Perched on the narrow boundary between remembering to forget and forgetting to remember, my green age dangles sparkly regrets and promises that tantalise in the distance. I have been in thrall to fashion’s ephemeral pageant, circling relentlessly down through the years, faster and faster, a zoetrope of colour and innovation, faster and faster until the eyes can perceive only one image. Your style. A distillation of all the fashion you have ever observed. Glamour, Elle, Vogue, their leaves fluttering in the winds of change, devoured and discarded, tattered fragments of their lessons stay on somewhere in ones personal dress code, inform ones daily decisions.
not at home 