Hi everyone. Hi there.
For a little while back there, I fell out of love with blogging. What happened was this: I applied for (and got into) the MA in Fashion course at Central Saint Martins, which I had been working towards for… Hmm. About two years. That two years was punctuated with a lot of frustration, hard work and heartbreak in both my personal and professional life. A lot.
One thing kept me going when I split up with my long-term boyfriend, quit a job that was not quite what it advertised itself to be and moved back in with my parents in a small town that was, and is, slowly dying due mostly to drugs and emigration. It was the thought of getting out, moving to London and doing my dream course that stopped me from melting into a big fat puddle of self-pity, Ovaltine and Take A Break magazines.
In May, I found out that I was moving to London. I had the course.
In May, I lost the urge to work altogether. Everything seemed entirely pointless.
So, from May to September, I had what can tastefully be termed a lost summer. I made so many brilliant new friends, who I miss immensely now that I’ve moved over, had some brand new experiences and learned a lot of valuable things (not least how to throw a successful club night, but that’s a different post altogether).
I stopped blogging. In fact, I stopped writing altogether bar what was required of me for work. My attention span was shot. I barely read more than ten pages at a time. I finished approximately zero books over the summer. I did however, for the first time in almost twenty years, get a tan – the evidence of which is still fading around my shoulders.
Over the course of a few months, I became a different person. I joined a band of amazing artists and renegades and explored the Irish countryside – and if you’re imagining this through a Sofia Coppola-ish, slightly twee filter, that’s EXACTLY how it was. It was the very best summer of my life, though not untouched by spots of drama.
But here I am. I live in London now, a city so rich with people and ideas and beautiful things that I feel that my brain might burst if I don’t type everything out through my fingers. At the very least, I can start writing posts again, instead of just putting up my weekly Cork Independent columns.
This isn’t a particularly personal blog. But this is a personal post. Being personal makes me uncomfortable – slightly ironic as in real life I have a definite tendency to overshare. The short version is this – I’m back to blog another day.
And now for something completely different.
London is full of nonconformists. In fact, it’s so full of nonconformists that they all sort of blend into each other. A massive nonconforming mass. I love it. I fall in love on the Tube at least twice a day.
London style is such that this 1968 gem, How to be a Nonconformist, by Elissa Jane Karg, still holds some very relevant fashion tips, not least the one about not wearing socks.
You can see the rest of this book over on Brainpickings.