Playsuit – Topshop • Boots – Zara (old) • Faux Fur Coat – Vintage • Necklaces – H&M and ASOS
This playsuit is an example of why the Great British high street is an absolute asset. It’s from Topshop and I homed in on it because of that belt and back detailing. Plus it’s such a gorgeous nudey colour.
I wore this outfit to the Fashion Chick bloggers’ party last week and I felt pretty special wearing it at the train station on my commute. My massive, sweeping faux fur coat makes me feel like some sort of black and white movie star. It’s definitely not subtle and it’s definitely conspicuous as hell. Not for everyone, but I’m not ashamed to admit I love being the centre of attention with what I wear!
I am so obsessed with the sixties right now. I mean, the curiosity began when I was around sixteen. All I would listen to was The Beatles. Like, literally. I had VW camper van-themed everything and asked for a vintage phone for my birthday! Now, the interest as turned into something more intellectual and obviously glam!
I’m currently studying the avant garde and literally staying up until 3am reading Patti Smith’s Just Kids, Andy Warhol’s autobiography and the Beats poets. That also means that I’m wearing high neck lines, short skirts, long-ass boots and heavy liner whilst listening to The Velvet Underground. Hope you enjoy this look. x
While Simon is working his butt off at Carluccio’s in Hale, I’m here at uni trying to say intelligent things about Frank O’Hara and Jackson Pollock. This is no mean feat.
Essays on Percy Shelley’s poetry and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein were a gigantic amount easier, and yet I still obviously needed to buy some things. The Patti Smith autobiography is currently breaking my heart, and making me feel how very very very sheltered my life is. Seriously, this woman has seen and done it all – utter, unadulterated, filthy glamour.
In fashion-land, meanwhile, I’m super pleased with this South Beach bobble hat that I was sent because it makes me feel a bit like Cara Delevingne but with far less impressive eyebrows.
The two sweaters and the check pants are from Uniqlo, a shop that I was stupid enough to forgo for like, my entire life. Amazing quality, simple pieces.
The burgundy faux fur stole might actually be the best thing I’ve received in a goodie bag so far; it’s Dorothy Perkins (in the sale!) and I received it at the Fashion Chick party. Said party was at Epernay champagne bar in Manchester and was made super by the finger food that was served there…We had mini croque monsieur’s, mini sausages adorned with mash and roast spuds that tasted more like the wedges from Domino’s. Aaaaand, now I’m starving.
Lace dress (sale) ASOS • Biker boots (old) – River Island • Biker jacket (old) – Barney’s Manchester • Shark Ring – Luv AJ
Dolce and Gabbana know the fairytale. They make clothes for the dreamers, for the princesses and the fairies. This dress is obviously not from Dolce and Gabbana. It’s actually ASOS. But whatever, point still stands.
We shot this look outside the John Rylands Library in Manchester. It’s a masterpiece in Victorian Gothic architecture and I feel the tiniest bit Goth in my biker boots. I’m resurrecting them after last year’s dalliance with punk.
Jamie Oliver will forever be the man who took turkey twizzlers away from the British primary school experience. The child in me turns my nose up at him.
However, having grown older, wiser and thankful for the banishment of what was essentially twisted globules of fat and turkey bone, I am now able to see Jamie Oliver for what he really is; an absolutely fantastic restaurant entrepreneur.
Having previously visited one of Jamie’s establishments in Covent Garden of a certain London town, I was ready for the warm, homespun cuddliness of rustic food served exactly as you like it. And of course, we got it.
Unlike the Covent Garden branch, this restaurant is absolutely breathtaking. The lofty, gold-leaf ceilings and perfect black and white tiled floors were once overseers of the grand Midland bank, and there is still something quite sublime about a building that has seen so much wealth.
For me, the decor of this particular restaurant was so exquisite that I could have been served quite average food and still left a very happy lady.
Having reviewed a fair few restaurants and other eateries over the last couple of years, I am depressingly used to establishments that think what we really want is complicated and inevitably slimy dishes bedecked in eight different sauces and drizzled with essence of fairy shit. Jamie Oliver knows that what we really want is unadulterated carb.
So it was, that in this intensely beautiful restaurant in which post-dinner cigars would have not looked out of place, that we messily chowed down on burgers, chips, tagliatelle bolognese and more chips.
Delicious, hearty, massive portions made by chefs who I suspect may be an army of countryside grandmas, like pizza served on bone china, this is comfort food framed by glamour. And did I mention that the prices match up to any half-rate (Pizza Express, I’m looking at you) Italian chain?
Jamie’s Italian is at 100 King Street opposite Agent Provocateur. Find out more here.
KIRSTIN LILJEGREN FOR INTERVIEW MAGAZINE OCTOBER 2014
So loves, it’s getting into that wintery wonderfulness; when there are approximately two daylight hours to source your Vitamin D from, and the idea of an inside fire no longer induces pyromania but sheer tears of thankfulness. I personally enjoy the hell out of the cold months because they’re so snuggly when you’re inside, and so damn fashionable when you’re outside.
Confined to the turbulent white sheets of my bed for the last week (God, am I dying for a night at Leadmill), I’ve been researching into things that I’m really interested in but probably don’t study enough. Porter magazine actually inspired me to go out and look for some of the succulent culture I’d been craving (go and buy it.)
Here are the photos, paintings, albums and poems I’ve been l-l-l-loving.
I’m particularly moved by that incredible pink colour in John Tierney’s paintings of LA’s Paul Smith store, and the more I read Howl, the more it makes me want to cry/revolt/fuck bureaucracy.
More of this if my extraordinary scholasticism continues.
ps. I got a tattoo this week.
p.p.s Kill Your Darlings is a must-see. Beats poets x bad boys… *drools*
The Flute Player by Nigel van Wieck
KIRSTIN LILJEGREN FOR INTERVIEW MAGAZINE OCTOBER 2014
We ate pizza at midnight on the rocks by the Mediterranean after swimming under the stars.
It’s a sentence so full of beauty that you’d be lucky to string it together and call it part of your existence. And I can.
It was summer 2013. Cinque Terre, Italy.
You’ve probably seen pictures of it before. The rising hills topped by five little sugar-coated towns. Watermelon Pinks and Terracotta Oranges stacked precariously on top of one another above the sea below.
It was our second to last stop on a Grand European Tour that anxiety had damn-well ensured was not so grand.
I’d read The Bell Jar on a train between Switzerland and Austria, and felt the cold rolls of panic more viscously under the literary, moribund guidance of Plath. Battered by panic, I was broken and morose.
We arrived into Riomaggiore on a rickety old train that pulled into the station inside a tunnel. Stepping into the brick darkness, our sublime view, and the lifting of my spirits, was postponed.
But then we came blinking into the light, and the full splendour of the Mediterranean melted fatigue and stress from our travel-weary faces. I had never seen anything so beautiful. Riomaggiore was already special. Riomaggiore was already worth the anxious flight I had endured back to Italy.
It is white and so light it’s almost sheer. It is very slightly oversized and it has a marl grey collar detailing. It also says ‘fuck off’ on it in French.
I’m a little obsessed with swear words, and I’ve been learning French since I was eleven. Also, the vulgarity is disguised by the language so I can go around being all misanthropist without anyone even noticing.
Though I don’t think I’ll be wearing it in Paris anytime soon…