Searchers Keepers, Losers Weepers

I definitely put in the research when it comes to checking off my second-hand sartorial wish-list. Nothing beats the joy of finding a pair of leather Chelsea boots for £5 on eBay, a suede skirt for £10 via Etsy, my new favourite tartan sweater from ASOS Marketplace for £40, or, in this case, the much-yearned for By Malene Birger leopard print coat from Vestiaire Collective. Sniffing around second hand sites may be time-consuming, but in my book, it pays maja dividends. Especially as this 'second hand' coat, with 50% off, was actually brand new with tags. 

I'm really enjoying the transient trend which approves of 24/7 pyjama wearing: ostensibly, you could wear a printed two-piece set in the daytime and a slinky 'lingerie inspired' slip dress, come evening and the entire time you'd be ready for bed. I actually have neither of these get-ups, but I do have these tartan trousers from Topshop - I love the contrast of leopard with tartan - which I wear both inside and outside of the boudoir. Hubba bubba.

Social Media Turns Us All Into Children: What Does The Tale of Elan and Diane Say About Us?

The fury over the 'Elan and Diane' spoof has been unprecedented; almost rabid. For those of you that don't spend your days titillating yourself over a Twitter timeline - although the tale of lucky Elan has in fact been told in The Daily Mail, The Telegraph and the Guardian - here's a quick breakdown of the episode: American TV producer, Elan Gale (The Bachelor and such like) was on a standardly delayed Thanksgiving flight, with a particularly formidable woman (dubbed 'Diane in 7A'), whose rude requests for the flight to hurry up got so up in Elan's grill, that he initiated a vociferous row, in note form ("eat my d*ck" Elan wrote to his middle-aged nemesis, numerously), which culminated in 'Diane' slapping him, when they landed at the airport. He also live-tweeted the whole interaction. The Twittersphere lapped up his every tweet. He gained about 160,000 followers from that exchange, although I'm confused as to how, with his modest original following, he managed to start trending.

Much of the focus has been on the sexist vulgarity of telling a middle-aged woman to "eat my d*ck" - a redundant plea, really, given that the chances of Elan receiving a BJ from 'Diane' seemed unlikely. In fact, it was because he didn't find Diane attractive, that her Mean Girls repertoire annoyed him. If he'd actually wanted to receive a BJ from her, then he'd have no doubt sent her notes of condolence, instead, asking if she needed a hug (and/or more). That said, what made everyone lose their proverbial was when the entire 'Diane in 7A' incident was revealed as a ruse. Even Elan himself is bemused that his 'fake event'  (of which he'd previously tweeted many) became news and that no-one was doing any fact-checking.

The ability to lie on social media is a terrifying reality. You may be lying in bed, scrunched in a ball, bawling like a baby -- but, actually, you just uploaded a picture on Instagram of you and all your friends. Your social media reality says "I'M SOOO HAPPY TODAY!" Whereas your actual reality depicts someone having a full-scale melt-down. Equally, we all embellish on Twitter. When posting bon-mots about our day, we might *tweak* it a bit for the humorists. What @lifeofelan revealed is what happens when mere 'tweaking' segues into out-and-out Liar Liar Pants on Fire. 

In The Words of Drake: "Show Me Love, Show Me F*cking Love"

It's always good to bring Drake into the proceedings, to edge sh*t up a bit. You can tell he's only gone *so* far with me, though, as I'm still scatter-gunning the good-girl asterisks like pepper spray. Anyway, what I am here to say, today -- not always clear, I will give you that -- is that you can now come and follow me on Facebook. Oh, and Instagram. And Twitter. I'm *really* fun and/or funny on all these mediums. Sometimes.

Anyway please do come follow my on this myriad of social channels, not only so that I can smother you with unwanted information, but also so that you never miss a blog post, or a link to a brilliant article, or even snapshots of my published work. If you're not much interested in my prancing around fashion shots, then please do come visit for my social commentary, as I alternate between the two. One day it could be faux fur... the next day it could be everyday sexism. Hurrah! 

Facebook: www.pandorasykes.com/pandorasykesblog



Instagram: @pinsykes
I'm a little embarrassed that a fluffy cavapoo (King Charles Cavalier + Poodle = Best Dog Hybrid Ever) is taking centre stage on my Instagram feed, but there we go. 

Twitter: @pinsykes

Pinterest: @pinsykes

[Sorry, Sorry. Self-promo now over!]

Eric + me

I wore this coat for a weekend in Stockholm (a ‘city break’, if we subscribe to one of the noughties’ cringier terminologies) earlier this year and amidst the landscape of black – black Acne leather jackets, black Cheap Monday jeans and black Won Hundred boots – my tan suede coat stuck out like a sore poodle.

Poodles, schmoodles. This vintage coat is one of my best ever eBay buys (it clocked in at around £30.). Unlike much of my wardrobe, I’ve never gone ‘off’ it in the 3 years I have owned it. I like to lend to my person a whiff of seventies Scandinavia (Bjorn Borg is usually my Swedish point of reference, for no particular reason whatsoever, but this time let’s go with Eric the mountaineer) by pairing this coat with a polo neck -- in this case, a snowy white one, to emulate Eric’s ski thermals. Eric may only be my imaginary sartorial friend, but I do like the way he dresses me. It’s just a shame he couldn’t buy me some real leather trousers, instead of Topshop’s (admittedly very good) faux pair.

Celebrities and Charity: It's Complex, Even When You've Got Buckets of $$$

Under Bill Gates's 'Giving Pledge' scheme, 92 billionaires - including philanthropist Warren Buffet - donate 50% of their wages to charity. When you're a billionaire, the parameters are perhaps clearer. But for the casual Hollywood millionaire, how do you define generosity? Let us take a case study, such as Kim Kardashian's recent eBay sale for The Philippines. 

Kim's been the subject of even more column inches than usual, recently. There's her other half, Kanye, being a standard mega-ass ("While I was out in Paris I wanted to meet with the head of Louis Vuitton and he said I don't understand why we need to meet with you. I said, "let me explain to you why you need to meet with me. Everyone in New York City right now don't buy any Louis Vuitton until after January. Now do you want to meet with me [Vuitton]? Influence. They think that I don't realise my power"). AS IF ANYONE WOULD DOUBT YOUR DEDICATION TO SELF-REALISATION, KANYE. Then there's Kim's actual ass, naked as the day she was born, riding Kanye - who, in turn, is riding a motorcycle - via his new music video for 'Bound 2'. They're basically having sexytime, although Kanye is fully dressed, singing and riding a bike - side note: goodness knows how he can see through all that fleshy bounty - whilst Kim is naked, contorted around him like a sleepy eel, (is she sleepy? Or are those sexy eyes? I'm just not trained enough to know), f*nny-squeaking around on a pair of Yeezy's drop-crotch leather 'joggers'. 

So, yeah. That music video. That baby daddy. And now, that charity sale. 

Knitted Doppelgängers

Such is the omnipresent outpouring of love for the haute plaid print, it seems a bit of a non-statement to say that I liked Stella and Celine's AW13 checks. In fash-un terms, it's the equivalent of saying that you love the sun. Or Krispy Kremes. Anyhow, Stella's plaid knit and Celine's laundry checkered red/blue two-piece have been styled in every editorial - whether commercial or arty; monthly or bi-annual - from here to Timbuktu, in the last few months.

Whilst I prove to be more of a sartorial sheep than I hoped, by dint of such yearnings, those shenanigans are clearly beyond mah piggy bank. Luckily for me, I have an enthusiastic nous for vintage sifting, especially when it comes to ASOS Marketplace, which I am currently having a total love affair with. I chanced upon this vintage tartan polo neck through Style Servings' tartan post (I'm actually double thanking her, both for featuring me in that and the tip-off). I own a lot of tartan - as regular readers people with eyes will easily see - but this is the first time a plaid jumper has entered the tarty party. Oh, the tarty party. It's growing by the week and I love each of my checkered offspring more and more each day. Check you later.

Boys Vs. Girls: The Real Losers In Gender Segregation

When I started university last year  seven years ago, the most exciting thing by far was the presence of boys. Having been embroiled in single sex education from the ages 4-18, the thought that I could walk past boys now on a daily basis, was too thrilling for words. (Imagine how thrilling life is now -- I can still walk past boys on a daily basis!) I loved that I could go to the library, ostensibly do some studying, even actually do some studying and I might see someone male. It wasn't even that I had to fancy them; just knowing that they were there was somehow illicit. I'd only ever seen boys at parties, or at the weekends. I'd never browsed the library with one (I wasn't in Dawson's Creek, sadly) or sat, biro poised, just a foot away from a boy, biro poised also.

I was fascinated by everything about their daily routine. I had always thought that boys were wild, untameable beasts who got up at tea time. I'm not entirely sure why I assumed that anyone at Leeds University studying English Literature would be like Ronnie Wood, but no matter. So I was pleasantly surprised to see them in the library at 9am. Seeing boys everywhere felt like I had suddenly arrived into 'life'. As you can see, the library was my theatre; the landscape upon which my discovery of mixed sex education, nay life, played out. 

So the news that there is debate over whether the UK should have gender segregated university lectures strikes me as very disappointing indeed. For the people who have enjoyed a mixed education, the presence of the other sex will prove no distraction. For those who were educated in single sex institutions, it definitely is a distraction but one that us single-sexers both deserve and need. University is the time for us to get our head around the presence of BOYSBOYSBOYS and GIRLSGIRLSGIRLS in the workplace. If gender segregation presses ahead, you'll severely compromise a graduate's first job. "Priscilla! STOP staring at the boy photocopying and file your work, NOW." Or, "David, YES Priscilla's typing very competently on her keyboard, but there's no need to gawp about it." Life will be like one extended school disco: boys on the right, girls on the left. The other sex will be a novelty; something to either by intimidated by, or trivialise (for the record, I always found boys intimidating rather than trivial.)

Super Furry Animal

It was an unlikely collaboration, but one which grabbed my attention the minute I spotted it. Garbage's gal Shirley Manson x & Other Stories and specifically this faux fur inky blue-black polo neck. That’s right -- it’s not a jacket, it’s a jumper. Which means that taking it off is such a kerfuffle, that often I’d rather just grin dementedly through the astonishing heat. I know London is very chilly right now, but the moment you hit the tube, say, or a shop, it begins to broil me like a piece of gammon.

The great thing about microwaveable jumpers, though, is that they mean I can maintain bare legs. Huzzah. Nothing goes better with (faux) fur than (faux) leather and this Finders Keepers skater number is one of the best. The minimal palate offsets the super furry monster up top. I can't stop stroking my furry stomach, like a hamster, about to give birth. But never fear, all this concoction is giving birth to is a legion of inky blue-black fur balls.

Growing Up Too Fast vs. Arrested Development; And Why You Can Find Many Of Us In The Hinterland Between

We've long been terrified that children are growing up too fast. For the girls: supermarkets selling bras for bee-stung chests; the iPhone becoming the new pencil case; and ten-year-olds calling each other 'badass bitches'. For the boys: violent video games; an initiation into porn before they've even reached that stage; and the pressure to be as 'cool' as A$AP Rocky before they've stopped sleeping with the light on. There are histrionics over the omnipresence of Miley and Rihanna's T 'n A, Miley and Rihanna's Insta-spliffs, Hailee Steinfeld's Miu Miu campaign, Kendal Jenner's designer clad existence, even Romeo Beckham being cast in a Burberry advert ("she's forcing him into her fashion industry!" screamed some publications.)

In the 7 years that I have (reluctantly) stopped being a teenager, things have changed irrevocably. From the teenager's zealous embrace of fashion (I was clad in Gap till the age of fourteen), to their manipulation of technology (including Instagram domination, SnapChat bullying and worrying forays on Tinder), to their knowledge of extremely violent and hyper-sexual material (try hiding an 18-rated movie from a 13-year-old who knows a Netflix password, or has an iTunes account), to their command of language (if you only want to see how much more teenagers swear nowadays, then watch the excellent The Descendants), to their casual embrace of far more drugs than I could even list. 

Every day I'm doubling

Apologies for the lack of full-length images; essentially, it's a tale of technological woe. I dropped my iPhone down the loo the Sunday before last - apparently, this is the most common form of female iPhone destroyal, according to Mz Carphone Warehouse - and in my excitement at receiving my new handset, the next morning, I dropped my camera on it's snout and now the little ole lens won't retract. My poor little Canon Power Shot is stuck with a permanent errection, requiring one very expensive camera hospital visit and all I have on my computer is an incomplete story. Bah. 

Anyway, these pictures tell a similar story to that which is writ large on this blog. Doubles are nothing new, for me, although this time I'm treating you to the eyesore that is two at once: double leopard, double tartan. One hopes that the Helmut 'yoga pants' go someway to streamline the whole affair a deux, but seeing as you can't see them, there probably wasn't any point me mentioning them.