sailorette’s diary - a diary writen by a sailorette for her loved ones to read after returning safely home from sea

Kate, Tab and I decided to start up a blog to rival topshop, “To-sho-”. It’ll be generally focused around the flibberish world of fashion, and aims at the proper fashion geek.

www.topshopstyle.com/blog

The Suit. A uniform, a costume, a ritual or a lifestyle. A Suit. Born from the union of Mr formal to Miss normal, to iron out individuality and judgement. A Suit. The pin prick in the fashion balloon.

Do you like the suit you own? Does it express the culture we are now living in? Is it clever, quick-witted, tailored with your personality and adaptable to your thoughts?

If you’re feeling unloved by your suit these boys have the answer.

WARNING
Contains strict attention to detail, beautiful cuts and sharp ideas.
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A new Topshop.com has launced and thanks to those lovely people at POKE it looks, and navigates, like an f1 car. And now the guantlet of style guidelines has fallen at my feet, and with it the responsibility to maintain the high standard of design and typography over the site.

So far its been the most interesting, and toughest, design job i’ve had what with pushing out fortnightly podcasts, weekly features, monthly events, and a myspace page, with the odd micro-site or two thrown in.

It’s very interesting to witness an old system like arcadia group, as it changes and restructures itself to become a self-sufficient online provider.

I kept my expectations non-existant over the brand conference that my place of work has every year. My outfit reflected this - a ‘uniform’ of poo-pants, sneakers and t-shirt. This t-shirt, with its rather revealing opening at the back was the only clue why four girls would turn up that morning with the same topshop black dress, and after much squealing, chase each other down to the local franchaise to purchase a more unique alternative.

Fastforward to 20 past 3 pm. I and 1500 other employees around the country are creating pinstripes through the streets, waiting for oversized coaches to take us to THE location. We get lost. We arrive. We wait. All 1500 alight. To relieve our waiting we are given feel good drinks. I Feel good. We sit. We watch ourselves watching ourselves watch others. Rows on rows lit up by our glowing faces. I ask a bouncer where the toilets are. Tactics. A bit too fancy for my wee. Theres hand cream too.

Topman’s fashion show surprises me. Then the bouncer stands up to give a speach. Next comes miss Jane Shepherd, rather more at home on the mike than the bouncer. Following her are skeletons in oversized hats and baggy clothes.

We wait. Awards are given out. People clap. We wait.

Then I see the dodgems. Katey and I smile. I can’t wait. But I know everyone wants to socialise. Drink. Talk about the conference. Gossip. I don’t want to seem to one-track minded or pushy. Finally Tab is my saviour. The wirlygig she cries. We wait. We run. Tab instructs me how to get the most whirl out of our gig. But our gig has lost whirl. Finally, a girl whirls our cries of disappointment into cries of hedonistic delight.

whhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiirrrrlllllll.

I’m high. Everyone else is medium. We chat. We explore. I hear people lose themselves on these conferences. They lose their loyalites, memories and skirts. Amongst the discussion is a dodgem break. Kate dodges us with subtle style. We decide to get up on stage and do Rage Against the Machine. That would be the perfect end to the night. A song you don’t sing but Ssream, ‘Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me’. Shame we couldn’t be squeezed in between ‘These Boots Were Made For Walking’ and ‘Should I Stay or Should I go’…

For all you trendy suits, a nifty belt that keeps your ipod nano tucked away.