Amulette de Cartier: pink gold, malachite, diamond

Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that with my impending immigration across to the next age-box I am also slowly packing my bags for an ever titillating journey of ‘age-induced casual offensiveness’ that get oh-so-entertaining when fully ripe. If I smoked I might as well be a Parisian. Thirty-something, speaks her mind without the Chihuahua-quiver of a young-un’ or the fear of judgement, and a slight potty mouth… what a GLORIOUS prospect. Granted, I don’t mean to imply that age is the only factor that affects one’s frankness (some people – like my mother – were born with balls) (OK strike that), but my journey of expression seems to mature with age. Alas, I am also a Korean and hence inherently age-ist, which means I use the word ‘mature’ like I would when describing cheese, and isn’t mature cheese really just an older, stinkier version we all put up with…

For the time being, I’m enjoying sticking the proverbial hand out the window to test the weather before the journey – everyone and everything is subject to an inappropriate joke. (“Sorry, are you poor?”) The typical week at the Cube Collective office is divided into Monday, Ageist Tuesday, Insult Wednesday, Sexist Thursday, and Bloggerist Fridays. My PA suffers on all days but Friday, which is when we order a pizza and howl over badly written blog entries on the intranets. Truth is, while I joke, I do believe said political frankness helps a great deal in refining one’s outlook in becoming a critical adult because it turns silent slander (where inappropriate really is, literally, inappropriate) into constructive criticism lined with some brand of humour that challenges people to grow.

Lace top – Zara. Skirt – Milly. Necklace – Cartier.

Jeans – Filippa K. Shoes – NAK

Jacket – Citizens of Humanity. Jeans – Filippa K. Bucket bag – Mansur Gavriel. Stilettos – NAK

You remember Filippa K, longish hair, yay tall… you know, the chic from that class after lunch break. YES, HER. We’re talking about her again because my two objectives in life are a) obsessively getting rid of icons on my phone’s task bar (one crucial reason why turning on notifications on Instagram will eventually lead to earth’s implosion, or at least another eruption of Krakatoa) and 2) waking up looking like Filippa. Every day I fail at either or both, as I pour out of bed looking more like a potato than anything. Prepare the lard, kids, momma needs to go out for meetings.

I don’t have kids. Or a life, really.

So, for this second story, I quite bluntly asked Filippa K what the brand’s ABSOLUTE essentials were – the ‘5-piece wardrobe’ if you will. Figured, if my DNA won’t cooperate, I might as well pour some dough on the problem. And for the past week or so of retaining these clothing samples, I’ve successfully managed to fulfil task no. 2 (at least at a half-ish measure) by simply… going to bed fully dressed in a sorbet coat and a pair of jeans, and then waking up and letting out a feeble ‘tadaa…’.

Coat – Filippa K. Bag – Gucci. Trousers – Reiss.

creative direction SHINI PARK photo assistance SIMON SCHMIDT in collaboration with MAJE

Well, what do you know. It’s the sun. And it’s about damn time it paid a visit to this half of the hemisphere. Hey, I know we don’t have valet, or salted almonds while you wait, but book yourself an Airbnb, would ya? Stick around a while, because I’d very much like to stop donating bits of my shoe-sole leather to various wet patches around London and coming home* – drenched – to nine-freaking-umbrellas in the hallway like there’s some Mary Poppins Anonymous meeting going down in the second bedroom. Does the spoonful of sugar come with whiskey, pray tell?

The fact of the matter is, a true Londoner will refuse to carry an umbrella (or trusts the weather man with bad teeth), yet we are all big babies when it comes to a turn of weather. Case in point: exhibit A. Stick a pacifier in my mouth, make sure to burp me regularly, and go ahead and open up that mummy blog. Exploit this Londoner, because at the first chance of sun I will wear out the breeziest skirt I own, and then wail when it soaks to the point the pattern on my panties is public information. Speaking of breezy skirts, this Maje beauty called Joline (and there goes that song, ‘Jolene’, stuck in my head for the next 12 hours) is my current choice, which coincidentally only 200 pieces are available worldwide so don’t even spend a minute hesitating if you saw your name written along the sequins. As expected, the weather did do the usual topsy-turvy on the day of this shoot but it didn’t stop me from dancing in one of the busiest intersections around Bank and getting yelled/howled at by finance boys. So, is this how one obtains an investor?

*Weather miscalculation is apparently another hobby I can take quite seriously. Note to self: add ‘Creative Director of Weather’ into Instagram profile.

Tailored Coat – La Redoute x Carven. Trousers – Stylenanda. Heels & belt – Bally. Bag – Vintage. Scarf – La Redoute

Top – La Redoute. Flares & Coat – La Redoute x Carven. Blue cashmere tube-top – Mandkhai

This is the Airbnb you need to stay at in Paris

top: suit PAUL & JOE pleated dress COACH SS16 boots SAM EDELMAN. bottom: coat and bag COACH SS16 trousers NEXT

You can however, pick out the Parisienne out of a crowd. The rule-book (illustrated in colour or not) says she is probably blonde, smoking, and most likely also not wearing a smidgen of makeup, but so far my attempts at following this has only led to being shunned from the high street and offered loose change. And that’s where it hits me: we are dealing with the number of f*cks here. Not the optimal heel height, rituals of lovers vs. boyfriends, nor the percentage of black/navy in the wardrobe. French women simply give less f*cks. Whereas English women, my goodness, KOREAN WOMEN are one (face-contour) beauty product too many f*cks to even contend (why do we care so much?). I’m stereotyping here, of course, but it’s an important lesson. Be Spiderman. Be you. Give less f*cks about what people think and layer that dress over the pant-suit. Do it with confidence, because that’s really what being a Parisian is about, n’est-ce pas?