Girl Code

We’re all aware of girl code, the fundamental rules of the female bond. These strict rules are a universal language and predominately known to apply to the peen and veen, in the categories of partners and exes. Yet one element of girl code often falls neglected, clothes code and don’t you forget it. While I admit, I regularly preach the virtues of clothes code, I was recently, shamefully guilty of violating the sanctity that is.

On a retail therapy expedition with one of my best and fairest, I broke all of the rules and planted the seed of friendship resentment – I broke clothes code. In a distressing turn of events, said b&f came out on top with a generous cluster of coat hangers, while I was left red-faced and empty handed.

Tempers flared and after a troubling changing room showdown, I lashed out and did the unforgivable, I asked to buy the same top. GIRL CODE ALERT. In a show of unbridled generosity Lou said yes and here it is boys, this rugged denim crop. Worth it you ask? Yes? No? I don’t know? She still brings it up when she’s drunk, but time heals all wounds, right?

Wearing: Zara denim crop similar found here, here and here, Asos denim jeans similar on sale here, Louis Vuitton Epi Twist bag found here, thin rats tail hair similar found here.

Photos: Anastasia Borrelli
Words proofed by: Tyana Rongonoui




Juicy, Juicy Mangoes

Shoulders, the small girl’s cleavage. For those lucky or unlucky girls, whichever way you see it, lacking in the juicy, juicy mango department have options. Showing off those shoulders can be just as scandalous as you know, getting your rack out. They don’t need supportive garments and are mostly, I hope, nipple deficient, therefore the obvious choice for every small busted, bra-less girl. This Asilio blazer is what a lacy, push up bra is to boobs and highlights my juicy, juicy shoulders (Dm for nudes).

Should I mention it also doubles as a blazer? Bra for the shoulders, blazer for the body and bloody good for the soul. My shoulders are far closer to a c cup than my breasts ever will be and thanks to Asilio the world can now appreciate em’.

Wearing: Etsy earrings, Asilio blazer, Winston Wolfe leather pants, Gucci loafer
Photos: Ana Borrelli


Opening Ceremony

I heart the Olympics. Whole-heartedly. Fully. Completely. Bloody love ‘em. There’s nothing quite like an athletic sob story, filled with sorrow, triumph and lots of Gatorade (spon). More spectacularly though is the opening ceremony. A typically 14 hour affair in which Olympic officials take advantage of the potent cocktail of four years pent-up excitement and dupe you into watching the entire event. Such tom-foolery, but one must not blame themselves. The one great perk to enduring the mental anguish of an opening ceremony induced coma are the athlete’s uniforms and this year I found myself spiritually and sartorially inspired. And presenting, my slightly inappropriate take on the athlete’s uniform. Look past evident absence of any elite sporting talent and the addition of thigh-high boots and voila! Rio ready and rearing to go, so to speak.

Wearing: Ego boots, Ellery blazer, Alexander Wang skirt, Bassike tee, Acne Studios clutch, Etsy earrings
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli


Wise Woman

A wise woman (myself) once told me (a wise woman) that grey wasn’t my colour. She said the dulcet qualities of my slightly anaemic skin tone made me looked washed out when paired with grey and like a jerk I believed her. For years I steered clear of grey for fear of replicating the characteristics of an extra from The Walking Dead, but finally found the courage to tell that “wise woman” to politely get on her bike. With newly established arrogance reminiscent of Donald Trump, I now say differently. I can now convincingly rock a couple, if not 50, shades of grey (good one Rachel, didn’t see that one coming), with the strength of Dion Lee pumping through my veins.

Wearing: Dion Lee jumper, Asos skirt, Front Row shoes, Etsy earrings
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli


Faux or Fake?

With winter comprehensively assaulting every inch of our exposed flesh, it is as importante as ever to rug up, shape up or ship out and by that I mean, get yo skinny ass a coat. Last winter, I well and truly sucked the life out of every bomber jacket known to mankind, so this year, with wrapt enthusiasm I am whipping out the fur (faux or it’s less pretentious twin, fake). An all-in-one spectacle, the fur coat provides warmth and stylistic flair, a medium-rare combination that’s so bloody simple to style. Wear it with anything or as I have done, nearly nothing and still rock your sartorial socks off. Coming in every darn colour of the rainbow, its easy peasy and doubly fun to experiment with varying colours. The good lord knows my skin and wardrobe could do with an injection of colour this winter.

Wearing: pink fur jacket (similar found on ebay), Jbrand jeans, Public Desire boots, Etsy earrings
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli


Myspace Maven

Character building. Raw. Tough. Ones teen years tend to herald more disconcerting tales than not, and mine were no exception. Despite the utterly fruitful supply of truly embarrassing shite I have done, seen and been, just one instance sticks out in my beaten, battered mind.

What you are about to read may contain sexual references, drug use and explicit language (Although it totally does not – it’ll just make you want to repeatedly punch yourself in the face).

It was a blustery night in 2010 and sixteen year old, Myspace maven Rachel, the girl who took selfies with her dad’s waterproof digital camera, was out to impress. With her parents overseas and an abundance of warm beers (four of ‘em) at her disposal, she placed her party hostess hat on snugly and readied the house. Goon in box and fresh set of streaks in hair, young Rachel was ready. On one of her ‘high school party’ career debut nights – disaster struck. Halfway through the night, she realised it – the outfit she had so carefully curated was indeed, the most heinous, ugly thing known to man, animal and ‘other’ kind. Black, baby prostitute-ish with heavy-handed cut-outs, the dress Rachel had dreamt of gracing the night in, had indeed failed her. The ol’ holy-shit I look crap moment fogged her thinking and the party was done by 11pm. Failure hurts.

Something I cannot blame my fledgling self for is the difficulty of getting cut-outs right. Knowing what I know now, I wish I could’ve helped my pimply, heavily eye-lined teenage self, but hindsight can be a funny, cruel bastard. You see, preparation is key to success. Know your stuff, research and recognise who can make cut-outs distinguished and subtle, look online, library resources are helpful, encyclopaedias work too OR you know, just hit up Bec and Bridge – they’re pretty bloody brilliant at every-damn-thing they do. Go on, your teenage self will thank you.

Wearing: Bec and Bridge dress, Etsy earrings
Photos: Ana Borrelli



Merry Christmas Bastards

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


White Wash

My love for and desire to wear white clothing comes from a long running, deep psychological pain. As a girl who was banned from wearing white up until the age of thirteen, it’s an infliction of what I want to wear and how many food stains I can muster the energy to remove. As a somewhat fully grown adult, it is now an issue of how many fake tan stains I can muster the energy to remove – although food stains very much remain a pressing issue. To me, white clothing represents that rare breed of people who send out personalised Christmas cards, have naturally even skin tones and inactive sweat glands – aka not me. Insightfully, I have made the decision to bypass the rules of who gets to wear white and ruin my clothing, one stain at a time, staring with this beauty of a playsuit.

Absorbing the aesthetic appeal of its white cut-outs, summery material and all-in-one convenience this outfit feels all sorts of special. It’s comfortable and easily manoeuvrable, allowing me, my sweat glands and my utterly shite skin tone to breathe easy. With this said, I pledge my undying loyalty to the feminine powerhouse behind the canvas – Alice McCall. Reigning supreme in all things womanly, pretty and flattering. Aside from the flustering desperation right before a bathroom stop off, I feel nothing short of love and light for this playsuit. Wearing white and keeping the OMO stain removal department in thriving business, you bet.

Wearing: Alice McCall playsuit, Tom Ford Sunglasses, Celine clutch
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli


Great Aunt Maude

The ol’ party shirt – an institution as old as time itself. My family in particular, places great value on our collection of shirts, handed down from generation to generation with great prestige, family history and a faint whiff of body odour. Forget Great Auntie Maude’s fur and pearls – her gnarly assortment of party shirts are the real prize. The uglier the print, the more respect.

Having been born with ‘youngest child syndrome’, an often cruel ailment that comes with a lifetime guarantee of beat downs and torment, I have been pipped at the post by my older brothers in the race to inherit our family’s shirts. Eldest son and all that jazz, so I have been forced to dive into the taboo world of party shirts all by my very hesitant, lonesome self – bit of a punch in the throat really.

Turns out, I didn’t have to look far. The legends down at Ksubi have created some pretty badass stuff for all of the deprived, youngest children out there. This superb example of a shirt puts Aunt Maude’s to utter shame plus it comes sans food stains and sweat marks, you ripper. Despite my raw deal, I learnt a few really meaningful things along the way. Turns out that you don’t have to have any chilled bird tattoos, a chilled beard or a chilled Instagram feed to wear a party shirt, who would’ve guessed?

Wearing: Ksubi ‘Paradise’ shirt, Aje ‘Catara’ skirt, Chanel Boy bag, Asos bralet
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli