Tuesday, 14 October 2008
I have recently moved to London to do a course in fashion journalism. I thought I was pretty savvy and street wise, so I wasn't too scared of the big bad city.
I was wrong. No-one told me you don't have to hold doors open, say please or thank you, or that it is perfectly acceptable to ram into the tube forcing others do even more contorting yoga-esque positions.
Though it is those random moments when my friend told me to beware when riding on the number 1 bus...not of being harassed, or to hide my mobile phone...but to watch out for tree branches. Apparently some poor girl got taken out by some tree branch when sitting on the number 1.
Yet when I was riding between Canada water and London bridge at rush hour, and some suited w**nker was kindly resting his daily paper on my head, i channelled my rage to thinking about urban style.
no not the cool kind that the sartorialist photographs but almost urban survival dressing. Juggling the need to be trendy and chic while not damaging your back in heels, sweating, or revealing anything you, er, don't want to be revealed.
I'm talking the odd bit of boob when desperately trying to remove some layers in the jungle-like humidity of the underground. Or an unintentionally flashed patch of hairy pit when reaching for a bar to grab hold of.
So while I am avoiding any dodgy looking trees and occasionally letting slip a please or thank you, I am dressed to survive in copious amounts of deodorant, comfortable daps and some sharpened elbows.