The Last Licentiate Column (For Now)

The view of the Lee from my old flat on North Main Street. Sigh. I wonder where that jacket is?

The view of the Lee from my old flat on North Main Street. Sigh. I wonder where that jacket is?

Alright Stevie G, you’re taking the piss. Just when I sat down to write this, my very last column, the veteran broadcaster, DJ and general nurturer of Cork’s creative talent, tells us that he’s leaving us. I didn’t have any thunder to steal, but if I did, I’d be rummaging through Stevie’s record bag trying to find it.

Cork has changed, lads, I can see it from all the way over here in London. It’s not the way it was when I first started writing for this fine paper in 2009. We were deep in the throes of a recession, the novelty only starting to wear off. Off in the distance was the cultural revitalising of a truly brilliant city; one I was immensely proud to call my home for more than six years. While Cork is perhaps better known in recent years for the flood of musical talent pouring out of The Pavilion, you can’t deny the creative output in other areas; film, art and, lest we forget, fashion.

When the Cork Independent’s editor Deirdre first suggested that I write a fashion column, I had my doubts. I knew that I loved clothes, but the problem was that I didn’t know very much about trends and definitely didn’t care about adhering to them. I still highly suspect that she only gave me the column to stop my aunt, confusingly also called Deirdre, from mentioning her fab writer niece every ten seconds in conversation. To both Deirdres, I will always be grateful. You gave me my first real leg up into the world of journalism. Without both of you, I don’t know where I’d be. Working on a building site in New South Wales, probably.

The Cork Independent is pretty unusual, in that it’s a free sheet that isn’t total crap. I was allowed to talk about pretty much anything I wanted, which is almost unheard of in print these days, doubly so for a writer with relatively little writing experience. I was allowed to be an honest voice, even if that honest voice was only talking about a nice hat that the writer saw on a woman on North Main Street.

I have been writing this column for four years, more or less. I have changed as the city changed and, while there is no way that I could outgrow such a unique place, there were unique opportunities presented to me as I learned more about my chosen subject and (hopefully) became a better writer. I would have been a fool not to pick them up. So, pick them up I did. I left. I moved to London, where I’m now doing stuff that I would never have thought of back in the days when staring at a blank screen, wondering how to talk about pink, was a weekly ritual.

I love Cork, I do. I still get sad when I think that I can’t just walk down the road and call into Miss Daisy Blue (still one of my favourite vintage shops ever) or order an Eggs Benedict at Liberty Grill. Sometimes I get so maudlin I even get nostalgic over avoiding the unsuitable boys I kissed, now almost a decade ago (!) in the Brog.

We change though, we get older. Cities change like people. Sometimes, the city you loved isn’t the city that exists anymore. It’s time to give up my corner of the newspaper, and by extension Cork itself. Thank you all for reading. It’s been quite a trip.

Licentiate Column 23/01/14: Breasts, Beauty and Wearing a Cure

Better living through chemistry

Wearable technology is really the new buzz-phrase that will seriously affect women in 2014 over all trends. not just because it can make life a little easier, but because one day it could  well save them.

The development of new, wearable technology may be a reprieve for the thousands of breast cancer sufferers who, due to side effects, cannot take the potentially life-saving drug Tamoxifen. A new study, undertaken by Central Saint Martins student Sarah da Costa, suggests that wearing clothing impregnated with the drug may be a viable alternative to taking the drug orally.

Tamoxifen, which has been roundly hailed as a miracle cure, is a hormone treatment that effectively binds itself to cancer cells and prevents further tumour growth. It also leads to a host of unwelcome side effects ranging from menopause-like symptoms such as hot flushes and the cessation of periods to an advanced risk of endometrial cancer. Like it or not, breasts have become a sign of an essential part of womanhood. We obsess over size and shape, we pop them on a shelf and we strap them fast to our ribs when a trip to the gym is involved. The irony of a life (and breast) saving drug that also mimics the menopause is that it may make a women feel like less of one while essentially saving her.

What if, instead of taking the drug, you could just wear it? Da Costa has been heavily involved in research of biopolymers, naturally occurring molecules that could easily facilitate absorption of medication through the skin. She hopes that, through technological development of these biopolymers, that Tamoxifen could be embedded in a bra and administered on a constant low-dose basis, which would attack tumours at source and lessen the unwanted side-effects.

Da Costa’s prototype of the Tamoxifen bra insert looks a little like the prosaic ‘chicken fillet’, a rubbery, clear gel pad that sits inside the bra cup. However, the unintended cosmetic effects are incidental – the drug inserts are slim, flexible and virtually unnoticeable when worn.

Whether the technology can be practically applied is a totally different matter.  It’s not yet know how effective this could be, if at all. Still, it’s nice to dream of a better world. A world where you can wear your medicine, where being gravely ill doesn’t automatically mean death.

Fashion trades so much on physical beauty, which, as a short, slightly dumpy woman, can get me down. We need to trade in our definition of beauty for a new one. Just to be alive is to be beautiful. To feel the heartbeat of a loved one when you hug them, to feel the cold on a winter evening and know it’s not just the temperature, but the blood coursing through our veins; it is a beautiful miracle.

Clothing doesn’t have to just make you conventionally beautiful. When (and I truly hope that day does come) garments helps the sick to stay alive, fashion will be truly beautiful.

Licentiate Column 09/01/14: New Year, New Nothin’

We all turn to self-examination when the New Year rolls around. Photo of Lena Horne by Teenie Harris

We all turn to self-examination when the New Year rolls around. Photo of Lena Horne by Teenie Harris

It’s the second of January as I write this. It might not be the second of January as you read it.  A few days always elapse between thinking something up, committing it to paper and watching the (sometimes not very well considered) thoughts as they are processed and printed.

Maybe, just maybe, the world will blow up between thinking and printing and no-one will ever get to read this.  Why, I could say whatever I wanted! Um, Kim Kardashian is a waste of space.  I can’t afford to pay my broadband bill. I’m absolutely terrified of the future and what it holds due mostly to lingering anxiety and an inability to trust people – even the nice people who buy me Kinder Eggs on a whim.

It’s not just reduced price tags, sample sales and enforced jollity that makes people go a bit mad with clothes shopping over Christmas and New Year. It’s also about the fear of change, the attempt to buy insurance for a future that may not yet exist.  Here we are, in the first week of the New Year, looking out on to a sea of endless possibilities. Maybe the possibilities aren’t endless.  Maybe there are only a few.  A puddle of possibilities.

Either way, you will probably feel the urge to buy a rake of new workout gear, but maybe not a new gym membership.  Maybe you, like I, will buy all your new clothes in a size too small, and still forget to buy a gym membership. Those two options rarely pay off.

There, however, are two options that are much more likely to bear fruit. The first is to buy clothes for a job you don’t yet have. It’s quite simple.  If you already own a Ghostbusters shellsuit, you’re much more likely to get a ride in Ecto-1. If you look the part, you just might get the part.

Working in fashion, there is an expectation to buy clothes that make you stand out. Often, these clothes can be quite expensive. You don’t have to do this, of course, but it’s a supremely stylish, single-minded and probably incredibly tall and slim person who refuses to literally buy in to this way of thinking.

The second option is to buy clothes for the relationship you don’t yet have. This is a tricky one. Not everyone differentiates between dressing as a single person or dressing as a person in a happy relationship – clothes can only do so much.

A lot of people do differentiate between these two. Some people devalue themselves, considering themselves only worthy of nice things (including clothes) when they’re feeling loved. Nice clothes for a nice relationship.

When I recommend that you buy clothes for a relationship you may not have, I’m really recommending that you do that for the most important relationship you’ll ever have; the relationship, romantic or otherwise, that you have with yourself.

At the New Year, it’s easy to think that you are in need of a physical and mental overhaul. Realistically, you probably don’t. Love yourself and treat yourself. In this case, having something nice to wear is a necessary New Year evil.

Licentiate Column 21/11/13: Lived-in.


Isabella in the mirror. Photo by Rebecca Lewis.

The Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore exhibition opened this week at Somerset House in London and a few days ago I had the opportunity to go down, check it out and make a total tit of myself in front of a room full of journalists.

For those not in the know, Isabella Blow was the stylist who effectively discovered Alexander McQueen and Ireland’s own Philip Treacy, amongst others. She nurtured these designers, becoming a patron, a friend and a source of moral support. She was known as an eccentric, a visionary and a hat lover in possession of one of the world’s finest wardrobes. I say was because, in 2007, Isabella Blow killed herself by drinking Paraquat weedkiller – a terrible, painful death that is terrible and painful to think about.

I cried. Exiting the exhibition, I cried. Isabella Blow’s legacy was her wardrobe. It made me think of all the little bits and pieces I own that once belonged to people I loved, people I can’t talk to ever again.

A lot of my jewellery once belonged to my grandmothers. I have a 1950s US military ID bracelet that a visiting soldier gave to my maternal grandmother as a token of his affection. A Christian Dior necklace that a Texan gave to my paternal grandmother late in her life when she decided, almost on a whim, to spend some time in America after the death of my grandfather. Rings and bracelets. Rosary beads. For some reason, both had slightly different insect-shaped brooches in amber and crystals.

It’s a terribly morbid question to ask, but what will you leave behind? Isabella Blow left her clothes. She also left an immense amount of love and several books worth of memories, most of which are happy, all of which are remarkable at least in some small way.

My grandmother’s (and now my) ID bracelet is covered in dings and scratches. It was well-worn before it was put in a drawer for the best part of fifty years. Isabella Blow’s clothes are well-worn too. Hems are slightly muddy, heels are broken, delicate satin shoes are stained with water and puddly remnants. Clothes are a sign that a person has lived. Wearing out clothes is a sign that you are living properly. You are living a life filled with activity instead of passivity, not sitting around waiting to be noticed or admired.

There may be a mathematical equation here – the speed at which you wear out your clothes may be directly proportionate to the speed at which you accumulate experience and memories. Whether this holds water or not, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is living well, giving life everything you have and not being afraid to wear a massive hat when the occasion calls for it.

Licentiate Column 25/4/13: Thinking About Tattoos

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about various things. This is good because a) if I didn’t, then the space where this column usually goes would be occupied by a picture of me shrugging and b) if I didn’t have any brain activity, I would most likely be a dead person – and I’ve heard that’s not much fun.

This week’s thought space has been disproportionately concerned with tattoos. Tattoos have been around for thousands of years, existing in almost as many social contexts. Only recently has the tattoo been floated as a fashion statement, despite that fact that only clothes and tattoos are specifically designed to be worn on the body.

Is a tattoo a valid fashion statement? My first reaction is no. When it comes down to it, fashion is fleeting and temporary; it exists in a series of moments, preserved only when there is a pen or a camera around to capture it. A tattoo is much more personal – and much more permanent.

I’ve been thinking about getting one particular tattoo for about five years. It’s a book illustration, very small and very personal. I know where I want it to go. I know who I want to do it.

I can never find the motivation to book it.

People wear clothes to express who they are, but tattoos express the essence of a person. While an outfit says a lot about a person’s occupation, values, likes, dislikes and social status, the tattoo tells a story often burdened with feeling (I am now remembering, shamefully, asking a man I had just met what his tattoo meant, only to have him dissolve into tears over the death of a loved one).

A tattoo is a personal statement, not a fashion statement. It’s a shame that the underlying reason people give for not liking the tattoos on other people is because ‘it looks cheap’. It’s an amazing world we live in, when we are raised not to judge people on how they naturally look, but make blithe assumptions of a lack of class when we consider a change in look that a person has planned his or herself.

A tattoo is ownership. It is a person assuming autonomy over her body. Because tattoos are so personal, they transcend notions of class or taste. A tattoo belongs only to the person whose skin bear its marks. A person who passes judgement on the tattoos of others passes it in an invalid way. It won’t hold up in court.

A good friend of mine has been itching to get a tattoo on her chest. On first telling me this, my face immediately scrunched up into confusion and distaste. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ I wondered.

Then, of course, I realised that it didn’t really matter. Not my chest, not my place to stick my oar in. Ink will not change a person. The mark that can do that, you can’t see on the skin.

Licentiate Column 21/03/13: Blogging, Why Bother?

It was July 2011. I just returned from a holiday with my family on the Amalfi coast, which was amazing, and suffered a bout of (not so amazing) food poisoning. The aforementioned food poisoning precipitated the kind of existential crisis that can only happen when you stare life right in the toilet bowl and hug the cool, blue Mediterranean tiles that you wish you had in your own bathroom.

My second existential crisis that week came about as we flew home, going through the kind of severe turbulence that makes an otherwise sturdy machine seem about as fortified as an empty can of Pepsi.

The first patch of turbulence was scary. The second was stomach-bubbling, I-wish-I-had-a-bible terrifying.

So, as the plane rolled around in patches of grey cloud, I alternated between praying (no atheists in foxholes and all that) and coming to terms with the fact that I had no direction whatsoever career-wise. This is unfortunate, because I had wanted to be a journalist since seeing April O’Neal prance around and be generally inept in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as a wee one.

The plane landed, obviously, I got off and kissed the tarmac. Washing bits of sticky black grit out of the burnt pockmarks in my face in the airport bathroom, I decided to pay proper attention to my fashion blog. It was, at that time, about the only good thing I had going for me. I also realised that I could have dedicated more time to world peace, but there’s not very much I can do about that now. The airport can make a person go funny.

I’ve had no regrets. Starting a blog has given me so much, made me learn more about fashion as well as web design, pr and marketing and has led to every good job opportunity I have ever had – including this one.

Do you love fashion? Do you want to work in the fashion industry? Do you want to make friends with the same interests as you? Start a blog.

Why blog? Well, if you must ask:

  1. Experience doesn’t matter. All you need is a bit of enthusiasm and a Photobucket account. Which is nice.
  2. You’ll meet new people Blogging encourages community feeling and a discourse between people with mutual hobbies and interests. It’s like going to summer camp to make friends, except the DIY bracelets are cooler and you can keep your pajamas on all day if you like.
  3. Blogs are immediate. Think of fashion blog aggregate sites like Bloglovin’ as the ticker on Sky Sports, but with shoes instead of ash clouds.
  4. Blogging involves a lot of writing, but it’s nothing like journalism. Good journalism is based on getting your point across in the quickest, most entertaining way possible. Blogging, not so much. You can ramble on and talk about whatever you want, which is great. Throw in the odd spelling mistake if you like. You’re worth it.
  5. You get to share what you love and find out what other people love too – like a creepy fashion voyeur.
  6. Reading other people’s blogs and blogging yourself will help to draw inspiration, to really think about personal style or what style means to you. It’s something worth thinking about.

Licentiate Column 01/11/12: Baby, It’s Cold Outside

What I think I look like in pajamas. The reality is more heffalumpish. Pic by Nina Leen for LIFE

Are you cold? I’m cold. I’m bloody freezing. My toes have turned to icy nubs that jolt me awake in chilly shock whenever I shift about in my sleep. Two hot water bottles and the occasional hot port have no alleviating effect. The fuzzy pink Penney’s pajamas I discovered in the airing cupboard make me a little warmer, not that that’s any consolation to the people in hot countries who slave away (in some cases literally) to make us our cut-price winter warmers.

I have taken to working in bed. The pajamas stay. I lump on brightly coloured shawls, hats and jewellery – the jewellery is a smokescreen to make me believe that I am making some kind of effort. It’s like aspirin – I don’t know quite how it works, but it really does. I look like a person who has gone on a gap year to Peru and decided that the locals know where it’s at, wardrobe-wise.

I think that this is perfectly acceptable. I still get my work done, I get to stay warm and no-one sees me looking like an ersatz bag lady/Olsen twin. It’s not my priority to look nice, or even presentable, when I’m at home by myself – the priority is to be cozy or, as a friend of mine who lives in Copenhagen says, hygge. ‘Hygge’ is a great word. It may even be a cozier word than ‘cozy’.

When I step outside the house, though, I am less ‘hygge’ than ‘hyggledy piggeldy’. I have yet to master the gentle art of layering that comes so easily to tall, sylphette women and less to to shortish, vaguely lumpish ones with, y’know, curves n’stuff.

Still, we shall struggle valiantly on, trying to strike that balance between beguiling and well-swaddled. Until the average person’s social life revolves around wearing pjs and never, ever going outside, we will have to spend our time socialising, running errands and attempting to have some semblance of a romantic life wrapped in several layers of fuzzy fibres, making a person look like a less jolly Sta Puft man.

It’s not a lot to ask to want to look both presentable and be warm during the wintertime. Here are a few tips.

1) Take care of your bod. Your face is the one part of your body that will repeatedly be exposed – and the elements we are exposed to are harsh ones. Take your multivitamins, change to a richer moisturiser as the weather will dry out your skin and invest in a few hot oil treatments for your hair. A healthy, glowy person wrapped in a soiled blanket will look better than an unhealthy sniffling one in Burberry.

2) Embrace technology. More specifically, embrace the new generation of thermal underwear, which adds no bulk but is still soft, breathable and snuggly warm. Best of all – it’s available in most high-street stores.

3) Proportions are key. Wearing a lot on top? Keep it slim on the bottom. Skinny jeans (with thermal leggings underneath) tucked into mid-heeled ankle boots will nicely balance out whatever millefeuille duvet-like concoctions we can come up with.

Licentiate Column 11/10/12: Do as the Natives Do

Last week, I went to Malta. It was hot. Ridiculously hot. I got on the plane in Dublin in six degree weather wearing a metallic biker jacket and grey marl sweatshirt flecked with silver thread. I got off to twenty eight degree heat and enough accumulated sweat to power a desalination plant.

My make-up immediately slid off my face on to a puddle on the floor and started mocking me for not knowing that metal is a conductor of heat and polyvinyl fabric is not breathable. I was either extremely dehydrated or in possession of a subconscious that is so self-loathing that even my slap talks back to me. It could be both, but if that’s true, it turns out that my subconscious is easily soothed with a glass of water and a change into a fresh cotton t-shirt.

The native Maltese women are different creatures altogether. The next day, while taking a coffee break in the island’s capital of Valetta, I noticed that it was very easy to distinguish the natives from their tourist counterparts just by clothing alone – although it would have been just as easy to identify the tourists by their (and my) wheezy, sweaty honey-glazed ham exteriors.

The Maltese women I saw out and about had impossibly shiny hair and were wearing some great tailoring – breezy white shirts, and pencil skirts the ended a few inches above the knee. Colours were light, silhouettes were flattering and any perspiration, presumably, was absorbed into nothingness like total magic.

Dressing for a holiday is difficult, especially if you come from a temperate (read: my toes have frostbite) country into a slightly sweltering one. Tourists dress like, well, tourists. To call the way we tourists dress ‘predictable’ would be far too predictable, but why call a spade a gardening implement when ‘spade’ will do just as well? We ARE predictable.

I blame the media. I blame fashion journalists and, to a lesser extent, I blame myself. We think we’re so smart, writing and reading articles on how to dress for certain occasions without ever thinking if the context is really correct. The pictures in the magazines tell us to buy floaty maxi dresses, thong sandals and khaki shorts – which is only really just as well if these are the kind of things that you’d wear anyway.

We shouldn’t be reading articles about what tourists are wearing on holidays, we should be reading articles about what the women who live in our holiday destinations are wearing (especially if what you pack will be weather-dependent). Going to Paris? Make it black and expensive. New York? Have impeccable hair and nails and the rest will follow.
Next time I go to Malta, I will be thinking about dressing like a Maltese woman. Not in a weird, cultural-appropriation, ‘I’m going to wear your traditional embroidered costumes’ way, just in a normal, everyday way.

How many times have you seen a tourist in Ireland struggling to deal with the constant oscillation between rain and sun? Irish people know to always have an umbrella and sunglasses on their person if they’re going to be on the street for more than a few minutes. It a reflex that is the product of years of conditioning. For once, we’re out on top.

Licentiate Column – Bumper Baby Edition!

This is the way to do it, ladies (source)

Part One – Pregnant? Pop On A Nice Linen Suit!

Pregnancy can mean many things to many people. It’s a life-affirming (and life-giving) experience, an inconvenient result of a birth-control glitch, a terrifying and bewildering meander through a vagina that has been given such a drastic refurbishment that Kevin McCloud wants to film the third trimester and subsequent birth for Grand Designs. It could be none of those things. It might even be all three.

Pregnancy is great, because it usually results in the miracle of birth, but it can also be downright uncomfortable, inconvenient and unpleasant. There is no way that I can be emphatic enough in print, so perhaps imagine me saying this sipping a cosmo in a Manhattan bar or at the kitchen table, wearing an apron, swinging around a flour-covered rolling pin for emphasis – it’s ok to feel this way. It’s perfectly normal.

It’s ok to not like being pregnant. A pregnant family member is happy that she’s having a baby, but tells me that she hates the physical discomfort of being pregnant. She just hates it. That’s just as healthy as loving it (though, obviously, not as much fun).

There are lots of reasons to hate being pregnant, the general upheaval and need for intense spurts of concentration and organisation while a little person does a jog on your bladder notwithstanding. One of the most asked questions I get, style-wise, is ‘how do I dress for my pregnancy without, y’know, looking like I live in a baby bubble?’

Gentle reader, I have no idea. I do however, have baby-bearing friends and family with wildly conflicting opinions, so you can take their word as Gospel. They have my stamp of approval and several gold stars for effort.

My Mother. My mother worked through all of her pregnancies and, when I asked her what she wore, the answer was ‘a nice linen suit’. Clearly, what you should take away from this is that my mother is impossibly high-maintenance when it comes to gestation, because not only was she pregnant and working full-time, but she also had to worry about sweat stains and the most wrinkle-prone fabric known to womankind. So, don’t listen to her.

My Best Friend. Because my best friend is some kind of super-spy, she didn’t reveal to the world that she was pregnant until almost seven months along. This, she accomplished with floaty, diaphanous tops, low v-necks, skinny jeans and surreptitiously sipping lucozade at the pub and pretending that there was vodka in it. This method involves downright denial of your pregnancy. So, don’t listen to her either.

Facebook friends. I put a call out on Facebook and got one piece of excellent advice from a fellow blogger. Adapt to survive. Buy bump bands for your jeans, then progress to maternity skinny jeans. Wear what you normally wear; as long as it covers your bump comfortably, you should be fine. Maybe you should listen to this person (her name is Sinead, for future reference). Unfortunately, this advice may not be relevant if you struggle to pull on your socks, never mind a pair of pants.

What this wildly conflicting advice teaches me is that there is no one way to dress for pregnancy. Like the experience itself, it’s different for every person. Do what’s right for you – even if what’s right is an impossibly uncrinkled linen suit.

Mummy Tummy is the least of Michelle Duggar’s problems – sorry, blessings. Isn’t that right Michelle?

Part Two: I Was NOT Informed About Mummy Tummy. NOT COOL.

There are some things that the general public are just not told about pregnancy and labour. As a childless person, I am all too easily shocked by the perfectly natural occurrences that are par for the course. I almost choked on my tea and vanilla slice when a friend informed me blithely (and foolishly, for she was about to get sprayed with crumbs) that a baby can poop inside its mother if distressed during labour. It is, apparently, very common.

The image was too much for me – yet I and most of the pub-going population are totally desensitised to the sight of men urinating and brawling in the street. Go figure. For people who have yet to experience pregnancy, it’s a fog populated with obstacles made up mostly of misconceptions and ignorance.

Take for example, the body after labour. Many women assume, post labour, that the woman’s pregnancy belly will magically deflate. It won’t be the same, of course, but it will go down. Right? Wrong. Pregnancy tum isn’t so much like a balloon with no air but more like an air mattress with a pinprick leak; it’s not as firm, but it still holds it shape. Flattening it totally takes concerted effort.

So, what do you wear when you’re back from the hospital, baba in tow, looking almost exactly like you did when you went in a few days earlier? Pajamas are totally acceptable. You want to wear that onesie? You have everyone’s blessing.

It is a moment of divine horror that every new mother dreads; giving birth, then meeting a friend a few days later, only to have him or her ask when you’re due. It is not unlike the moment of utter, crushing disappointment I experienced in the optician’s last week when someone confused my mother and I. Someone thought that I was my mother’s mother. Therefore, someone thought that I was my own grandmother. It is a sublime irony that that moment took place in Specsavers.

For the first time in months, you may wish to hide your bump. Elastic shapewear can be incredibly helpful in that regard. It will change with your body as your bump goes down. It is also useful if you overindulge on all that red wine, shellfish and unpasteurised cheese that you’ve been missing out on for the past few months.

Feel free to play with proportions. Waisted belts and pencil skirts will give the illusion of an hourglass shape. Big shoulders make excellent pillows for tired newborns and will help to balance you out.

Everything from the breasts up should be emphasised if you want to play down your stomach. Your cleavage is going to be utterly bananas – take advantage of that with low cut tops. Slouchy burnout tees from Zara, ASOS or Alexander Wang will look good, be easy to clean and will show a hint of cleavage without popping it on a shelf for everyone to gawk at (although if that’s what you like, that’s cool too).

When mummy tummy is at it’s worst (directly after giving birth) you’ll probably be at your most disinterested when it comes to this sort of thing – and that’s totally ok. Great, even. Remember, every new mother is beautiful. And pajamas are always a viable option.

I fully support your right as a mother to dress like Shauna Sand. No, I really do.

Part Three:  This Is The REST Of Your Life, Yo

So, the battle is over, but the war has just begun. You’ve gone through pregnancy, you’ve given birth and enough time has passed for you to begin to regain some sense of equilibrium. Maybe you’re back at work. Maybe you’re on an extended maternity leave. Maybe you’re not at work at all – well, work that results in a paycheque every month.

Motherhood is a job. Like all low-paying jobs, you’ll have to wear a uniform that you don’t particularly love and would never normally dream of wearing outside the house. Function takes precedence over fashion. This is a point that was personally hammered home yesterday when I went to hold my best friend’s son, a feat only achieved after I scraped back my hair and took off my sunglasses and necklace (granted, the necklace was a particularly pointy, threatening-looking spike and crystal creation).

Through research, interviews and observation of pregnant women and mothers for this series of columns, I’ve come to two conclusions. 1) I never, ever want to have children because 2) it requires a level of self-sacrifice and commitment that renders every outside decision that doesn’t impact on a child almost totally irrelevant. Why care about wardrobe dilemmas when you have a child to look after?

The answer is this; women sacrifice almost everything to be mothers, but they don’t have to sacrifice themselves. Clothing helps people to assert their identities. If you’re a mother who feels bad about wanting to dress as you did pre-pregnancy, I am begging you, please don’t beat yourself up. You’re still you. You have every right to be you. Sacrifice is OK. Subjugation is not.

Now that you’re on the road to mom-hood, how do you assimilate the new need for practicality into your wardrobe without becoming a cliche?

1) Don’t be a Mumsnet Mum. Mumsnet is great for advice, support and information. If, however, you are the type of competitive person who wants to be a better mum than everyone else instead of the best mum that you’re capable of being, then don’t go there. Your wardrobe will quickly fill up with organic, unbleached cotton tops, vegan burlap sacks and other deeply unattractive things that you’ll never wear because (surprise, surprise) you secretly hate them.

2) Don’t be deliberately downtrodden. Motherhood can be overwhelming and it’s OK not to look your best. On the flipside, there is no correlation between looking nice and being a selfish mother. If you look tired, that’s to be expected. If you look made-up, it does not necessarily compute that you’re using your precious infant nurturing time to slick on some lipstick. If you have the time and the want to get a blowdry, do it. Don’t deprive yourself just because you think that someone might judge you badly for it – these sanctimonious people are obviously morons.

3) It’s OK, nay amazing, to be you. Life does not stop when you have a baby. If you still want to get that tattoo sleeve or buy that minidress, do it. You don’t necessarily have to start wearing breathable cotton tops – just buy a large array of detergents. You can still wear studs if that’s your thing – just don’t wear them around your neck. Burlap is only good for holding large sacks of vegetables – you may feel like that, but you’re not. And white was always very overrated anyway.

Licentiate Column 26/07/12: Naked Makes More Sense

If supermodels can do it, so should we. Oh, wait a minute…

It is hard to dress for Irish weather at the best of times.  Every year I think that it’ll be the year I get to talk about swimwear and shorts, but it’s now reaching the end of July and the majority of the population still have yet to buy their first summer ‘99 (with extra Flake, please).

At time of writing, its is warm during the day, but cloudy and also rainy.  It it freezing at night.  Wear a jacket, you boil.  Take it off, you get soaked.  Jeans go clammy in a matter of minutes.  Opaque tights are uncomfortable.  Unclad, untanned legs look at bit like chicken fillets that have been left to defrost and unfortunately forgotten about in the kitchen sink.

How best to dress for comfort in this weather?  Go nude.  Carry a blanket and an umbrella around in a hold-all for cold/wet situations.  There is no other way to go in terms of comfort.  The only by-product of your comfort is the extreme discomfort of others when you decide that the blanket that covers your shame would also double as a nice picnic blanket for lunch in the Peace Park.

Or try a dehumidifier suit.  I’m pretty sure that they haven’t been invented yet, but surely someone will find a way (just to let you know, I demand 10% of the profits right off).  You will be cool and cozy – with the added bonus of scaring small children, scattering them like confused pigeons as you stroll down Patrick Street of a Saturday afternoon.

Go into a department store and try on everything over your suit.  Cause a fuss when nothing fits and rampage out like a 1950’s B-Movie monster, perhaps taking a few celebrity perfume ad cardboard cut-outs with you.  If your summer is as boring as this weather is, you’ll thank me later.  If you get sued, we never met and you definitely didn’t get that idea from me – by the way, I still want that 10% of the humidity suit profits.

If you’re of the school of Gaga and determined to make your personal sartorial expression independent to the whims of the weather system, you’ll have to make the ‘slightly sweaty ham’ look a Summer trend.  Whether it’s black jeans or a full-on fur coat, wear it with pride, bring oil-blotting pads for your face and under no circumstances should you attempt to wear a fringe, even if it does hide the glowing, struggling pink beacon that is the forehead.

It may be tempting, but please, please do not give in to the urge to wear leggings as trousers.  I know it’s easy breezy.  Its the clothing equivalent of eating McDonalds for every meal; it’s too convenient and you may eventually die inside. Case in point – today I saw a picture of a woman on a bus wearing incredibly tight, nude leggings.  To my myopic eyes, it looked like she had forgotten both trousers and underwear.  I can never unsee that. Never.  And neither will anyone else.