Peaches and Erol Alkan at Durrr

I was intending to wait until New Years Eve to party but guess what? I, along with what seemed like the youth population of London, decided that Monday night was party night and headed to Durrr at the End. 'But Peaches is dj-ing' was all it took to persuade a (similarly good-intentioned) friend to come along.

With the exception of Disneyland, I have never embarked on a queue as long as the one last night. It was really something to behold, spilling and curving its way through and around West Central Street and beyond. Guest-list, non guest-list, the Obligatory Hopeful, we all queued together for something that, fortunately turned out to be well worth it.

It was refreshing to see the non-Geldof Peaches back with a vengeance. She was the (massively) non-conformist Belle of the Ball dressed Boadicea-style in an outfit fashioned from little else but hair. She ended her set by belting out a classic eighties love dance ballad balanced atop the dj booth.

What else in the teaches of peaches?

Peaches shows me some hair

Jodie, friendly and fabulous as ever. This is how we show each other affection. No, really!

Is Jodie holding this empty wine bottle? I can't tell. Worrying.

My mate Victor looking seductive (sort of!)

Queue faces

This riot of colour was much lauded - for good reason.

Happy Christmas and a Stylish New Year

It's that time of year again: the turkey has been devoured, some presents ridiculed and all of the booze in the house consumed. Forgive me for not updating as regularly recently - in the new year I intend to maintain a little better! February fashion week is fast approaching and with it an expected plethora of parties and fashion...

In the meantime, enjoy your break, however you are enjoying it and I'll see you for a fresh start in the new year. I will mostly be working on: buying as much as (humanly) possible in the January sales (expect updates!), getting thinner, quitting smoking, being nicer, falling in love and just generally self-improving - always 'styling it up' to the maximum.

Enjoy the rest of 2008,

Bianca

xxx

Trenchgate

In the middle of a crowded sample sale, I remembered a question I was asked for a fashion course interview:

“If we gave you £500, would you buy many pieces on the high street or pick a single designer must-have?”

I remember claiming that I would buy a few pieces on the high street and one really great pair of shoes. In reality my shopping sensibility is far more complicated.

A fully fledged bargain hunter, I thrive in warm, busy environments like TK Maxx and (I know it’s bad but I can’t help it) Primark. I find comfort nestled between rails and with my nose in boxes. Those places suck me in like you wouldn’t believe, spitting me (and my war-torn credit card) back out. Flabbergasted friends and relatives cannot fathom how I entertain myself for literally hours in places like this. I’m simply addicted to variety and spend a great deal of time and wonga on things I know I don’t need (this is why my bedroom resembles a shop). I do love shopping though and vague promises of stopping are all lies. I cannot stop. I am not ‘sick of excess’ (a mighty claim I remember making just the other day-again, all lies) I suppose the answer I should have given to that loaded question would have been: “couldn’t you just give me £1000 so I could buy more?”

Don’t get me wrong, I fully appreciate the superior craftsmanship and fabrics of high-end pieces (they let me on to that course after the interview and I studied fashion design) and I know how painstaking the design process can be. I own some designer things but these are invariably bargains, trophies of spending days trawling through unlikely places. My quilted Chanel handbag was salvaged from a car boot sale in deepest Belgium. A cornflower blue Roland Mouret top was saved after a happy hour in Browns sale shop on South Molton Street. As far as shoes go, the most designer it gets is KG-all the others are either vintage or from Dorothy Perkins (which I love), New Look (which I adore for party shoes) and Primark (words cannot describe). I watch people in wonder as they happily spend triple-digits on things. How do they handle the guilt?! I should probably get off my high horse because, in reality, my bi-monthly high street pilgrimages/splurges probably mean that I spend a great deal more than them in the long run.

The idea of spending a lot of cash on one thing fills me with worry and pre-empted guilt. This horror is what I experienced last Friday at the Burberry sample sale. The last trench coat I owned was a Primark original (I told you, hopelessly addicted) and it served me well. It had all the necessary components: belt, epaulettes etc. but something was missing, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on at the time. As I stood in the middle of that showroom, wearing the real thing, I realised how simple the problem was: the Primark trench was not a Burberry trench. Not only did the Burberry one fit me, it fitted me perfectly and made me look thin to boot. It has real leather fixtures in place of Primark’s plastic ones. This trench was just plain superior in every way so what was stopping me from beating people out the way to the make-shift cashier desk? This trench cost £150. Triple figures. The guilt had firmly set in. Concerned people tentatively approached as I stood in front of various mirrors. A very sweet (and stylish) lady made some very helpful points as I stood shaking:

1. The trench would last ten years (at least).
2. It was a classic piece.
3. It would never go out of style.
4. She said I looked nice in it.
5. She agreed that it made me look thinner.
6. She said I was thin anyway though.

Three phone calls (made in front of the mirror) to three sensible friends and another couple of pubic consultations later and the trench was mine. I was damp with sweat and brimming with self-deprecation but it was mine. I am glad I got the trench-it used to cost around £500. Bargain. Next up, Christian Louboutin stilettos in the January sales: unstoppable.

Club Tropicana Party

When the weather is this arctic, the idea of going out on the town is not only undesirable, it is just plain unnecessary. Festive parties are off to a good start and I sparked off my weekend by attending a Club Tropicana party in Bethnal Green-oh yes, as you can probably tell from the pictures, the drinks were free.