Family trip

Is family in fashion?

I had a lovely day with my father today, whom I had not seen in eight months, and it urged me to write a family post.

Yes, I know, talking about family in a fashion world that is supposed to be so unattached and cool might not seem all that trendy and glamorous.

I like to think of fashion in a social way. The big fashion community is very much like a family in the sense that it has a common appartenance, it has a hierarchy (my family is very patriarchal), and there are lots of rules, which are meant to be broken.

I find clothes wonderful. Colourful heels are always a pick-up that will give you just this extra hight when you feel down. Put on the right dress, and you will suddenly feel beautiful, confident and appraisable. And it can feel magic, and these might all be feelings that you will be left to crave for in your family, however wonderful.

I love waking up in the morning: I am incredibly interested in my (fashion) job, and I am part of a (fashion) team that I love, a team that is diverse, a team that clusters very different characters: open-minded people, rich people, individuals who have an often truculant personality and a horizon that goes beyond the walls of London and the shores of England, and so much further. And if I have never been much of a morning person, I know that when I arrive at the office early without having had my wake-up coffee, my colleague miss G will always come up with the most unlikely morning conversation and it will make me smile. How good is it to begin a day's work with a smile?

You are probably thinking: she is digressing, what the fuck is she getting at? Well, this is my point: I believe that everywhere you can find circumstances, persons, art, landscapes, things -be they friends, be it light in the million blossoms of a cherry tree, be it the explosive pink-mandarine cocktail of s Sinha-Stanic dress- that will give you a sense of beauty, that will inspire you emotion, that will make you feel happy, even very happy indeed. Family does not necessarily get you in this state of mind.

What family does, with its traditions and memories, with its open gossip and judgements, with all its heartaches and storms and crazy reprovals, is to give you a sense of belonging. They might drive you nuts, but they also remind you that yes, you come from somewhere, yes you might not abide by their laws, you might worry them and get them to disapprove of you, and behave in a way that will get you harsh comments and make you feel inadequate, but you will always be a part of them. And maybe I am wrong and there might be a line of no return, but I think family you can always turn to, whenever. They will always be here for you.

I went back to France for Easter, and as every time, I was quite scared about it because I am not the closest to them I could be. I went back to the family holiday house in Brittany. A very old romantic house that sits on a beach in a bay, in a small village where the post office is open only in summer when vacationers come over.

I have incredible childhood memories from this place: I remember a storm that took away a meter-deep of sand on the beach when I was 8 or 9; my brothers and I went prospecting and we found amazing treasures from a hole-punched Napoleonian coin to a world war II mine. The cliffs that hem the seascape make you feel like you are in Brontee novel, covered in purple grey ferns beaten by the cold Channel wind. The air and sky can be so clear it gives you difficulty breathing.

Civilization please, might you think.

It is not 'civilized'. It is not a place to go to if you want to sunbath topless on the sand and party in the evening: the locals would most likely track you down and beat you up.

On Easter day we were 25, from 2-year-old (oh beautiful) twin girls, the latest offspring, to 80 year old hypochondriac grandparents. Like all beloving mothers, the twins' mum came to me at some point in the middle of lunch because I had one on my lap and told me, candid: 'oh, i can see you are having such a great time, would you not love to change their nappies'.

Quite ironic from my point-of-view, but in a way, so pricelessly loving!

I did go of course, I found it funny if a bit scary.

Took the nappies off.

Ha.

Post-apocalyptic poo of the century.

Baby norovirus.

I was pressing down on one of the baby's bust who was lying on the changing bed while trying to get rid off the nappy in a way that would allow me to touch it with the most minimal part of my nail tips, when suddenly, the baby starts peeing on my new Paul & Joe silk blouse.

Aha.

Hmm.

I kept holding her to make sure she would not fall from the bed.

Can I confess this on a fashion blog? Even if I would not confess it to a family who consider it a disgrace that I am the age I am and unmarried?

...

It made me feel a tad maternal.

So here is to spending £100 on a plane ticket to go back to your family rather than on the latest Tiger-printed Ferragamo silk scarf.

Champagnista V