Christmas – a time filled mostly with the exchanging of very solicitous but often subpar gifts, more Secret Santa’s than you can poke a stick at and more than a few visits to the gingerbread tin. Although we are taught otherwise, the pinnacle of the festive season really is delving into the mountainous pile of poorly wrapped presents with enough gusto to put your young self to shame and watching the reactions of your ‘loved’ ones when they receive our gifts (gross right?). Now, before this starts sounding too much like an #ad #sponsored for the utter, unwavering joy and cheer that is Xmas, I feel the need to open up the conversation to the other, less transparent side to Christmas, the dark side of the festivities. The point in the merriments where cold meat sambo’s resemble a broken record, you’ve listened to ‘Suzy Snowflake’ one too many times and the woman you call ‘mum’, like, totally missed the mark with her present (criminal). Disappointment, sadness and a total lack of justification for feeling these emotions take hold. For those of us looking to avoid throwing yourself and your mediocre gifts into the crockpot of Christmas crap, there is a solution.
The time tested method of child picking, parent buying. The old ‘I’ve bought my own present’ routine, something I’ve adopted this year to ensure my dream present was hand delivered into my greedy, undeserving hands. This bangin’ McCall lace top happens to be this year’s target, the perfect, hand selected, parent paid for present. Beautiful enough to help you maintain your expectant, spoiled brat status all while looking polished and fab. Signing off early, due to the exertion of writing about the difficulties of being a privileged, happy person. Merry Christmas bastards.
Wearing: Alice McCall top, Winston Wolfe skirt, B-low the Belt belt, Balenciaga heels, Acne Studios clutch
Photographs: Anastasia Borrelli