Inside Style - Posing

posing...yet again

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - July 1st 2010

Well known factoid – I pose. A lot. Not around the house or in queues mind you; just in photographs...and where large groups of people gather.  Whether nurture or nature, it can’t be helped.  Examine early baby pictures and you’ll find mini O’Connor working her angles. I like to look at it as a life skill; my friends however would beg to differ.

Take a recent group holiday in Spain. Every time someone played shutterbug, I pulled a Tyra and smiled with my eyes whilst mastering the half-stone-lighter silhouette; in the pool, on the sun lounger, at the rent-a-car queue. “Jesus Annie! Stop posing!” admonished my fellow vacationers. It wasn’t until we reviewed the photographic evidence, that I felt suitably vindicated.  No reservations about being unwittingly tagged on Facebook, or bartering to have that beer belly/bikini combo photoshopped (or ideally removed). No siree. Nothing to see here folks. Move it along.

Regardless, my so-called ‘skill’ remained incontestable proof of vanity in the eyes of my thirtysomething coterie.  “Even your passport picture is posed!” (Didn’t they hear about the booths that let you review each shot?) Yet as each flash snapped, the naysayers tensed like mummies, parlayed pained faces and wondered why treble chins sprouted like a case of prickly heat.  

Then I heard the fateful words “Can you do me a favour?” One of the guys wanted tips on how to pull a Men’s Health for the lens.  “That eyebrow of mine has a life of its own,” he sighed. “I’m beginning to resemble Winston Churchill.” And so we had a mini-pose off on the QT – before being ridiculed into submission.

It made me wonder, does our generation still bear the stigma of ye old Ireland?  “That girl thinks well of herself,” was one of my nana’s favourite put-downs. Where I grew up in America, such a quip would translate as “What a well-adjusted young lady!” Or is it perhaps that unlike our Yankee compadres, we Irish are less simply less smug about our mugs.

“It’s not that,” admits one of the villa vilifiers. “There’s just no fun with digital cameras. I miss the old days of waiting to get your holiday snaps developed. Good or bad – the results were far more honest.”
With that I took a moment’s pause to consider her point, declaring honesty an overrated virtue...and that someone had far too much wine. 

Inside Style - Specs Appeal

Mickey Lady Gaga Flip Glasses
@ Amazon.com

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - June 24th 2010

I popped into Specsavers recently for an overdue eye exam. For four years I’ve been dodging ‘reminders’ to get my peepers tested; convinced that although short-sighted, I had the bigger picture in view. There was no way the windows to my soul were going to be clad in glass. No way. No how. Until now...
My attempts at spectacle-free vision thus far have incurred a host of personal woes from the presence of a loathsome frown line to unwittingly scowling at approaching passersby.  Let’s not even get started on ordering coffee at Starbucks.

“You’re so vain,” my sister informs me regularly. “Why don’t you just wear glasses?” With this I am apt to inform her that my sight is only mildly distance-deficient, thus not requiring any additional aid. Revealing that four eyes will totally mess with my wardrobe choices is simply not an option.  (See: “You’re so vain.”)

With this in mind, I’ve taken to covering my back so as not to frame my face.  Skin Doctors Instant Facelift from Arnotts has been a lifesaver for the furrowed brow. Slap it on and in five minutes –insta-lift and tuck! As for identifying people more than ten feet away, I’ve found that smiling and greeting willy nilly has its merits. It has also worked a treat for my reputation around town. 

Reading the Astons on The Afternoon Show style slots is still a challenge but has endowed me with a unique ability to recite prices of highstreet items at will. “Gypsy blouse from River Island - €33.50, bangles - €2 from Penneys; Warehouse denim shorts - €33.” Damn, I’m good.

No such compensatory skills however can overcome being seated (gasp!) in the back row at fashion week. Despite the social slur, the blur from the cheap seats is just all too much. I had to cave.  “Think of all the stylists who wear glasses,” assured a kind friend as she named off Gok Wan, Caryn Franklin and Nicky Hambeldon Jones. “Yes, but do any of them have an ear that’s half an inch higher than the other?” I balked.
“Ah, I see,” she conceded. At least that’s one of us. I guess I’ll just have to devise another tactic like cocking my head slightly to the side or attaching distracting Mickey Mouse ears in manner of Lady GaGa.  Then again I could just get contact lenses.

Inside Style - Toes

Yogatoes®

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - June 17th 2010

I hate my toes. Fact. I spent many a year pretending to be a size 7 shoe when really I'm an 8. Yet another fact. Given my unfortunate digital inheritance and years of surreptitious foot binding, I am not privy to use of the term 'flip flop'. This is a source of great anxiety for me each summer. A few years ago I went to Greece and was told by a complete stranger that something could be done about my toes. She went so far as to recommend Harley Street. I spent the rest of that holiday knee-deep in sand. With my 2010 Spanish break looming, I've been desperate to find sandals that can double up as a cunning disguise.

Thus far, I found a pair of fringed gladiators on Asos.com; and a jewel/feather offering from River Island – neither of which cloaks said offending piggies.  With little or no choice, I’ve been forced to engage in D.I.Y. tactics – if you can call them that. Let’s just say my sartorial strategy isn’t exactly military precise. I bought some peacock feathers (as you do) from A. Rubanesque, convinced that I could successfully glue them onto the sandal toe post. I also cut tassels from a cross-body bag in the hope creating some boho toe camouflage. No go. Both missions bore the hallmark of WW2 scrim netting; rather than haute haberdashery.

Time for a Plan B: a toe ring. Eureka! How very clever of me. Or was it? Perhaps the adhesive fumes from the previous exercise clouded my judgement but I don’t think I bargained on just how many would be required to cover my prodigious phalanges. Something tells me circus freak chic is an oxymoron.  Maybe I could just make like Lady Godiva and wear bells on my toes? Then again she was starkers so I doubt anyone was really looking at her feet.

Failing that, there’s a contraption called Yogatoes® - a big hit Stateside according to the bloggers at Beaut.ie. With the help of a gelatinous toe separator (and $50), one’s trotters can allegedly achieve Zen-like perfection.  Hmm, smells like marketing hokum methinks. (Rich words from the girl who just purchased a ‘millionizing’ mascara.) With that, my quest (and neurosis) continues. In the meantime, if you hear the distant sound of bells, you know where to hide.

Inside Style - Online Shopping

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - June 3rd 2010

I got my credit card bill the other day.  Staggered at how much I spent, I took the time to scoop my jaw off the floor and assess the damage. iTunes, Asos, my-wardrobe.com – the list of e-tailers with whom I do business is, well, ‘robust’.  Pity my disposable income doesn’t share the same constitution.  Determined to get back in black, I vowed to examine my spending patterns with the help of some DIY behavioural therapy. Can’t afford a real financial advisor; hmm, wonder why?

My virtual shopping cart doth overfloweth; this cannot be denied. Why this month I bought a Charlie Chaplin bowler hat, chainmail shoulder epaulettes and Janet Jackson’s entire back catalogue of hits is anyone’s guess.  My Google shrink calls it the ‘cognitive disconnect’ – that sense of non-spending when clicking virtually at will. I suppose it’s a bit like ‘the Boots effect’ where going in to buy toothpaste, you invariably come out with an obscene amount of 3-for-2 offers and no idea of what you actually purchased.

Acknowledging your weakness is half the battle according to the popular psychology community. Clearly these folk haven’t heard of TheOutnet.com.  The last time I bid on their ‘Going, Going, Gone’ reverse auction, I clicked ‘Add to Bag’ too early and overpaid for a pair of Chloe wedges. Compelled to address my trigger finger issues and have a more salubrious tale of haggling to tell, I raised my virtual paddle just in time to snag a Marc Jacobs tote for  a mere €85.  In isolation, this is a prime example of chic-o-nomics; cumulatively, it speaks of a shop-a-holic.

Identifying one’s danger zones is another suggested way to kick the habit. Fancy a glass or three of vino on a Friday night?  Step away from the laptop lady! Maybe Google Labs could invent an add-on similar to ‘Mail Goggles’ whereby a series of math questions must be answered before being allowed access to eBay. ‘What is your current credit card balance?’ would do nicely or ‘How many months would it take to pay off that Tibi silk dress at a 9.5% APR?’ 

I prefer the idea of a real-time Skype intervention with one’s bank manager each time that ‘purchase’ button is pressed. Much scarier. I just need a savvier excuse than ‘it’s for a photoshoot’ or ‘my job requires it’.  Or, I could just apply some old-fashioned restraint.  Insert chuckle here.

Inside Style - Vanity Sizing

Someone in retail has been reading this!
@ Amazon.com

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - May 27th 2010

In an ideal world I would be a size 10. I wouldn’t have to call myself ‘an 11, really’ and would never cast a glance at a 12. I would also eat be able to eat Wagon Wheels unchecked- but I digress.

Rumour has it that some clever retailers have pipped me to the post with a trend called ‘vanity sizing’.  By making clothes bigger, women are forced to buy smaller and thus emotionally connect with the shop in question. Having a fat day? Not anymore!  The skinnier the tag, the fatter the profit margins - cha-ching!

To be frank, this Machiavellian marketing seems the stuff of urban legend. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against being duped into believing myself thinner – and will quite happily pay for the privilege. I’ve just yet to squeeze myself into an apocryphal 10. If anything, I think the high street has adopted a certain NAMA-like quality – a belt-tightening, pinch-inducing inability to make ends meet. It’s the classic example of ‘why give an inch, if it’s going to cost in fabric?’

Case in point – last week I purchased a size 16 guna in error at a certain Grafton Street store. Already at home and curious to see how it looked; I tried it on. It fit. I broke out the Sauvignon Blanc and turned up the Radiohead. This just couldn’t be right, could it? Who knows? Maybe denial isn’t a river in Africa after all. Or maybe, like Alice, I’ve been viewing my figure through the looking glass – a bit like those ‘magic mirrors’ in changing rooms.

But I’m not alone. Recently, a friend called me about a betrayal most foul. Two letters and an ampersand cheated her of a trusty size 14. “It wouldn’t zip!” she admitted shamefully.  “It was stuck just below my boobs and that’s my thinnest part!” Another cohort refuses to buy clothes bigger than her reported size. This often results in shopping boycotts peppered by the words, “I won’t cave; ever!”

With such strong anecdotal evidence of body bashing, there has never been a more appropriate time for minimisation.  Consider ‘vanity sizing’ a bit like an actor’s playing age - technically a 12, I can still pass for a 10; or with good lighting, an 8. Result. Now will someone please pass those Wagon Wheels.

Inside Style - Birthdays

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - May 20th 2010

It’s my birthday this week.  Rather than painting the town red, I’m looking forward to some low key interior decorating.  You see the sofa arrives this week; as does the new comfy chair. It’s all very exciting. So much so, I might actually be distracted from the thought of turning thirty-seven.  Contemplating the arrival of my late thirties is heavy; although according to my gay BFF Neil, late thirties start officially at thirty-nine...and a half. I like his thinking.

Despite his delightful miscalculations, the fact is I’m feeling it - old that is. Apart from cheating on fashion with furniture; to paraphrase Miss Carrie Bradshaw, I’ve been cheating on fashion full stop. From the presence of flat shoes in my closet to resisting hip yet pointless clothing, my inner sartorialist is growing up.  It’s not a fact to which I wilfully admit; but one that is admittedly a fact.

With age comes an insidious deference to practicality. Much like the 19A, it appears with little warning and never when you anticipated. Fashion-forward suddenly becomes fashion ‘wait a minute, just how short is that hem?’ Before you know it, you’ve got a capsule wardrobe of sensible basics and an aversion to the words ‘mini’ and ‘body con’.

Not that it’s such a bad thing. My twenty-something days of grabbing the Sunday paper in a Pat Butcher fur chubby never did pass as quirky at the local newsagent’s.  As for braving Old Testament-size hailstones while wearing a sleeveless jumpsuit? Been there, done that; bought the t-shirt two sizes too small and never wore it.
With reinforced logic comes an attendant disdain for fashion’s folly.

The other day, I overheard two girls discussing potential new hairstyles. “I want those white extensions like J-Woww on ‘Jersey Shore’,” said one; while the other extolled the virtues of Snooki’s vertiginous poof. In me rose an acute maternal urge to stage intervention. Given I am part-owner in a cat share with little skills in motherhood, I took this as read. 

That doesn’t mean I’ve totally sold out.  My new furniture may be a compensatory exercise in dodging the age bullet but I’m a tough old broad. Where there’s a will, there’s a jewel-encrusted Matthew Williamson kaftan, that’s what I say. Just don’t pan down to my feet. I’m probably wearing Fit Flops.

Inside Style - Plumes

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - May 13th 2010

Plumes.  For us fashion folk, that means feathers – ideally large decorative ones.  Flamingo, pheasant, ostrich – we’re not fussy. Factor in one volcanic hiccup and it’s a whole other catwalk.  Since Iceland began messing with our airspace and the ability to jet off at will, there’s a new sense of urgency afoot. Fashion Week frenzy? Puh-leez.  I’ll see you and raise you a stranded designer in Dublin Airport. 

You see it’s all about the patois. Ash won’t do and – too recession.  Plumes evoke a sense of power and majesty – even if that does entail less than regal ferry travel.  My most recent exchange involved Henry Holland’s PR. “Henry’s flight back home has been cancelled on account of the plume,” she explained. “Can you by any chance interview him earlier so he can catch the ferry?” How theatrical! Delighted to be part of the fashion histrionics, I made haste to our rendezvous where he and I chatted about kyboshed schedules and the elusive ‘arrival’ factor.  Will Henry make it to London to film another episode of Frock Me with gal pal Alexa Chung? Thank God for twitter updates; and yes, he did.

The last time I heard a PR get so flustered was London Fashion Week when front row royalty Naomi Campbell (finally) arrived for Vivienne Westwood’s Red Label show. “It’s fine; it’s fine,” the charge panted. “She’s here. It can all begin.” There’s nothing like a delayed arrival in fashion to pique interest; hence the term ‘fashionably late’.

With reports of said plume not dispersing for another five months, the worst may be yet to come.  Just imagine the fall-out: models being forced to inter-rail from Paris to Milan, couture couriered by jet ski, photoshoots directed by Skype; Anna Wintour travelling Stena Line.  Then again, the kerfuffle may well foster a new style order; think Moet snipes on ferry crossings (with straw of course), an Orient Express revival and Breton stripes as standard.  No measly 10kg luggage allowance, no 8”x8” plastic bag challenge for cosmetics and most of all, no taking off your shoes to walk through a metal detector. Result.

Sure, it might take twice as long to get anywhere. And yes, the term ‘sail and rail’ may take some getting used to but us lot are all about the arrival. Now, if we could only engineer a red carpet at Dun Laoghaire port...

Inside Style - Holidays

Matthew Williamson @ Net-a-Porter.com

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine – May 6th 2010 

 It’s that time of year again. The inaugural summer holiday booking season has begun. Where to go? Who to go with? And most importantly, what to pack? Clickini.com is winging a selection of Betty-Paige inspired two-pieces to chez Kimmage as we speak. As for that pesky 10kg clothing allowance? Just call me McGyver. Done and done. Er...not quite. One critical question still hangs in the balance – when do we go? You see, there’s a rumour afoot that Ireland may only see sun in the month of June. July and August? Welly time. Personally, I’d like to increase the cost-per-wear ratio of my silk backless jumpsuit; not to mention the pile of pristine maxi dresses waiting to fulfil their manifest destiny. Booking that Costa del Sol break later in the summer can only mean two things – kids and humidity. Not that I have anything against kids, I just don’t want tone splashing pool water into my margarita. As for humidity, one drop and my hair expands like Ready Brek. (Think J-Lo ‘The Early Years’.)

This isn’t a fair trade-off. Now I’m forced into actually watching weather reports on RTE, BBC and Sky, and reading the Farmer’s Almanac to see if there’s the slightest possibility this rumour could be just trash talk. A few things I’ve noted: the worse the weather, the more avant-garde Jean Byrne’s clothing choices. Good call on the use of metallics when telling us global warming has dealt us the short straw. Also, Xpose made reference recently to a Donegal postman who claims this year will be tantamount to the Elysian summer of 1995. Aisling O’Loughlin – the heat’s on you missus, if you’re even a centrigrade off the mark! The last thing I want is to be greeted at Dublin Airport with grey skies and the sympathetic (yet smug) quip, “It was so sunny while you were away!”

If it so happens that we’ll relive another Irish ‘summer’, I’ve invested in some back-up threads. Next to my diaphanous floaty tunics are some slick-as-Rick tribal and animal print ponchos (£55) from Rainwave.co.uk. One hundred per cent waterproof and kitted out with their own travel bag, these bad boys stick two manicured fingers up to the sky. Sure, I’ll be grumbling, my tan may have faded but dammit I’ll look fabulous!

Inside Style - Jeggings

My Secret Weapon

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine – April 29th 2010

Jeggings. The name alone makes me wince. Call me old-fashioned but why does denim require genetically modification? More disturbingly, why the hell are these hybrids taking over the high street? From what I understand, the stretchy jean imposter is both comfy and easy on the thigh. This puts it at an advantage to its more draconian skinny counterpart. Much like Marxism however, the jegging is sound in principle; untenable in practice. Cast your glance at a pair thrust into Uggs with nowt but a crop top for company and it can well scar your retina for life. Nothing socially democratic there. 

I wasn't about to take that chance. The memory of extracting myself from a pair of spray-ons in the BT2 changing rooms was enough. Skinning a sausage would have looked sexier. Since then my pear like curves have taken a vow of chastity - a promise that this season's denim trend has caused me to rethink. Despite my unwillingness to put out for a pair of skinnies, let alone jeggings, my quest for 'the one' remains. Boyfriend? Too fat rapper. Harem? Insta-man bits. Overalls? No John Boy. No. There's a reason why skinnies are only worn by the super thin and the super young - because they can. Do you think Kate Moss frets about possible loss of circulation in her thighs? Hardly. Fashion at its most fascist.

Funnily enough, it took a pregnant woman and The Afternoon Show to change my mind about jeggings. While styling a maternity fashion segment for the programme, I sneakily tried on a pair from Topshop (€53) meant for one of the models. Not only did they achieve what skinny jeans couldn't (i.e. not turning me into a human turnip), their discrete expandable elastic panel proved commodious enough to accommodate any fat day. Oh joy. Oh insane rapture. Equality achieved! The possibilities were endless - the ability to breathe, cross one's legs, bend at the knee. Whether wearing maternity jeggings will ever be taken seriously by the fashion elite is a moot point but I'm prepared to preach like a crazy convert. It's a new revolution - one that holds manifold possibilities for all body types. Go on, laugh. But if I start seeing less-than-pregnant looking girls milling around Mamas and Papas, I'll know my work is done. In the meantime, I've got a soapbox to mount.

Inside Style - Clogged Up

Instrument of Mass Destruction

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magzine - April 23rd 2010

Clogs. I blame Karl L. If Chanel didn't resurrect the Dutch footwear on the SS/10 catwalks, maybe I wouldn't flinch passing Temple Bar. Let me explain. Last Saturday, the sun decided to shine and dare I say, it was warm. With the Fashion Bloggers' Brunch at Milano's that afternoon, I thought it fitting to don my Gestutz maxi dress, satchel and Zara clogs. How very 'Alexa'. After some chow and chat, I made haste to Crow Street for my four o'clock hair appointment at Anthony Murray's. Call it sunny confidence, or two glasses of Pinot Grigio, but I felt cavalier enough to dismount the foot path and traverse the cobbles on five-inch wooden stacks.

Not a good idea. No sooner had I made contact with the inhospitable terrain when I experienced the mother of all speed wobbles...in front of an audience of teenage boys. Kindly they spared my mortification by stifling their laughter. Pride aside, it made me consider the ramifications of literally becoming a fashion victim. Blisters - check, bunions - check, pain-induced weeping - check. Hmm, surely there has to be a way to have one's heels and wear 'em too?

Well, according to London's Institute of Physics, there is a clever formula that can calculate an individual's maximum heel height. Based on Pythagoras' theorem (and you thought you'd never use that outside of the Leaving Cert!), the quantum mechanics takes into account variables such as shoe size, 'pull' factor, cost, years of experience, fashionability and alcohol consumption. If I, for example - a size eight veteran heel fan with almost twenty years' experience, wear the this season's clogs when sober; I can handle an five-inch heel height. However, if I consume three units of alcohol (two small glasses of wine), the 'safe' heel height plummets (along with yours truly).  Factor in a stony catwalk and its curtains folks.

Not one to be defeated by fashion's foibles, I've since invested in some sole grips from Aldo which provide enough traction to avoid becoming roadkill. Now it just remains for me to avoid losing a shoe mid-stride. Geisha steps are an option as is the customary toe curl. Although the latter is often accompanied by a constipated grimace. Not a good look. The verdict it seems is still out. Although, most would agree not to trust a man who wears shades indoors; let alone one carrying a mantilla fan. I've got my eye on you Lagerfeld.

Inside Style - 'Irish Tans'

Doors to my shame

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor – as featured in The Dubliner magazine - April 15th 2010

Summer. Pah. I don’t believe a word of it. If the past three years are anything to go by, I should be buying wellies and rain ponchos rather than ditsy floral playsuits. Although I do admit the former to be rather handy at Electric Picnic. Regardless, our fickle clime does little to dissuade my inner American from pining after a good ‘aul tan. You know, the kind that makes you look less like a pasty corpse, more like a Ralph Lauren campaign model. Sigh. If only...

It seems the melanin gods have a less colourful life in store for me. Since emigrating in reverse so many years ago, my skin has adjusted to the rain/wind/possibly hail/maybe sunshine combo that besets our fair isle. I guess that puts me out of the running as the face of Rockstar Tan. Auditions are being held in Arnotts on Saturday April 24th in a nationwide search to find a potential model for the brand. The prize of a 1st Option contract, a Lili Forberg shoot and a spread in Stellar magazine can do little however to persuade my limbs for a shot at the big time.

Let me fill you in. Not so long ago I was having dinner in Saba with a stylist friend of mine from LA. So keen was I to emulate her West Coast sheen, we hit up Brown Thomas for some Fake Bake before our Pad Thai. Without any liquid courage, she somehow convinces me to be sprayed in the toilets. Just my legs of course. Would only take a minute. Soon I find myself stripped to the smalls and making like John Wayne at Glastonbury.

Then...the smoke alarm goes off. Somehow (a member of staff?) knocks on the toilet door telling us to get out. Panicked, I try getting dressed; something the bottle says is a bad idea (see: streaks). Not so fast. What about the brown goo all over the toilet, the floor, the sink, the wall? After desperately trying to clean the mess with my cardigan, (much to my friend’s amusement) we exit hastily through the restaurant, hoping not to be noticed. Several glances from unsuspecting diners confirm that hope is indeed a medicine for the miserable. What’s more, it starts to rain.

Needless to say, my scarred psyche still smarts when passing a beauty counter. As for Clarendon Street? Let’s not even go there...

Inside Style - Street Style Paps

Hermes girl en rue

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - April 8th 2010 

Street style paps - they're everywhere. They've even infiltrated the rarefied Gallic style sanctum of Hermes. That's right. Enshrined in the Brown Thomas window display are two campaign posters of an Hermes girl and woman shot 'en rue'. A candid camera ploy designed to edge up the brand? Perhaps and how very clever. If the recent Face Hunter (www.facehunter.blogspot.com) book signing at Noble and Beggerman was anything to go by, hipster Dublin seems to have an insatiable thirst for this burgeoning fashion medium. The face hunter in question - Swiss blogger Yvan Rodic - owes his cult status to those insouciantly chic pics of passersby we could only wish to emulate. Lest you think everyone from London and Paris bears a unique posing gene (pigeon toes and dislocated shoulders), think again. Rodic admits to taking up to twenty frames of a subject before committing to a shot.

Pity that kindness wasn't extended to me when recently stopped by The Style Scout (www.thestylescout.com). It was the last day of London Fashion Week. Sore feet, back-to-back deadlines and an eye allergy added to my 'wilted' look. Cosmic spite being just that, I was asked to pose for my likeness. One click and Mr. Scout was gone. Two weeks later and I receive an email from a colleague entitled 'Look What I Found'. It was yours truly looking truly awful. I felt like the girl in the bottom two on Top Model with the least frames.  Has it come to this? Is full-hair and make-up a requirement before attempting the cobbles at Somerset House? Or do you need an arsenal of poses to square up to the Dublin Streets (www.dublinstreets.blogspot.com) duo?

Still, I don't see how the common man's catwalk can increase the Hermes bottom line - what with NAMA so very now. The closest I'll get to a Birkin bag is pressing my nose against the glass. I bet even that will be taxed. But hey, there's always Tesco. The supermarket chain has launched its own tribute to the iconic tote without the waiting list and €10,000 price tag. For just €20 you can make like Posh and snap up your own collection in teal and purple. What's more, you can leave it behind you on the Luas without having a mild stroke over the insurance policy. Sure, you may never get papped 'en rue' by Hermes (summarily ignored perhaps) but then again, maybe that's a good thing.

Jordan Becomes an IT Girl

Katie Price unveils her own brand of iPods

From: Andy
To: Neil, Annmarie
Subject: I'm wiping out the Pritt Stick and iPods

Check this out. It says 'techie yet practical'.


From: Neil
To: Andy, Annmarie
Subject: Re: I'm wiping out the Pritt Stick and iPods

This is exactly what the IT gays have been waiting for, the collision of of tech & tat. Next up will be Girls Aloud being shot around the Large Hadron Collider.

From: Andy
To: Neil, Annmarie
Subject: Re: Re: I'm wiping out the Pritt Stick and iPods

I thought it was the Sugarbabes getting loaded with Froyo; or maybe that's Katie Price as well.

Falling into Autumn

To say I was 'off the mark' about this summer was, well, off the mark. I mistook former lazy days of the season as a continuum - ones that would extend into that of 2010 with trademark languidness. I booked a holiday, planned little and prepared to go with the flow. Little did I know that flow would spiral into a vortex of back-to-back photoshoots and general fashion frenzy. Hey, it's been a blast but gosh gee golly, I'm beat. With the snugly wools of autumn nestling back onto the shop shelves, here are a few things to look forward to:


Irish Examiner Weeeknd A/W 10 11 Trend Report
Out this Saturday, September 4th featuring the must-haves for the season. Photographer - Miki Barlok, Model and stylist - Annmarie O'Connor, Make-up - Kate O'Reilly, Hair - Suzanne Malone.

Brown Thomas Style Workshops
This Thursday, September 2nd pop into Brown Thomas from 5.30 pm for some late night shopping; and to see me talk through the latest trends of the season.

TK Maxx
I had the privilege of styling the TK Maxx media day last week and discovering Gold Label which launches Thursday, September 3rd. What is Gold Label? A merchandised rack front-and-centre of all the top catwalk designers - current season - from €129.99. Nice!

Redesign
You may have noticed a new look I Blog Fashion. I've been dragged kicking and screaming into a new Blogger redesign. I'm still playing around with it so some tweaks are in order but it's getting there.

Shhh!
I was honoured to play a part in a charity initiative with one of Ireland's foremost designers. Very honoured indeed. Details to-be-announced. Watch this space!!

Photo: behind the scenes at The Dubliner A/W 10 photoshoot

The Dubliner - AW10 Photoshoot

Pick up a copy of The Dubliner with tomorrow's Evening Herald newspaper and take a look at the five-page AW10 photoshoot which I styled. I'm very pleased indeed!

Credits
Stylist: Annmarie O'Connor
Photography: Beta Bajgartova
Hair: Maurice Flynn
Make-up: Kate O’Reilly using MAC
Model: Laura K @ 1^st Option
Stylist’s Assistant: Catherine Glasheen
Photographer’s Assistant: Gail Ryan
Location: No. 10 Ormond Quay, Dublin 1

Irish Tatler

Pick up the September issue of Irish Tatler today and check out Talking Point on page 16 where the lovely Kirstie McDermott I debate the ultimate purchase - fashion or beauty? Check out my column below:

It’s been six months; six months of delicious anticipation since previewing the autumn winter collections at London Fashion Week. Now that the first drop of leather, furs and knits have snuggled up onto the high street rails, the real fun begins. Jaunty English capes, Earhart-inspired aviator jackets, shearling-lined boots, far flung Aztec prints - each of these brings with it a sense of history and future possibilities. Who will I be today? What will happen when I wear this? And more importantly, how does it make me feel?

Let’s face it. There’s nothing quite so inebriating as the first encounter with a lust-have garment. It’s like trying out a new lover – exciting, filled with possibilities and when the price tag forbids, a touch naughty. As Vivienne Westwood once said, ‘fashion is eventually about being naked’; and rightly so. If a garment makes you feel like an HD-ready version of Gina Lollobrigida, it’s worth the shekels.

I for one exhibit a damn near visceral reaction to clothes. The stroke of velvet and language of brocade are all so seductively tangible, it’s difficult not to provide a soundtrack to the sensation. And nothing quite beats the heady buzz of scoring that Alexander Wang jacket – the victory march down Grafton Street and that smug smile which says ‘he’s with me!’

True, such longing can sometimes lead to heartbreak (finding out Jimmy Choos are obscenely narrow) and in some cases fatal attraction (refusing to take that Annoushka ring off my finger). But as most gals know, true love is more often the case. The thought of buying a new bag to replace my love-worn Vivienne Westwood bowler feels like emotional infidelity. As for my Chloe jacket; she was worth every penny over the years. In fact as a 10 year cost-per-wear ratio goes, I probably owe Stella McCartney and Phoebe Philo a few bob.

Still, even with such trusty lovers hanging dutifully in my closet, a little window shopping never did any harm. In fact, I’m sure Ms. Lollobrigida would approve.

The Suitcase

"Where are you going?" "Are you just back from holidays?" "Mommy why is that big lady carrying a suitcase?" These are just some of the queries that beset me when pulling clothes.
As a practical soul, I carry a trusty trolley dolley so as not to lead people to believe I am shopping my way out of the recession. Unwittingly, this tactic has raised its own set of scruples.
Only recently I stopped for a coffee break in Starbucks when the barista, bemused by my excess baggage, enquired as to why I always carry a suitcase. "I'm a stylist" didn't seem to wash. Each time I pop in for a skinny latte, she wants further explanation. I think she's convinced I'm harbouring refugees or that I'm some sort of prodigious cleptomaniac. "Maybe she thinks you're fabulously homeless?" offered a friend.
Then there was that guy in a namelss bar who exclaimed "You're the girl with the suitcase!" Since then, I've been fostering Howard Hughes-like paranoia, convinced the greater Grafton Street catchment has me pegged as an oddity. Ah, the glamourous world of styling...