but I have to get this off my chest... Leave Gaga alone.

The tabloids have erupted in a storm of Gaga slandering. And why, you ask? Well, the madwoman has gained a few pounds. What a disgusting pig.

It makes me feel sick to read some of the truly awful articles published about a the "decidedly meatier" singer.  Led, of course, by The Daily Mail's addictive gossip website the press have been ripping Lady Gaga to shreds, blaming her weight gain on her drug dependence (huh?) and suggesting she has piled on a whopping 30 lbs.

The aptly nicknamed Daily Fail (christened by the goddesses at The Vagenda) have published a series of appalling articles. They suggest she "hides fuller figure under an oversized coat" and, most shockingly of all, that "despite her recent weight gain, Lady Gaga was polite to fans." And this is journalism?! Give. Me. A. Break.

Lady Gaga has responded by posting pictures of herself in her underwear, standing up to these bullies as only she knows how, and has bravely got on with it, despite this horrible abuse.

I'm not suggesting that Gaga does not expose herself to such criticism. She is a worldwide celebrity and is of course going to be subject to tabloid gossip, but what really gets me about this article is how it portrays "fat" as a terrible thing, something to be ashamed of, something that actually turns you into a nasty person.

This is the problem with modern media. Articles about severely anorexic girls are published alongside this vitriol, yet not a peep is uttered about how these "fattist" attitudes affect young women and men. Yes, Lady Gaga may have gained a few pounds but she has no obligation to be skinny, if she is happy and healthy then so be it- it is none of our business and I don't doubt for one second that the vile "journalist" who sat behind their desk typing up these ludicrous taunts will have been a good few pounds heavier than Lady Gaga. Not that it matters, of course.

The fact of the matter is that our beauty ideals are narrowing even further. The recent airbrushed images of Karlie Kloss, where her skeletal ribs have been smoothed over, shows that we are being fed a false image of perfection. Her emaciated body has been concealed, suggesting that you can be so very tiny but still be "healthy", with no savagely protruding bones. It is truly shocking.

The final straw in the whole Lady Gaga debacle is that Lady Gaga is a recovered bulimic. Everyone knows it, she has talked about the harrowing effects of this eating disorder, yet still the tabloids decide to rip into her for gaining a few pounds? If they had even an inkling of decency, these articles would not have been published, but still, they were and the subsequent media storm has drawn even more traffic to the trashy Daily Mail website. Bulimia is a truly horrible illness, a slippery slope that it is devastatingly hard to break away from. When you begin to purge, it is extremely difficult to stop, and before you know it you are sneaking into bathrooms after dinner, tears streaming down your face, feeling like there is no alternative.

I completely support Lady Gaga on this, and I think she still looks great. I could not care less about her gaining a few pounds, and nobody else has any right to attack her for this. Get a grip, there are far more important things than being thin.

And, on that note, i'm going to go lust over the Nutella pizza i'll be indulging in at Ping this evening. Because I can. Take that Mail Online writers, feel free to comment on my meatier frame if it makes you feel THAT much better about yourselves.

Foodie Porn: El Celler de Can Roca

MMM! I know what you're thinking, right? What a fat bitch. Yes. I ate it all. And i'm glad I did.

El Celler de Can Roca is San Pellegrino's 2nd best restaurant in the world, clutching a Michelin star for each Roca brother (3, obv). While it's not the best meal i've had in terms of taste, and perhaps wasn't the best meal of my holiday (it would have been were it not for Nu in Gerona- mmm!), it was the best culinary experience i've ever had. It certainly is all about theatre at this amazing restaurant. So feast your eyes on the Feast menu of Spain's finest restaurant. 

A Feminist in Pyjama Pants

From The Vagenda

I AM A FEMINIST. Caitlin Moran told me so. In fact, she told me and the millions of other readers of the brilliant How To Be A Woman to stand on a chair and shout it out at the top of our voices. A BIG FAT FEMINIST. That's me.

You are probably reading this and sniggering. Admittedly, this post feels rather incongruous alongside the the rest of SW Fashion. A feminist? Who writes about self tan, post-cupcake guilt and how to wear neon? Nah.

Well, my cynical friend, I have had an epiphany. This sun soaked fortnight in Spain has confirmed what I have spent months speculating. How so, you ask? Did all that €1.45 Cava (with brekkie, lunch and dinner obvs) go to my head? Well, not quite. Alongside the numerous glasses of fizz and pans of paella consumed, I have also digested every last word of Moran's iconic book.

This book is essential reading. It ain't pretty but it's honest and it is the funniest thing I have read in a long time. It is the best book I have read since The Bell Jar and it is a tad more uplifting.

How so good? Well, Caitlin has redefined feminism and has kick-started the new wave of feminism. One for the normal woman. Women like me.

Granted, I'm not your average woman. In fact, I'm a total loony. I'm obsessive, I'm unable to sit still and I'm trying with every scrawny bone in my body to break into the already over populated fashion industry. But, in many respects, I am as ordinary as they come. A plain Jane... Just one who likes a nice Mulberry and her Jeffrey Campbells.

Back in the day, the feminists were to be feared, but this new age feminism has been a very long time coming. It isn't about man hating, or about not shaving or burning bras, it's about not putting up with any of the nonsense we face on a daily basis. And boy, once you start noticing the nonsense we ladies encounter, it's hard to ignore.

If you need further confirmation I urge you to visit the cutting Vagenda blog. Even though some of their articles are controversial, and I don't necessarily agree with all their comments, I do find it to be the best thing on the Internet. I feel like a total hypocrite for reading it before I read, and enjoy, Grazia (the magazine which the Vagenda ladies rip to shreds on a weekly basis) but they talk a lot more sense. They simply point out the glaringly obvious: magazines are not really our friends anymore.

Of course, there are exceptions, but by large magazines aren't as uplifting and empowering to women as they really should be. I hope that this can change over the next few years as a new wave of journalists storm Bauer, Hearst and Conde Nast with their lady-friendly articles. Writing that is a million miles away from the shocking nonsense that occasionally finds its way to our weekly magazines and plagues that god-awful (but rather addictive) Daily Mail website.

I do not want this to come across as slandering all current magazines as I do still love to read what The Vagenda mocks. I love pyjama pants, hell, I'm wearing them right now. I love fashion and I love preening myself for cocktails or a night out, but what I have come to realise is that I do all this stuff for ME and for no one else. I have also come to realise that many magazines are depressingly derogatory, pressing women to change when they do not need to. It's taken me 18 painstaking years to realise that, actually, I'm fine as I am. I do not need 6 WEEKS TO OMG, I do not need to have it all and I do not need a magazine to tell me that "Hey, It's Okay" to eat tomato sauce and Lurpak sandwiches or drink with breakfast occasionally. I'll do what I fancy, ta.

This, my friends, is an exciting time for women (and men, you can be feminists too!). I do not urge you to burn Grazia or Cosmo, read it and enjoy it, but remember not to take it all to heart. You don't need a gap between your thighs to be beautiful, or a collection of LBDs to get a man. You need to be yourself, coz you're great.

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PRIMROSE Magazine

I just thought i'd share with you my work over the past two months. It's been some serious blood, sweat and tears (two weeks ago I entered into a zombie-like state induced by InDesign) but I hope you will agree that PRIMROSE magazine has been worth it.

PRIMROSE is a result of our "London Calling" assignment. We had to create a magazine for a fashion tribe in one of London's fashion villages, so naturally I chose my beloved Primrose Hill... Our tribe? Read it and see!

So many people were keen to be involved, and it really has been a learning curve! Thanks to:

Tom Johnson Photography
Photographer on our 'Bitch Please' shoot

Sheena Bulsara
Bespoke jewellery designer

Cheyenne Raymond
Hair and Make-Up on our 'Bitch Please' shoot

Primrose Hill Interiors
Location and jewellery for our 'Bitch Please' shoot

Waggin' Tails
Dog accessories for MJ

Julia Caesar
Our beautiful model and cover star

Monsieur Jacques and Yvonne
Our other cover star and his lovely owner

Stay tuned for future projects, as I feel i've got a bit of a taste for magazines now... 

Please do let me know what you think, and I really do hope you like it. Love it even!

Open publication - Free publishing - More beauty

Top 3 Afternoon Tea

First off the blocks is a revised afternoon tea offering from my favourite London restaurant: Nobu Berkeley. I love everything about Nobu, from the ruby red tuna sashimi through to the unrivalled desserts, and when I saw their take on the great British afternoon tea I went weak at the knees! Served 3PM- 5.30PM Monday to Friday, the menu involves Takoyaki (delicious battered octopus balls), smoked salmon sashimi with cucumber and wasabi sour cream, green tea and Yuzu doughnut and fruit skewers. The quirky menu is available with infusion tea for £30, with the fabulous Nobu collection of teas for £32.50, with a glass of Billecart Salmon Brut for £40 and with both for £42.50. Perfect to round of Jubilee weekend in style, click here to reserve a table.  

Hot on Nobu's heels from the Caramel Room at the Berkeley is the new take on the famous Pret-A-Portea. This season it is all about her majesty with some patriotic pastries. All served on iconic Paul Smith crockery, the Royal Collection has a number of cheery royal treats including a praline profiterole inspired by Beatrice's fascinator, a pannacotta macaroon inspired by the Duchess of Cambridge and a delightful studded vanilla biscuit resembling the crown. This little piece of patisserie heaven is available from 1-6PM until 9th of June, so get your skates on! It is £39 per person, £49 with a glass of Laurent Perrier and £55 with couture champagne- if you are really ready for a royal indulgence. Click here for details- spaces are limited and reservations are very much advised.  

Whether you love it or hate it, I don't doubt that you will be a little endeared by the limited edition jars of Ma'amite all over the shops at the moment. The salty spread has the UK divided, but is now the centrepiece of a delicious afternoon tea spread at one of Chelsea's finest hotels. The Botanist are serving the Marmite Afternoon Tea until the 10th of June and it really is a treat. The ladies offering (£18 without Champagne, £25 with) involves assorted finger sandwiches, delicious cheddar and Marmite scones, Marmite cheese straws and some bizarre but intriguing desserts including chocolate cake with Marmite caramel buttercream (presumably a salted caramel effect?), Black Velvet cupcakes and a Marmite and peanut butter brownie. Not for traditionalists, but certainly worth a try. Gents can opt for a manly version (£25 with a Marmite Mary) without all the fancy pastries and instead with a hearty marmite rarebit. Intrigued? Click here to make a reservation. 

One for the boys. For £50 you can enjoy a full-on gentleman's feast at the Sanctum hotel in Soho. It really is a feast! It kicks off with a poached oyster with bloody mary relish, steak and mushrooms on sourdough and smoked salmon and  caviar on a bagel. The hearty mini mains include a lamb and potato hotpot, a mini beef burger, a rabbit and pancetta pasty and a roast beef stuffed Yorkshire. If that wasn't quite enough, the sweet comes courtesy of a dark and unctuous twice baked chocolate fudge cake with Jack Daniels ice cream. It is all washed down with tea and coffee, a tankard of Jack Daniels and a cigar to be smoked on the roof garden. Wow. Think you can handle all that? Click here. 

Alas, it is the last day of the Diamond Jubilee, so what better way to spend your day than with one of London's fabulous Afternoon Teas. 

There's nothing more British than tea and cake, and the staid afternoon tea- those tiers of mini sarnies and sickly petit fours- has had a culinary makeover, and it is officially chic. 

From royal themed biccies to Japanese fruit skewers, Afternoon Tea has never been cooler for us ladies.

Also there is one for the boys! The latest foodie trend is afternoon tea for men, the best of which is available at The Sanctum in Soho. The Ma'amite afternoon tea is also available in a gentlemen friendly guise. 

Baby Steps

I wrote this piece, again, as a possible personal reflection article for theVogue Talent Contest, and felt there may be some of you who would be interested. Hope you enjoy, and hope it gets you thinking.

There are defining moments in life. Those little events that change everything, be that for the better or for the worse. For some it could be exam results, for others a first kiss. For some people, though, defining moments in life become worthless, and instead they live a life overshadowed by their mind.

The taboo of mental illness is one that has plagued society for so long. It is their own fault, say unknowing cynics. Self indulgent, say others. These comments, cruel and narrow minded, just add to the softness of the topic. No one wants to talk about it, because it is difficult to understand until you have witnessed it first hand.

Anorexia is the mental illness with the highest death rate, yet so few people actually understand it as such. “Eat a pie!” they cry, as if buttery pastry will block out the vicious voice within. What we do not realise is that this crippling illness destroys the mind as much as it does the body. It tears apart families and scrunches up potential, all in the pursuit of warped beauty.

Nowadays there is a wealth of writing about eating disorders. It ranges from seemingly innocuous comments about skinny models, to full reports examining the effect of the media on body image, but rarely is this writing sympathetic to the emotional turmoil that a sufferer faces. We hear of the deaths, the dark physical effects of malnutrition, but we do not scratch the surface of this maddening condition.

I did not, until I slipped into an obsessive cycle of skipping meals and pushing my body to its limit. Substantial meals would immediately be expelled from my body to avoid the incessant guilt, and I would wear my protruding ribcage like a trophy as I deteriorated into a childlike state of fragility. So far, so standard, and with each pound that dropped off, I became increasingly unbearable.

This is not merely a record of how it felt to live each day ruled by hunger. This is not a sob story, or a generic attack on fashion magazines; this is an empathetic account of anorexia, just as I try to escape its clutches.

Breathlessly pounding the treadmill days before my leavers dance, I glanced in the mirror. The thinnest in the hall, pointed elbows and sinewy arms, I would finish these forty minutes and then it would not matter that I had eaten ten grams more cereal than usual. I would walk back from the gym, before writing a blog post and completing my hundred crunches. “It will stop in a few days,” I told myself, “just once prom is over.”

Hair done, and just an hour before the dance, I began my make-up. A mask of foundation to hide my blemished skin and swirls of blusher to add the colour that starvation drained, I then unsuccessfully attempted to apply my false eyelashes and broke down. I sobbed, useless and ugly, longing to scream. Too much pressure and stress, I presumed, avoiding the blatantly obvious fact that this frustration was nothing but hunger.

The elegant Max Azria dress was bought months in advance and it fit beautifully, softly shaping my waist. Minutes before leaving, I carefully zipped it up, thrilled as it gaped at my hollow chest. This disturbing thrill should have been enough to make me stop but, of course, anorexia was ingrained in my mind and anything resembling common sense was gone. At the leavers dance I just drank, and did not eat, before avoiding an after party and retiring to my bed.

It should have stopped there, simple as that, but it did not. I ate less and less before being admitted to a specialist doctor for psychotherapy. I sat on the torn sofas, waiting to say all the right things and trick them into thinking I was fine, and then I saw the patients. A girl, younger than myself, hobbled past, leaning on a walking stick. Her matchstick legs looked ready to collapse as the veins throbbed on her hands and feet. Her head down, her expression was of heart-breaking misery. I felt sick. Another passed, her leggings gaping, clumps of her hair missing as she shivered, clinging to a cup of black coffee. These women had become manifestations of the demons that ruled their life and I could not bear to live my life in the same vain.

An eating disorder is all pervading. Every day I count myself lucky that I am working towards recovery. These girls, fading away, are no longer themselves, they are defined by an illness with no cure. If they do not want to recover, they wont.  It is a poignant, heart-breaking thought, but there is more to anorexia than wanting to be skinny.