Into my locker goes the uniform…
Out of my locker comes the fabulous!
As soon as George Clooney (my silver fox fur stole) embraces my shoulders, my regality shows – Gavino di Vino, world conquering dilettante.

My clip clop shoes send me strutting out into a wistful September evening on the embankment. The darkening skies tell of the colder months that lie ahead, but have not yet taken those long days away.

Shoulders back, chin up, sashay and sway over the bridge, my expression telling pedestrians I’m much more interested in my own aesthetic that the spectacular London view that lies over the railings.
Hurried city life calls for unorthodox measures – I take a pitstop on the wall in Trafalgar Square, Nelson peering down at me from his lofty height. Obviously, he’s judging me for applying my Claire’s accessories eyeshadow with the light of my iPod and a freebie Gucci mirror.
Only the best know how to make street side makeup application look glamorous!

A flutter of the lids and I’m up again, channeling Marlene Dietrich and Alexis Colby simultaneously as I flounce down my urban runway.
Piccadilly Circus.

A paradise for the wide-eyed tourist.
Hell for a long-term Londoner.
I like to think of myself as a hybrid of the two: knowing enough to realise the tackiness of it all; optimistic enough to love it anyway.


Crowds of Italians coo as I sway my wavy hips across the square, happy to be a eye-catching feature on a selfie-stick captured tourist shot.
The striking curves of my silhouette caress the curves of Regent Street. Heels pounding the pavement, I pass the closed but invitingly-lit shop fronts, heading for Karl Lagerfeld.


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