Love Pink

1,314

2012-01-23T13:19:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yruRgvNDqsk&context=C35f9e51ADOEgsToPDskIcpVicJ0nuJQiQvWipcRZ9

Libby Loves

2012-01-22T16:41:00.000-08:00

* 'I want to have adventures with you' (Really, I do) £40, Urban Outfitters
*YES' bag : because life is worth saying yes to. £12, notonthehighstreet.com
*Daisy earrings, £7, thischarminggirl.com
*Stag head, £100, V&A shop
*Practically Perfect in Every Way teatowel (I want to be Mary Poppins), £9.95, notonthehighstreet.com
*Neon satchel, £98, Cambridge Satchel Company
*Happy Hour cocktail book, £9.99, Urban Outfitters
*Safari biscuits, £38.50 (including £5 for the Great Ormond St Hospital), Biscuiteers
*Train ticket cushion, £28, notonthehighstreet.com
*Initial purse, £14, Urban Outfitters
*Vinyl record cake stand, from £26, notonthehighstreet.com
*Rabbit lamp, £60, notonthehighstreet.com
*I love London lunchbox (because you're never to old for sandwiches cut into triangles), £5, V&A shop

Libby

1,187

2012-01-22T15:06:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yruRgvNDqsk&context=C35f9e51ADOEgsToPDskIcpVicJ0nuJQiQvWipcRZ9

Regent's Park and Serpentine Swans

2012-01-22T14:33:00.000-08:00

I love London parks. Recently I have been to Regent's Park and Hyde Park with friends. At Regent's Park I jumped up and down to see over the hedges at the giraffes in London Zoo and wished for a rich boyfriend to take me to the zoo and buy me fish and chips and ice cream. (Since when has a zoo ticket cost £18.50??)

Perhaps that is a strange ideal date. That or a roller disco... Bars and cafés are over rated. You can't see zebras or wear roller blades for starters.

In Hyde Park I wandered along the Serpentine, where I contemplated jumping in and doing laps in the swimming area. It was dark, and January, so I didn't.

Libby

1,125 views and counting...

2012-01-22T08:35:00.000-08:00

If you haven't watched / shared / tweeted yet....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yruRgvNDqsk&context=C35f9e51ADOEgsToPDskIcpVicJ0nuJQiQvWipcRZ9

Thank you x

A bag of peas and an embroidered jacket

2012-01-22T08:25:00.001-08:00

This afternoon I headed to Brixton Village to go food shopping at the market.

Instead of buying food I ended up being lured into the quirky clothes shop, Saloon 97, where I spotted this vintage waistcoat. It was reduced to £15 in the sale and I couldn't resist.

As I parted with my cash, I told the shop assistant that I was supposed to be food shopping and that I would now have to eat porridge for a week instead.

She laughed and said that when she was a student she lived off pasta and bags of frozen peas.

Who needs food anyway when you have a colourful embroidered jacket?

Shopping bag in hand, I headed off to buy some peas.

Libby

The Last Fashion Victims: The Film

2012-01-20T17:21:00.000-08:00

Here is my documentary; you can also watch it by following the link below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yruRgvNDqsk

So how can you help now? If the video moves you (as it moved me whilst filming) then please add your comments on the youtube page and share the link. My aim is to spread this message but I need your help!

Thank you in advance from me and the women involved in the documentary,

Libby

My visit to The Scar Project, New York

2012-01-20T16:52:00.000-08:00

Here are some of the photographs that I took at The Scar Project in New York, an incredible series of photographs by David Jay that show the reality of breast cancer.

His work has been a huge source of inspiration for my project and I am so pleased to have been able to include him in my documentary.

The Scar Project has yet to visit the UK, but I have high hopes for David's project and hope to see him and these images in London in the not too distant future.

View David Jay's images and find out more about The Scar Project at www.thescarproject.org

Libby

The Last Fashion Victims: The Story

2012-01-20T07:43:00.000-08:00

Over the past few months I have been working on a project that I would now like to share with you.

As a woman, breast cancer is something I cannot help but think about. (My book, 'Love Pink' raises money for Breast Cancer Care.) Something I had never thought about, however, was how breast cancer affects a woman's wardrobe.

Last year a family friend underwent a bilateral mastectomy. She got in touch and said that she was really struggling to find clothes to wear following her operation. She felt frustrated by what was on offer, and let down by the high street. As an aspiring fashion journalist, was it something that I would be interested in investigating?

After our conversation, I started my own research. I searched the web and trawled through specialist sites. I was shocked - the majority of what was on offer looked stuck in a different era. There was certainly not much I could imagine my friend wearing.

Together Lynne and I took to the Breast Cancer Care forum and asked whether this was a problem other women had come across. The response was overwhelming.

I then got talking in detail to several women who told me the problems they faced and what changes they would like to see. Of these women, I found three in particular (including my friend Lynne) who were happy to appear on camera.

Tripod and camera in hand, I headed down to Devon and up to Glasgow (in one rather hectic weekend!) and then across to Leeds. The women I met were interesting, inspiring and I felt privileged to hear their stories and capture them on film.

Next I got in touch with the photographer David Jay, whose wonderful photographic project, The Scar Project, had been shown to me by Lynne. I had found the images incredibly moving and wanted to hear more about the project.

I emailed David on a Wednesday. That day I received an email from him, thanking him for my interest but saying that to fully appreciate the images I needed to see them in their original 6ft state, rather than just on my laptop. Would I be able to 'pop over' to New York to see the exhibition before it closed that weekend?

At first I laughed. And then I thought, why not? This was a project I felt passionately about and an opportunity that seemed just too good to miss. I knew that David's images would add another dimension to my film and I was fascinated to meet the man behind the images. And, of course, it meant a weekend in New York. By that afternoon I had spoken to David, withdrawn from my savings, booked a last minute flight and found a friend of a friend's whose floor I would be able to sleep on for two nights.

I was not prepared for the weekend that awaited me. I landed in New York on Friday evening and although I was exhausted, I decided to make the most of my visit and spent the evening wide-eyed on the top of the Empire State Building.

The next day I headed to The Scar Project exhibition. As soon as I walked in I knew that travelling 4000 miles (plus a stop over in Charlotte) had been worth it. David was right; seeing the images online is one thing, but being surrounded by them in a stark white gallery blew me away.

I spent the whole day talking to David, filming in the gallery and meeting the many people who had made their pilgrimage to the gallery or been drawn in from outside by the arresting images. I was lucky enough to speak to Melissa, one of the women involved in the Scar Project, whose photograph hung on the wall. I also spoke to Doris, another wonderful lady who I sadly wasn't able to fit into the documentary. Throughout the day a whole range of people came through the doors. Some came alone, some were couples, or sisters, or friends. There were tears, but I also found it heart warming to see the smiles as well.

David Jay himself turned out to be one of life's wonderful people - as the project itself would suggest. I was lucky enough to join on a tour he gave of the gallery, in which he shared the incredibly moving stories of the women he had photographed. I found myself learning not just about the project, but about life, death and all that goes between. Being in the gallery made me feel at once alone but also part of something much bigger than myself. It was one of the most moving and powerful experiences of my life.

When I arrived back in the UK, (despite being exhausted and jetlagged!) I felt all the more determined to give a voice to the women I had met and that David had photographed so beautifully.

Fashion may be a small part of a woman's life in the grand scheme of things, but the women I have met have shown me that it can also be an incredibly important part. I also realise that as much as I would like to, I am never going to discover a cure for cancer. What I can do instead is try my best to make a small difference in the area in which I am trying to start a career, and to use what I am studying at university (broadcast journalism) to give a voice to those who are otherwise being overlooked.

That is my aim anyway. The video above is a short trailer for the longer documentary that I will post later. This site seems to have cut part of the shot of the video so CLICK HERE to see the full version on youtube.

Find out more about David Jay's 'The Scar Project' at www.thescarproject.org

Libby

And my superpower would be...

2012-01-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

I was searching through my computer when I came across these photos from a project I did at LCF last year. Our group filmed a stop motion animation in which we all dressed up as mock superheroes (yes, this was a costume, not my usual get-up...).

I was quite a new breed of superhero altogether - an all pink, all dancing sort of superhero who could prevent disasters with a flash of a smile and a swish of a polka dot umbrella. Because that really would be my superpower.

Oh, and being able to fly and run really really really really fast. Of course.

Libby

Smile, it's Thursday

2012-01-19T14:53:00.000-08:00

What's not to love about Thursdays?

At least that was the opinion off the train driver on the Victoria Line this rainy morning.

Whilst I stood crushed between two business men and struggled not to fall into the lap of an elderly lady as the train pulled to a stop at Oxford Circus, I heard a rather unusual announcement booming over the tannoy.

"I just want to say," he said, "have a wonderful day. It's Thursday guys! Which means it's nearly Friday! Which means it's nearly the weekend! Don't let anyone cramp your style or bring you down. I mean it, have a really amazing day everyone. Keep smiling. The next stop is Tottenham Court Road."

Dear train driver: it is people like you who make the world a brighter place. Even when you're underground.

Tube experiences that put a smile on your face are sadly few and far between, but when they happen, I for one am left smiling all day. Examples: the classical music that Brixton station often plays loudly in the morning, and the wonderful 'Thoughts of the Day' at Angel station (which can be found online at http://thoughtsofangel.com/).

Libby

Fascinate Me

2012-01-18T13:12:00.000-08:00

Today was a sad day for rainbow feathers, as Ascot announced that fascinators will be banned from their Royal Enclosure this year.

In a BBC article Ascot spokesman Nick Smith was quoted as saying, "there is no doubt our customers would like to get back to a situation where it is universally acknowledged this is a formal occasion and not an occasion where you might dress as you would at a nightclub."

I am not sure where Mr Smith likes to party. I am clearly hanging out in the wrong places. I personally have never seen anyone wearing a fascinator in a nightclub. Perhaps I just missed them, but on second thoughts I am sure I would have spotted the explosion of feathers through the crowd.

Does this mean the death of the fascinator? Because you may say, if I can't wear my fascinator to Ascot, where can I wear it?

But ah, that is where you are wrong. Why shouldn't you wear a net and quill fascinator to a nightclub? Or why stop there? Why not wear one out to dinner, on the bus or in Tesco? Or just whilst you do your washing up? Ascot has ruled that wearing a bird on your head is too casual for watching horses racing. But if it is too casual for Ascot, that doesn't mean it's too casual for me. So keep your eyes pealed next time you're in a club. I will be the one with the feathers.

(Fascinators at the fabulous VV Rouleaux)

Libby

Strawberry Laces

2012-01-18T12:24:00.000-08:00

Oh the joy of a new pair of shoes.

Perhaps it is wrong to admit it, but for me the thrill of new shoes is on par with the first bite of a delicious cake that you have been salivating over behind a glass case, a sunbeam warming your back through a window or the accidental happiness of a coffee froth heart. They make me smile, and all the more when those shoes happen to be bright red.

Another, perhaps strange reason to smile is that I know I shouldn't have bought them.

"I really really can't buy these," I said to the smiley shop assistant, "but obviously I am going to."

We are living in tough times so in theory have to justify our purchases even more than ever before. But I think that the best things you buy are the ones that you can't really justify. Yes, a grey cardigan or new pair of tights to replace those ones you laddered are a sensible idea. But you won't love them like a pair of bright red shoes. And equally, they won't love you either. Walking in my new boots is like walking with a permanent hug around my feet. (Honestly. They really are that comfy.)

So that is the story of how I came to be sat on my bed in a pair of bright red suede ankle boots. And a pair of laddered tights.
(These boots are made for climbing....)
Now I just want to save up for the leopard print pair... Because obviously my shoes need company...

www.martajonsson.com

Libby

Bargain Hunters Anonmyous: Diary of a Sales Shopper

2012-01-15T13:35:00.000-08:00

The 'Sale' sign waves at me in the shop window. It would be rude not to go inside.

'50% off' banners are hung like tardy tinsel around the ceiling. Music is blaring and the shop floor buzzes with bargain hunters. Their arms are held away from their bodies like branches that sprout carrier bags. H&M, Topshop, and the yellow fruit of a Selfridge's bag.

Piles of clothes on tables and on the floor. Jackets and dresses half hanging off coat hangers. The queue for the changing room trails half way around the shop until it nearly makes a full circle with the queue for the tills. Did that woman just push her buggy over a sequin dress? Two women are fighting over the last pair of size 6 leopard print pumps, one holding the right shoe and the other the left and neither loosening their grip. Maybe I should intervene. Or leave.

But hold on one minute; is that a raspberry pink jacket I spy on that £10 rail? And does that tag for that t-shirt over there really say £2? Surely you can't go wrong with a £2 t-shirt? I suppose it does have a picture of a skull and cross bones on it, but still... £2.

I make a beeline for the t-shirt, snatching the pink jacket on the way. My arm is quick like the tongue of a lizard seeking its prize. It is unfortunate, of course, that it clips that elderly woman on the back of the head. But she really was standing in the way.

Suddenly I am moving towards another rail. I am getting the hang of this. My arm swings back and forth to the rail, grabbing hold of hangers as I go. £5! £12.99! Half price! I work up quite some speed as I make my way to the next rail. A child is crying on the floor. I am sure she was already falling over before I bumped into her... It was just a case of bad timing.

Everything becomes a blur.

Protectively cradling my load I head for the till. £2 for a t-shirt... this stuff will be gone if I don't get in quick. What a bargain.

I leave the shop with a smile and a full bag. That was surely worth a visit, after all, it is not often that you find a t-shirt for £2.....

(Two weeks later)

.... Why is there a t-shirt with a skull and cross bones in my cupboard? And those lime green leggings? How did I end up with such luminous legwear vandalising my wardrobe?

Oh have pity on me. January is simply the hardest month for we Bargain Hunters Anonymous.

Happy New Year?

2011-12-29T09:26:00.000-08:00

It is supposed to be the best night of the year, but I would quite happily skip the 31st of December altogether. I am a passionate supporter of Christmas; if it were a sports team I would have the kit, the scarf, the bed sheets and the wallpaper. But I have to admit, I am a New Year's Eve Scrooge.

There is just something about being forced to have an 'amazing time' that somehow makes the whole experience far from amazing. Every other evening of the year (excluding your birthday) you are entitled to choose whether to have an 'amazing time' or whether to instead spend the evening in your pyjamas eating Dairy Milk and watching re-runs of Friends. On New Year's Eve, the decision is taken away from you. If you are not drunkenly singing 'Aud Lang Syne' by 1am you are probably not the sort of person who should be allowed to socialise with other people for the rest of the year.

At least that is how New Year's Eve hype always makes me feel.

The pressure to have 'the best night of the year' means the 31st requires some serious forward planning. Living in London makes matters even worse; there are literally hundreds of 'NYE' parties to go to. How is it possible to know which one will be the best? Because on New Year's Eve you are haunted by the feeling that no matter how much fun you are having, someone, somewhere, is probably having more fun than you and that you, therefore, have failed New Year's Eve.

Being in London also comes with another problem: the price tag. Why would I pay £80 to get into a club that usually costs £10, only to then dish out £10 per drink whilst I'm inside?

I also find New Year's Eve a tad depressing. Big Ben chimes in the New Year and I find myself wondering what I have achieved in the dying year and what I will achieve during the lifetime of its offspring. I want to be with all the people I love, and then I realise that it is not physically possible to get them all together in one room. I always feel like New Year is a time for reflection, not getting drunk.

And then, of course, there is 'the kiss'. You somehow seem to find yourself as the only single person in a whole universe of contented, kissing couples and suddenly feel as much of a social reject as if you had actually stayed in with your Dairy Milk and the Friends DVD.

I don't mean to put a downer on your New Year's Eve. If you are a fan of the annual festivity, I salute you. And, of course, I won't really be sitting in my bedroom in my pyjamas on the 31st; I have made plans and am looking forward to having a great time. But I will have a great time because I want to, not because I am following the orders of the dictator that is New Year's Eve.

Anyway, have a wonderful New Year's Eve. And here are my resolutions for 2012.

Libby

It's beginning to taste a lot like Christmas...

2011-12-20T04:51:00.000-08:00

My Gingerbread Recipe:

12oz / 350g plain flour
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
2 and a half teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
125g / 4 and a half oz butter (at room temperature)
175g / 6 0z dark soft brown sugar
1 egg
2 tablespoons treacle
2 tablespoons runny honey
Icing and sweets to decorate
Gingerbread man cutter (or a knife and sense of imagination)

1) Put on some Christmas carols
2) Pour yourself a glass of wine
3) Don a pretty apron
4) Sift the dry ingredients (flour, bicarb, ginger, cinnamon, sugar) into a big bowl
5) Cut the butter into squares and add it to the flour and sugar mix, rubbing it in with your hands until the mix looks like breadcrumbs
6) Add the egg, syrup and honey to the mix and beat together with a wooden spoon
7) Tip the dough out onto a clean surface and knead it lightly. If it is still quite sticky, add flour to your hands and rub it in until the dough is smooth
8) Wrap the dough in clingfilm and put it in the fridge for 15 minutes
9) Pour yourself another glass of wine
10) Preheat the oven to 180c / 350F / Gas mark 4. If you are living in a student house where the oven doesn't close properly, fetch a chair from the sitting room to prop closed the oven door to stop the heat escaping
11) Take the dough out of the fridge, dust flour over a clean surface and roll out the dough until it is the thickness of a pound coin. If, like me, you are cooking in a student kitchen or are sadly not the domestic goddess you want to be therefore don't own a rolling pin, a milk bottle, glass tumbler or roll of tin foil (sellotaped to stop it unraveling) will do the trick
12) Line two baking trays with greaseproof paper. Using a gingerbread man cutter or your imagination and a sharp knife, cut out your gingerbread men and transfer them to the greaseproof papered baking trays
13) Put your men (and women...?) in the oven for 10 - 15 minutes or until they are golden brown
14) When the timer pings / your phone bleeps / your wonderful sense of timing tells you the time is up, take the gingerbread men out of the oven and place them on a wire cooling tray, or a plate / any kind of tray if you don't have one
15) The gingerbread men will be fairly soft (I don't really like the really traditional gingerbread men that are as crunchy as a piece of bark) so be careful that they don't incur any injuries. If a gingerbread man does lose a leg / arm in the journey between oven and cooling tray, it is of course your duty to eat it
16) Whilst the gingerbread men are cooling, use the time to put on some new Christmas songs and dance around the kitchen
17) When the gingerbead are cool, it is time to dress them. I used writing icing, marshmallows and a batch of regular icing to give the gingerbread man below a very fashionable pom pom jumper. Equally, feel free to use a piping bag for more artistic designs or to decorate with smarties and dolly mixtures
18) Admire your handiwork
19) Gather your friends and let the annihilation of a whole gingerbread population commence.

My Christmas Chocolate Cake

I don't know many people who actually like Christmas cake, so I made my housemates a gooey and calorific chocolate cake instead. It is a little known medical fact that calories don't actually count at Christmas. Or if they do all that baking, peeling and chopping of veg and wrapping of presents burns them off, easily.

6oz / 170g self raising flour
6oz / 170g butter
3oz / 135g caster sugar
3oz / 135g soft brown sugar
3 eggs
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 bar of dark chocolate
4 teaspoons cocoa powder
1 bar white chocolate

1) See above and instructions 1 -3
2) Preheat the oven to 180c / 350F / Gas mark 4.
3) Sift the flour, sugar and baking powder into a large bowl
4) Add the butter and eggs and beat it all together with a wooden spoon. If you have a hand-held electric mixer you could technically use that but I like to think that the energy required to beat the mix by hand removes any guilt when it comes to eating the finished cake
5) Melt the bar of dark chocolate. If you have a microwave (I don't) break the bar into pieces and put in a microwavable bowl for 15 second bursts, stirring in between, until the chocolate is smooth and melted. To melt using a hob, you can boil some water in a pan and put the broken pieces of chocolate into a bowl resting in the water. I tend to just put the chocolate directly into the pan and stir it loads to make sure it doesn't burn or stick to the pan
6) Pour the melted chocolate into the cake mix and fold it all together with a wooden spoon
7) If there is some chocolate left in the bottom of the bowl / pan, get whatever fruit you have in the kitchen to wipe the bowl clean in an impromptu chocolate fondue
8) Sift in the cocoa powder
9) Keeping the bar of white chocolate in its wrapper, bash it into little pieces. This is the fun bit and here are some good bashing tips: whack the bar with a rolling pin / shoe / saucepan, hit it against the corner of a work surface, if you live on several stories, go to the top of the house, throw the bar out the window and go into the street / garden to retrieve it, throw it at someone you don't like (I do not endorse violence, especially not whilst cooking)
10) Mix the broken white chocolate pieces into the cake mix
11) Grease a round cake tin and pour the mixture into the tin
12) Put in the oven for 35 minutes or until a knife comes out clean or almost clean (this cake is supposed to be a bit gooey)
13) Put the cake on a cooling rack. Once the cake is cool, decorate as you like, then cut yourself a big slice and enjoy.

Libby

How to throw a vintage tea party

2011-12-16T14:19:00.000-08:00

I had an excuse for lavishing £20 on a book I technically didn't need. I was in a tiny independent bookshop and felt it my duty to show my support for the business so that others like me could spend a happy half hour lovingly stroking the spines of beautiful books.

'The Vintage Tea Party Book,' however, is an excuse in itself. It is wonderful.
The book is the creation of Angel Adoree who you may remember for her appearance on Dragon's Den or simply for her fabulous name. It compiles tips for throwing a perfect vintage inspired tea party and includes everything from splendidly decadent recipes to templates for handmade aprons and make-up tips for achieving the flawless grooming of Fifties movie stars.
Each page looks as delicious as the recipes, with a mix of beautiful photographs and illustrations.

Eat Me

One must always look foxy.

I may be a student and not exactly prone to throwing lavish tea parties. I might not ever make candy stripe meringues or rose petal sandwiches. So I therefore may not be the kind of woman to have need of a book like this. But I suppose I bought it ultimately one simple reason: I want to be.

www.angeladoree.co.uk

Libby

Twas the Night Before Brixtmas

2011-12-14T03:35:00.000-08:00

The Night Before Brixtmas

Twas the night before Brixtmas, and all through the house

Each student was sleeping, as hushed as a mouse.

A six-person silence as they slept in their beds

Visions of yule logs and booze in their heads.

Bins were upturned by a fox in the street,

Scavenging out some Christmassy treat.

Buses and sirens whined on the Hill

But still they slept on, drunk on goodwill.

Lorries and trains speeding through town,

Planes going up and planes coming down:

Each noise is a story that London tells,

But out of that mix, came the sound of bells.

Bells in the darkness, almost silent at first,

Then bells in a ‘flying-through-sky’ kind of burst.

As housemates slept and dreamt that it snowed,

A reindeer-pulled sleigh parked on Helix Road.

Out of the sleigh climbed two sooty old boots

And a jolly old man of Jamaican roots.

“Ho ho!” he chuckled as he patted his deer

And crept up to their door, “Father Brixtmas is here!”

With the magic of Brixtmas at the touch of his hand,

He passed through the door like it was nothing but sand.

“They must be asleep,” he said to the night,

And then searched the house to check he was right.

On tiptoe he poked his head round each door,

He saw Max asleep and heard Libby snore,

He checked in on Emma, he snuck in Emily’s room,

And saw her tucked up in the warmth and the gloom.

He looked in on Josh, quiet and dreaming,

He saw Isaac asleep and then started beaming.

Father Brixtmas was happy, the scene had been set,

To give them a Brixtmas they’d never forget.

“I won’t give you toys,” he said to the sleepers,

“I won’t give you clothes, or black brothel creepers.

You don’t need my gadgets or gizmos or books,

You’ve already got friends and dashing good looks.”

“You all live in Brixton, the best place to live

There really aren’t many gifts I can give.”

He didn’t bring presents in his bell-adorned sleigh,

But something much better for their Brixtmas Day.

He snuck to their kitchen and cleaned all the dishes,

He unworried their worries and granted their wishes.

He filled every room up with festive cheer

And gave them enough smiles to last them all year.

When he was finished he sighed with a smile,

“My work here is done, now I’m off for a while.”

He shut their door with the sound of a feather

And stepped into the night and the wintery weather.

The street was still empty, save for the fox,

Eating mince pies in a thrown away box.

Nose covered in sugar, she looked to the sky

In wonder as she saw 12 deer flying by.

Father Brixtmas was steering as the deer pulled strong

With a clatter and jingle of bells he was gone

But she heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight

‘Happy Brixtmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Libby

Happy Brixtmas Eve: Herne Hill

2011-12-14T02:25:00.000-08:00

On Saturday evening I was back at Herne Hill to visit their Christmas market. Railton Road was taken over by festive stalls, carol singers and the odd farmyard animal.

As the sun began to set everyone crowded around to witness the ceremonial 'turning on of the lights'. Westfield may have got Justin Beiber, but at Herne Hill the excitement was just as great as locals, visitors, several sheep and a Shetland pony huddled in anticipation. No one seemed to mind the fact that these lights were strung around one lone tree. When they started twinkling the cheers made up for the lack of drama created by the lights themselves.

Before heading home I popped into Pullens to drink a mug of hot chocolate whilst sat in one of their battered old leather chairs looking out over the square. Christmas was in the air and in the warm mug between my hands.

Libby

Happy Brixtmas Eve: Brixton Village

2011-12-14T01:42:00.000-08:00

This weekend it was Christmas in my house in Brixton. Or Brixtmas, as my housemates and I christened our festive celebrations before we all went back to our various homes for the holiday.

I had agreed to cook a Christmas dinner for my housemates on Sunday. On Saturday as well as buying a turkey and an ample supply of vegetables (eight varieties in total) I headed to Brixton Village for some Christmas shopping.

The undercover market is one of the many highlights of living in Brixton (for somewhere with such a bad reputation, there are a huge number of these). As Jay Rayner recently attested in a review for the Observer, it would be impossible to mention all of the gems situated in Brixton Village. As well as gift shops, African fabric emporiums and the general market stalls where you can buy anything from bathroom scales to religious figurines, Brixton Village is home to some of the best restaurants and cafés in London. And not just a few of them, but so many that eating out there is as much heavenly as it is a decision-making nightmare.

Many of the restaurants aren't licensed so work on a 'bring your own' basis and food is affordable (even for a student like me). To give you a sample of the breadth of food available at Brixton Village, under the one roof you will find both the best (arguably) burger and pizza restaurants in London, a vegan cupcake shop, a café with toasters at each table for you to toast your own bread, an amazing Thai restaurant and a café that serves street-food from Pakistan.

If it sounds too good to be true, there are a few drawbacks to Brixton Village. The variety does make choosing where to eat or have a coffee nearly impossible, so be prepared to wander around in an overwhelmed daze for half an hour or so before deciding. The opening times are somewhat limited (Monday - Wednesday: 10am to 6pm, Thursday - Saturday: 10am - 10pm, Sunday 12pm to 5pm) which makes the whole place pretty busy during its open hours. And many of the restaurants look onto fresh meat or fish stalls which doesn't help a hangover on a Saturday morning (I have heard).

Nonetheless, I love Brixton Village, and it is a testament to the diversity and general buzz of Brixton itself. And it was a perfect place to spend the afternoon on Brixtmas Eve.

Libby

Undiscovered London: Herne Hill

2011-12-13T08:24:00.000-08:00

Walk out of my house in Brixton and down the leafy road and you will get to Brockwell Park. Cross through the park, alongside a minature railway and past Brockwell Lido and it's well reputed café, and you will reach Herne Hill, a quaint village-like community somewhat at odds with the hustle and bustle of this country's capital.

For somewhere so tranquil Herne Hill has a lot going for it. Its station faces onto a square enclosed by cafés, homely pubs, a flower shop, an independent book shop and an old fashioned butcher's, greengrocer's and bakery. Just around the corner you will find the Half Moon, a gastro pub come music, comedy and theatre venue. Peppered further along the road are delis, cafés, a tapas restaurant, a children's toy store and bookshop and several independent gift shops.

With all this on your doorstop, Herne Hill seems the kind of place you could live quite contently without ever needing to head into the city centre. The first time I visited I found myself imagining myself doing just that; living in a flat overlooking the square, popping to the greengrocer's to buy some food for dinner then heading out to the pub opposite for a drink later in the evening. No Oyster card needed. What could be better?

The walk back from Herne Hill takes me through Brockwell Park, where the naked trees and cold sunset spell winter.

Places to visit in Herne Hill:

Herne Hill Books is a small bookshop on Railton Road opposite the station. Although something of a cubby hole of a shop this bookshop proves that sometimes less is more; everything on the shelves is wonderful.

The Commercial, also on Railton Road is a cosy pub with an open fire. I am yet to trial it myself but have pressed my nose enviously to the window and look forward to a pint there soon.

The Poet is a cocktail and wine bar next door. Did anyone say bar crawl?

Tales on Moon Lane Even if you are not in the market for picture books, this bookshop (unsurprisingly situated on Moon Lane) is worth a visit just for its window display and because it reminds me of Meg Ryan's bookshop in You've got Mail (the best thing about that film). Oh and it also won Walker Children's independent bookshop of the year.

Libby

Happy in Brixton

2011-12-10T09:42:00.000-08:00

Over the summer I wrote on here about my nightmare experience of flat hunting in London. There was the house that could only be reached by scrambling over a railway line, the flat with a 'bedroom' minus any room, and the landlady who said as I left her property, "You don't want to live here, do you? I wouldn't want to live here."

After many stressful house viewings and becoming best friends with Gumtree, I found a new home in Brixton and have been living here happily for three months with my five housemates. It seems you can find everything on Gumtree. Recent mindless meanderings through the website have found me stumbling across dating adverts, job offers, book groups and lawn mowers for sale.

Not only did I find a great house in buzzing Brixton, but I also found five amazing new friends. I am writing this with music and the smell of ginger and sugar in the background; I am baking gingerbread men for my housemates.

So, new room, new start. Gumtree, I salute you.

Libby

Let's go to New York City

2011-11-27T12:03:00.000-08:00

A few weeks late... but here are some photos from my weekend in New York.

It was one of the best experiences of my life, and completely worth the long flights and feeling crippled by jetlag and tiredness the following week.

Although I was only there for a day and a morning and was technically working, I also managed to see a lot of the city. It has made me all the more determined to live there one day. I know it may be a cliché, but Alicia Keys is right, the streets really do inspire you. I will never forget the view as I landed on Friday evening: out the window the New York skyline was stamped against the sunset. As the plane turned, the city tilted and I could see a blanket of buildings stretched out beneath me. If the view wasn't perfect enough, when I stepped off the plane, fireworks greeted me - and I don't mean the metaphorical kind. The fireworks were perhaps the final touch on this glossy advert that was New York City. I definitely bought it.
The view from the top...

I could have spent all night at the top of the Empire State Building, despite the wind that was like a whipcrack of cold. All those lights, all those streets, and the feeling that somewhere amongst all those buildings there was a space for little old me, and some sort of adventure waiting to happen.

Meet me under the clock at Grand Central Station. Preferably with a big bunch of pink roses.

Ice skating at the Rockerfeller Center...
During the weekend, several taxi drivers asked me if I had come over to partake in the New York Marathon. Which did make me laugh. Unfortunately I left my running shoes at home, but I did manage to get down to see the marathon taking place. It was such an incredible atmosphere; the edge of Central Park was heaving with people cheering and supporting the exhausted runners.

There's no place quite like New York City.

Libby

Start spreading the news...

2011-11-03T13:18:00.000-07:00

Things have been quiet on this blog for a while, I know. I have been busy working on an interesting project that has had me travelling around the country conducting interviews, my camera and tripod trundling in a suitcase behind me. I have been up to Glasgow and down to Devon, admiring rolling views out of train windows and become something of an expert on the UK's rail system in the process.

Tomorrow my project is taking me a little further afield. A suitcase and tripod are standing ready by my bedroom door. At 4:30 tomorrow morning I will be getting up to start my journey, to New York. I was given the opportunity for a great interview so decided not to let it pass by.

I can't wait. Because I really do want to wake up in a city that never sleeps.

Watch this space.

Libby

Home Sweet Home?

2011-10-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

The Ferrier Estate in Kidbrooke, South London, is a ghost town.

Once the site of some 2,000 homes, it is now an empty shell that awaits demolition as part of a £1 billion regeneration scheme. Demolition has been underway since 2009, but several of the buildings still remain. And so do a small clutch of residents.

Photographer Anna Batchelor and artist Sarah Colson have pieced together the shards of this broken community in a rare exhibition that reflects the life of the Ferrier Estate. Presented in a corridor of the estate itself, the exhibition, entitled 'Home Sweet Home', combines Batchelor's portraits of the remaining residents with Colson's cross-stitched samplers of their most poignant quotes.

Batchelor and Colson chose the location for their exhibit, which closes this weekend, because it was one of the few areas on the Ferrier Estate that was still occupied. Batchelor and Colson hung their pieces themselves onto the peeling paintwork of the corridor's walls. .
Arriving into the estate feels a long way from any art gallery. Instead of bright lights, white walls and trendy gallery goers, there are cranes, rubble and emptiness. I meet Colson at the station and she leads me to the exhibit, which is just as well as I would have struggled to find it by myself. No one is around to ask for directions.

"Home Sweet Home," reads a cross-stitched sign, and we are led up some concrete steps to the exhibit.

Perhaps it is the power of Batchelor's photographs, the tenderness of Colson's stitching or the relevance of the surroundings, but I am moved beyond words.

Batchelor's photographs give an evocative snapshot of the lives of the residents who have yet to be relocated. When balanced with the resonating quotes hand stitched into Colson's samplers you get a raw and emotional view of the human impacts of this demolition. This is art in its purest form: touching, thought provoking, and very much real.

Just opposite the exhibition diggers and construction staff are busy at work on the new housing estate. With plans for a more modern and greener estate, there is no doubt that it will be an improvement. But behind Batchelor's photographs, just on the other side of the wall, families continue to live. They are part of a lost community.

"It was like a sunflower opening up, creating opportunities for people."

When the estate opened in the 1970s it was an example of modern, brutalist architecture that had none of the negative connotations and history that it does today.

"Be nice or leave."

Teresa:
"Photographed at home with parrot Charlie. Building work had begun behind Teresa's hoome and the three other sides of the square were due for demolition in the coming weeks. Only one neighbour was left in the row of twelve houses and there was no idea when or where she would move. With all the building work Teresa feels the estate is now like a war-zone."

"I'm ready to go now."

"It's like we live on an island."

"I'm very shy. I'm worried about being isolated in a new area."

"Fighting is too big a challenge."

Batchelor's inspiration for this exhibit came from this building. She lived nearby the estate and was passing one evening when she noticed a solitary light shining from a solitary window of the huge tower block. She was intrigued to find out who lived there and to use her experience as a photo journalist to tell the story of the isolation and dispersed community on Ferrier Estate.
Walking through the estate and reading the quotes from many of its remaining residents, you get the sense that Ferrier used to be a thriving community. Boarded up shop fronts once housed a wealth of amenities and looked out over communal gardens. Now all that remains is a pharmacy, a church and an offlicence where the owner shouts, "we're open!" to us as we pass. Access to the front entrance of his shop has been cut off due to building work, so he stands guard outside the back door waiting for customers. His enthusiasm tells me we are probably his first of the day.

"I can feel it getting emptier, at night it's so dark."

As we leave we walk down rows of abandoned homes; homes with locked gates, overgrown gardens and paths scattered with dead leaves and empty cans. The windows are blocked out and the buildings look desolate and dejected.
Then we come to the final house in the row. It is at the end of an abandoned street with weeds and metal fences for neighbours.

Lace curtains are hanging in the window and a bright red rose is growing in the garden.
For more about Anna Batchelor, see www.annabatchelor.com
For more about Sarah Colson, see www.sarahcolson.com

Libby

Frills, Buttons and Bows at the National Theatre Costume Department

2011-10-10T10:13:00.000-07:00

Libby

A Day in the Life of Molly the Mannequin

2011-10-06T16:35:00.000-07:00

A Day in the Life of Molly the Mannequin

Today was a day I will never forget. I live in a place called the London College of Fashion where most of my days are the same. Each morning a man with a necklace of keys comes and wakes me up by turning on the light in my room. Then throughout the day my room becomes filled with people who play music with sewing machines and give me makeover after makeover. In the evening, after being poked and prodded, I am left to sleep.

This morning things started a little differently. Instead of the normal man and his keys, I was woken by a girl and a boy who looked like her friend. They smiled at me and then at each other.

"She will be perfect," they said to me. I was delighted and taken aback. No one has ever called me perfect before. "Hmm, it's nearly there," or "perhaps with a little more here and a little less there,", they often say to me, but never 'perfect'.

Before I knew it the boy was hugging me around my waist and lifting me off the ground.

"We need your help," said the girl, as she followed me and her friend out of my room, "you're going on an adventure today."

With me over his shoulder the boy walked out of the building I call home and into the daylight, the girl chatting at his side.

The three of us went past cars and people and buses and all the while I looked around and up at the bright blue sky that I have so often gazed at out my window.

Before long we came to a station, where I disappeared down into the darkness.

"Excuse me," said the boy, as my hip knocked into a man with a briefcase. The man turned back and stared at me in such wonderment that I felt myself blushing.
The next thing I knew, we were on a train and I was standing next to a young man, reading the Evening Standard over his shoulder whilst my new friends sat down and watched me from the corner. It was noisy and bumpy and I had trouble keeping my balance, but it wasn't long until the boy and the girl were carrying me off the train.

We walked down another corridor (where I bumped myself on the ceiling) and were then back on the moving staircase. I could see light at the top of the stairs. Before we could reach the light, my friends had to get me through a barrier, which proved to be a bit of a challenge for them. I was relieved when the three of us managed to pass through and were climbing some more steps, up into the open air.

I had never seen so many people.

"Trafalgar Square really is beautiful, isn't it?" said the girl, as the boy set me down in the middle of a big square where I was surrounded by inspiring buildings, birds and so much wonderful noise. Most noises are wonderful compared to the monotonous sound of sewing machine music.
The girl set up a camera as the boy started to dress me. He put me in a black dress and leather belt, but you could see my body through the dress as if it was made from coloured tissue paper.

Once I was fully dressed the boy disappeared. I was a little worried, even if I still had the girl by my side. I watched her setting up her things. She had a freckly face and a camera for her eyes.
Soon the boy returned, accompanied by a group of people. The girl then told the group where to stand (I would have said she sounded a little bossy, but she had been nice to me all day so I didn't mind) and then the boy was asking them questions about fashion and what I was wearing.

"Oh. Wow," said one of the girls in the group.

"It's a bit revealing," said another.

"The fetish look is a big trend coming through this autumn," said the boy.

At the end the group and my friends all laughed together and the group left.

This process continued again and again as the afternoon drew on. All the while the boy continued asking questions, the girl continued nodding encouragement and giving directions, and the groups of people continued giving surprised comments about my attire.

I was a little confused, however, as to why they were so shocked. Compared to lots of the makeovers I have had in the past, I thought I was looking a little bit restrained.

After an hour the girl and boy said, "I think that's a wrap," and laughed at each other. I sensed it was nearly time to return to my home amongst the sewing machines and tables, so I took one last look around my surroundings.

Old buildings smiled down at me and a fountain sang water at the bottom of the square. People wandered around me, turning to look at me as they passed. Above me the sky was huge and free, and my heart felt full. I promised myself I would always remember the way the day looked from this spot.

Then I was back over the shoulder of the boy and disappearing down into the tunneling station.
After the journey we emerged back on the road I now recognised as Sheperd's Bush Road. People watched me as we walked down the street, and I felt myself blushing again.
It had been a long and tiring day modelling so I was hungry. We stopped off at KFC where I had a small portion of chicken and chips (I wanted the large but I need to watch my figure). Then the three of us walked slowly back to the London College of Fashion. The boy and the girl were talking to each other and to me as they walked. When they arrived back at my home they stopped and gave me a hug, asking two friendly police officers who were passing to take a photograph of the three of us.
Then the boy and the girl took me inside and put me back in my room.

"Goodbye Molly the Mannequin," they said with a laugh.

"I know it sounds silly," said the girl, "but after the crazy day we have just had, I am really going to miss her." Then she looked back at me for one last time, before turning off the light and following the boy out of my room.

Tonight I will fall asleep dreaming of the sound of sewing machines and Trafalgar Square.

Behind the Scenes at the National Theatre

2011-10-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I spent the afternoon getting lost in a maze of clothes at the National Theatre costume department. When a friend told me she had an appointment there, I jumped at the chance to explore the vast warehouse filled with old costumes.

The National Theatre hires out their costumes to individuals and theatre companies, who can come to an unassuming building in Oval and rummage through the ages and continents. My friend had the exciting job of selecting costumes for an upcoming production at the school where she teaches drama.

When you picture the afterlife, pearly gates and white fluffy clouds may spring to mind. But for me heaven is a warehouse in South London. For several hours I walked up aisle after aisle packed with costumes, as happy and overwhelmed as a child who had been searching for a four leaved clover when they stumbled across a whole field of them.

The building smelt of musty fabric and the excitement of thousands of curtain calls.

We were left to wander as we pleased, so with my camera around my neck I explored undisturbed. I took 500 photographs in the process. Over the next few days I shall continue to share some of my favourites.

And if I ever disappear, you will know where to find me. Somewhere between the 18th Century dresses and the tail coats at the National Theatre costume department.

Libby

Brixton's Best View

2011-10-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

When my nine year old step brother found out I was moving to Brixton, he was more than a little concerned.

"Isn't that where the riots were?" He sounded frightened.

"No. There have never been riots in Brixton. Ever."

It is wrong to lie to children.

When I moved here a week ago I didn't know much about Brixton beyond its bad reputation. All I knew was that after months of searching I had found a nice house on a nice street that wasn't on a motorway or over a railway line and with friendly house mates who didn't have rules pinned to their fridge ("No visitors for more than one night in a row. No noise after 9pm"). Frankly I was so relieved to have found a roof for my head that the location wasn't that important.

I have already fallen in love with Brixton. The bustling market is full of life, as well as lots of great restaurants, cafés and a vegan cupcake shop. Brixton's pubs are what I think of as proper pubs (and I come from pub country down South), and I plan to make it my business to visit as many as possible. A few nights ago I went to a reggae night called the 'Reggae Train' that was by far the best train I have ever been on. This morning I went to a Caribbean aerobics class. I have never smiled so much whilst exercising.

One of my favourite things so far in Brixton is Brockwell Park, which is a five minute walk from my house and also home to Brockwell Lido which I tried out last week. (I am not quite sure that I am hard core enough to be a regular swimmer there. It is open air and unheated and everyone else seemed to be wearing body suits, swimming caps and goggles. I felt somewhat out of place doing a lazy breast stroke in my pink ruffle bikini.) In the middle of the park there is Brockwell Hall, which has a cute café and ice cream shop and is the perfect place for sitting and admiring Brixton's best view (which I did).

Yesterday I spent the entire day sat in the sunshine at Brockwell Park, scribbling away in my notebook and snoozing on the grass. I am definitely enjoying my new home and the last few days of freedom before the start of my next term at university. But I was far from the only one enjoying the sunshine.

It is time to change Brixton's bad reputation.

Libby

Meet me by the Serpentine

2011-10-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

On Friday I sat by the Serpentine whilst the sun tickled London and made it grin.

Wherever I looked there were people smiling; elderly couples walking hand in hand by the river, young couples curled up together like knots on picnic blankets in the shade, and parents watching their children running on the grass. I love London, I love the sun, and I love the Serpentine.

Over the next year my plan is to try to visit (and photograph) as many of London’s parks as possible and to make the most of living in one of the greenest cities in Europe.

Libby

How to spot a fashion butterfly and other animals

2011-09-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

(Warning: this blog post may contain dangerous shoes)

Which Fashion Animal are You?

How to spot a fashion butterfly:

She flits from trend to trend like a butterfly exploring a summer's garden. As fun loving fashionistas butterflies just can't let a fashion fad flutter by. Brothel creepers? Gold lamé leggings? High waisted skinny jeans? Neon lycra? Been there, done that.

Her wardrobe looks as though a rainbow has landed there. 'The brighter the better' is her motto, and she is not adverse to the odd smattering of bling. More is more.

Autumn / winter trends for a fashion butterfly:

Tartan is big news this autumn and you can be sure that fashion butterflies will have read the headlines. Which means that many a butterfly will be swarming to old school uniform shops to snap up a kilt. The most adventurous of animals, butterflies may even be seen attempting Triple Tartan (tartan skirt and tartan twinset).

Fashion butterflies love nothing better than a bit of extravagance, so this autumn's raciest trend is one for them. Fetish-wear has now been deemed high fashion by the likes of Marc Jacobs and Giles Deacon, so expect to spot fashion butterflies whipping out the PVC (if not the whips).

A word of warning to a fashion butterfly:

Yes, these studded rainbow shoes from River Island do look made for you. Just don't try boarding any planes whilst wearing them as they may be classed as an offensive weapon.

How to spot a Dalmatian:

They live their lives in black and white and Coco Chanel is their idol. A Dalmatian will never be seen without her pearl collar or a pedicure. Although seemingly elegant and chic, dalmatians are (of course) a tad dotty.

Autumn / winter trends for a Dalmatian:

For Dalmatians spots may never go out of style, but this autumn polka dots are more fashionable than ever. To distinguish a Dalmatian from any other dotted fashionista, look for the head to toe spots (polka dot heels, polka dot pencil skirt, polka dot shirt and polka dot pill box hat). Marc Jacobs and Stella McCartney are her new favourites.

Dalmatians are sticklers for sophistication, so expect to see them sporting this season's forties trend by way of elbow length gloves.

A word of warning to a Dalmatian:

Do not be offended if strangers in the street ask you whether it's contagious.

How to spot a leopard:

She is the princess of the urban jungle and can be spotted prowling in prints. Classy, sexy and with a certain feline beauty, a leopard is a stylish city girl with a love for labels.

Autumn / winter trends for a leopard:

This autumn she will be wrapping up in fur and feathers as well as her beloved leopard print coat. Red is set to be this season's new favourite colour so leopards will accessorise with scarlet for a touch of sex appeal.

A word of warning for a leopard:

If you do opt for this season's trend for feathers, stay away from open flames.

How to spot a robin:

Robins are true Brits who are as classic as snowy Christmas cards. They can often be found toting leather satchels and wearing British wool jumpers whilst hovering around libraries and old book shops. They are reserved creatures who stick to tailoring and smart details. A robin knows what she likes and takes pride in her flawless style.

Autumn / winter trends for a robin:

Robins love to remind themselves of their heritage, so this season they will be wearing sixties British classics that they saw reinvented on the catwalk. Peter pan collars and tartan prints will give them the bookish charm they aim for. They will fall for the deep greens and berry shades popular this season, because they remind them of leather bound books and wood panelled libraries.

Meanwhile they will continue to steal from their man's wardrobe for the tailoring they so love.

A word of warning for a robin:

Avoid fashion butterflies.
How to spot a (snuggle) Bunny:

If you see someone wrapped up in a kitsch, snuggly jumper, ear warmers and mittens, then you have found yourself a classic bunny. Bunnies are easy to spot for their love of all things cute and fluffy: heart print t-shirts, flowery socks poking out of their shoes, soft woolen cardigans and spotty scarves are bunny trademarks.

Autumn / winter trends for a bunny:

Bunnies are lovers of kitsch so this season's animal prints will have them hot under the collar. Expect to see them wearing a mismatch of different pretty prints; they will love them all so much that it will be just too hard to decide.

Bunnies love to snuggle so they will be hopping into the trend for cocoon coats that will keep them warm.

A word of warning for a bunny:

Overt sex appeal will never be your forté.

(All photos taken at Westfield's Car Bootique event. Pop down to Sheperd's Bush tomorrow to catch the last day of this event. Make the most of discounts, prizes and fashion shows to find out which fashion animal you are and how to make your wardrobe match your fashion personality.)

Libby

www.libbypage.info

2011-09-19T02:56:00.000-07:00

It may still be a work in progress, but www.libbypage.info is up and running! I decided that it was about time I made myself an online CV of sorts, so here it is.

: )

Libby

How to make friends with fashion

2011-09-11T05:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have the feeling that the fashion industry hates women.

Fashion is supposed to be a woman's friend. As a fashion journalism student perhaps I shouldn't be admitting this, but fashion can be very unfriendly.

I am very thankful not to have any friends quite like the fashion industry. I admit that throughout our friendship some of my friends have done some crazy things, but none of them have ever jumped out at me whilst I am reading a magazine or watching TV to tell me that I'm fat. No friend has ever recommended the Dukan diet to me, or told me to put lemon juice on my face to get rid of my freckles (actually, I lie, one friend did once. We are no longer in contact). My friends have never made me feel embarrassed about the fact that my answer to the question: 'What Does YOUR Parting / Toothpaste Brand of Preference / Cuticle Care Regime Say About You?' is 'not a lot'. My friends never make me wear brothel creepers, or lamé leggings, or geek glasses; in fact (fancy dress aside), I can safely say that the people I love would never do anything to make me look any uglier than I already am.

My friends are my friends because I love them and love being with them, but also because they love me and they make me feel great about myself. My friends know me and I know them, and whatever our faults may be, I wouldn't change theirs and they wouldn't change mine.

I have decided to apply a similar approach to fashion. I think that I have quite a strong sense of my own style, but studying at a fashion university can be overwhelming and can shake even those who have their feet well planted in the ground. When everyone else is bang on trend there can be moments when it does make you begin to wonder whether fluorescent yellow and pleather microshorts might actually be a really good idea. It is a slippery slope.

In a few weeks time I will be moving back to London and starting my second year at university, and what I hope will be a new stage of my life. I am viewing it as a new start. So my wardrobe needs to be up to the challenge.

This is how I plan to make (and stay) friends with fashion...

1) A trend that makes you want to change something about yourself, like a flaky friend, frankly isn't worth the effort.

2) Following Step 1, I vow never to wear skinny jeans again. It's all in the name.

3) Throw away the enemies (the huddle of dresses that are just that little bit too tight, or too short, or too see-through, or too... lilac). You may think you will wear them again / lose weight / gain weight / gain a different complexion that makes lilac your colour. But you won't.

4) Don't buy / keep shoes that are too painful to walk in. You will just end up breaking your feet and your heart.

5) You feel comfortable with your best friends because they know everything about you. Feeling comfortable and confident in your clothes is about knowing yourself.

6) Once you have worked out who / what you are, accept it. If you are anything like me, it may mean accepting the sad truth that you are never going to be 6 foot and / or 8 stone. But think positive. At least you will never hit your head on low ceilings.

7) Find an icon who makes you proud of your body shape. Ok, I may never actually look anything like Joan from Mad Men, but her fabulous figure makes me proud to have curves. Her confidence, her clothes and her magnificent rear end (that is worthy of a standing salute from her male colleagues) have inspired my wardrobe and made my hips happy. Goodbye 'saddlebags', hello 'sexy'.

(Other hourglass icons include Marilyn Monroe and, of course, Betty Boop.)

8) It's what's on the inside that counts. Yes, that means that personality and confidence helps. But so does great underwear.

9) Find what clothes work for you. (Which clothes get you the most compliments? What do you feel happiest in? Why? What colour and shape are they?)

10) Stick to them.

When I go back to university I am only bringing with me the outfits I really love and that are the kind of clothes the person I want to be would wear. For me, that means colourful, curvy and confident. Mad Men inspired, and something like the things below (because now that my wardrobe is looking a lot emptier, it won't hurt to make a dream shopping list...).
£69.99, Fever London, because every girl needs a red dress. Or two. Check out the three-quarter length sleeved Salzburg dress (also from Fever, £74.99) that looks straight out of Joan's wardrobe.
£45, Louche at Joy
£50, Louche at Joy
£49, Louche at Joy
£49, Louche at Joy
£45, Louche at Joy
£29, Miss Selfridge
£69.99, Fever London
£79, Vivien of Holloway (available in lots of different vintage fabrics)
I bought a red version of this dress (£89) from a gorgeous lingerie and dress shop in Spitafields and it is the favourite thing in my wardrobe. When I wear it I walk taller and smile more broadly. The right outfit really can have a huge impact on the way you feel about yourself, and this dress makes me feel like anything is possible. I just found out that this dress comes in different colours and patterns (like the blue floral print above). I am seriously consider buying several and spending my life wearing nothing but this dress. Because as Joan (AKA firey Christina Hendricks in Mad Men) proves, when it comes to your wardrobe if nothing else, less is more.

Libby

Pom Pom Factory

2011-09-05T10:04:00.001-07:00

The Pom Pom Princess

I am the Pom Pom Princess

And I live in Butterscotch Grove,

My hair is made of candyfloss

And my fingernails are mauve.

I am the Pom Pom Princess,

And I make daydreams come to life,

Dream a dream of Johnny Depp

And I’ll turn you into his wife.

I am the Pom Pom Princess,

Make a wish and close your eyes,

A better world that’s fair for all,

Or cash and smaller thighs?

I am the Pom Pom Princess,

And I’m as magical as can be,

Just say ‘Pom Pom’ and it is done,

Who needs Botox when you’ve got me?

Libby

A little poem inspired by the quirky company Pom Pom Factory. Have a look at their website: www.pompomfactory.com where I found these magical photos

Goodbye Summer

2011-09-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

The summer is drawing to an end and I have been drinking in the last dregs of it whilst at home in Dorset. I am now looking forward to getting back to London, but in the meantime I am enjoying the last snatches of summer breeze before autumn takes over.

Libby

My (not so) Glamourous Life

2011-09-05T08:53:00.000-07:00

Flat hunt, part 2, as told to Libby Page by Miss Fashionista

Reaching the house was stressful enough. The sound of a motorway welcomed me to the neighbourhood as I stepped onto the empty platform.

“Cross the bridge,” read the instructions.

I couldn’t see a bridge.

I hate feeling lost. Not knowing where I am or which direction to take is one of life’s biggest frustrations, one which usually leaves me fighting back tears. Sadly I have not been blessed with a natural sense of direction. I get lost in my hometown. I have lived there for 10 years and it has a population of around 10,000. I have lived in London for less than a year. It has a population of around 8 million.

I decided (although I am not quite sure why) to follow the mysterious person who had just appeared on the empty platform. I followed them to a footbridge that carried me high above the motorway. As I crossed I looked down at the grey conveyor belt churning out row after row of cars and lorries.

“At the end of the footbridge, cross over the railway track.”

An overgrown path twisted to the left, leading to some stone steps and rusted iron railings that climbed up to the railway line. To my right a pile of mattresses lay abandoned amongst glass confetti.

I had not dressed for clambering over a railway line. Brambles were in strong competition with the path and one particularly prickly branch bit a hole in my tights. I tried to imagine this journey at night. I thought it was best not to even contemplate the prospect of lugging heavy suitcases along this route.

“Railway: DANGER OF DEATH.”

Was that a train I heard as I stepped tentatively onto the track, or the busy motorway below? The railway curved around the corner and out of sight so it was difficult to tell. I didn’t leave time to find out.

On the other side another set of steps brought me to an overgrown path that cut through a row of terraced houses and their back gardens.

“Once on the other side, go through the tunnel and you will find our street.”

Following the path I came to a narrow tunnel and followed the window of light on the other side until I was out and standing on the side of a main road.

“On the other side of the road, directly in front of you, you will see the house.”

Number 201.

The landlady opened the door. She was a small old lady with a clipped English accent who brought me into the house whilst asking me over and over, “where did you go to sc-YULE?”.

As I answered again and again (I don’t think the name of my local state comprehensive rang any bells), she brought me into the kitchen.

It was a serene white room that glistened with new work surfaces. Sunlight smiled in through the large window that looked out onto a neat postage stamp of lawn. On the low coffee table in the adjoining sitting room glossy magazines were fanned out neatly.

The kitchen was like a happy sigh at the end of my somewhat eventful journey.

“Let me just get the key,” said the landlady, “And I’ll take you across the road to your house.”

Because sadly, 202 was the house I had come to see.

“I haven’t been here for two months,” she said as she put the key in the lock of 202, “so I don’t know what it will be like…”

I sometimes wish it were socially acceptable to just tell the truth. As she showed me around the house, it was the struggle to stop myself from telling the truth that was the hardest.

“Well… it’s a good sized kitchen…”. I tried to ignore the fact that the ceiling was falling down.

“And there’s a garden… that’s great.”

Sadly it was impossible to get into said garden because it was so overgrown that the backdoor wouldn’t open. When I did try to open it, it nearly fell off its hinges.

“Oh well, I don’t really use garden space that much anyway… Shall we look upstairs?”

Leaking bath, mouldy shower curtain. “So, there’s a bathroom…”

We moved into a bedroom that faced onto the road.

“And would this be my room?”

“Excuse me?” replied the landlady.

Another lorry rumbled past the house.

“I said WOULD THIS BE MY ROOM?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, disappearing into the other bedrooms, apparently to inspect their state of disrepair.

“Well, it’s a good size…” I lied out loud to myself.

When the landlady returned she had a broken lamp in her hand and decided that now would be a good time to make sure that her potential new tenant wasn’t a psycho. What did I do? Where did I study?

Where had I gone to school?…

“And how old are you?”

I told her.

“19! 19! Do you burn saucepans?”

I assured her that no, I did not burn saucepans (although it was a natural question because of course I am not technically entitled to my saucepan user licence until I’m at least 21), and that in any case I had my own supply of cookware if I did want to do any saucepan burning.

“Hmm,” she nodded.

For a moment we were both quiet.

“Well, thank you for showing me around. I have a few more places to view, but I’ll be in…”

“You don’t want to live here, do you?” she interrupted.

I looked at her.

“It’s really very scruffy, isn’t it?”

We were in the front hall and I could just see the kitchen ceiling sagging behind her head.

“I wouldn’t want to live here,” she said.

Well that was settled then. Even the landlady didn’t want to live in her own house. Yet somehow even then I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell her the truth: “Yes, you’re right, your house is truly horrible and you are absolutely mad if you think that I honestly want to live here.”

“No it’s not that,” I said, “it’s just that I’m really looking for a social bunch of people to share with, so the fact that I couldn’t meet the tenants is a bit of a problem for me. But thank you very much for showing me around anyway.”

So, I waved a happy goodbye to number 202 and climbed back over the railway to continue the search for that most elusive of things, a London flat to call home that doesn’t make me want to cry.

The search continues…

Libby

I miss you Alex

2011-09-04T15:53:00.000-07:00

I miss my sister. A few weeks ago she left on a one way ticket to Australia. She is planning to spend six months to a year in the land down under. It seems I'm not the only one missing Alex...
Libby

A Year in the Life...

2011-08-04T01:14:00.000-07:00

I am sat in my flat in London trying to pack a year into boxes and bags. The window is open and I can hear the sounds of the street I have come to think of as home. Upending bags and rifling my way through drawers, I am trying to catch my memories from this year before they run away. The smell of Columbia Road flower market, that Vietnamese restaurant in Shoreditch, the sound of pigeons jostling each other on the bridge on the way to London Fields, the American diner where I drank milkshake cocktails and found a friend, the flavours of those cupcakes in a bakery near Covent Garden, the play I watched at the Barbican, the Saturday market in a school playground.

Looking around me at piles of bags, shelves of books and a pinboard heavy with pictures and postcards, I can see traces of what has been a huge year.

I'm going to need more boxes.
My pinboard is like a map of the journeys I have been on this year. Here are some of the most memorable destinations:

The Day I had Lunch at Vogue

Before I describe my day at Vogue, I will say what you have probably already guessed: I didn't win. You would have heard by now if I had. A few weeks ago I received a letter from Alexandra Shulman that said: 'Thank you for coming to lunch at Vogue House, we all enjoyed meeting you. Although you haven't won this year's competition, as I said at lunch we had a record number of entries this year so to be a finalist is a huge achievement. Congratulations.' signed, Alexandra, Editor, Vogue.

It was as I had expected, and although I was initially disappointed I have now come to feel extremely proud to have got to the final eight, and I look back on the experience with nothing but happy memories of an incredible day.

On Friday the 8th of July at around 1:30pm, I was sat in Vogue House with a glass of champagne to my right, and the editor of Vogue to my left. We were chatting about the royal wedding and the future of the magazine industry, whilst eating pea and mint mash and smoked salmon in a room decorated with decades of Vogue covers.

It had been a long morning. I woke up at 8, excited but tired after a restless night (the thought of lunch at Vogue the next day is enough to turn you into an insomniac). Then for getting dressed.

What do you wear to Vogue House? In my case: a brand new outfit. I had been shopping with my mum the week before (a lovely if somewhat embarrassing experience. As I tried things on I could hear her the other side of the changing room door telling bemused sales assistants what my outfit was for), and found something that I loved. Above anything, I wanted to look like me. So I went for lunch at Vogue wearing a smart, nude coloured A-line dress and a bright orange jacket, worn with a bright orange and pink bag and matching shoes. I was hardly going to turn up in black, was I?

After several hours of waiting and then a busy tube journey, I arrived outside the doors of Vogue House at 12:30. An hour later I was upstairs with the judges and seven other finalists, sitting and chatting with Alexandra Shulman.

"How do you feel about the future of printed magazines?" she asked me.

I then found myself talking with Alexandra Shulman about many things I have long since felt: that printed magazines can no longer compete with the internet on providing up-to-date news or interactive material, but that shouldn't render them obselete. With the beautiful faces of generations of Vogue cover stars smiling down at me I felt even more strongly my belief that a magazine like Vogue is much more than a monthly style guide. It is a statement. When you pick Vogue off the shelf or let the glossy cover peak out from your handbag, you are saying something to the world about who you are, or, perhaps, who you want to be. For me the magic of Vogue is down to its stellar content that is on the pulse and provided by world-class contributors, but it is also the most glamorous of accessories. How do you wear your Vogue? Do you tuck it under your arm as you walk down the street, cover facing out so everyone knows which magazine you just bought? Do you roll it casually to say that you are someone who is effortless and cool when it comes to style? And when you have finished 'wearing' your copy, do you leave it on a coffee table for the benefit of your guests or use the covers to decorate your room?

Digital is brilliant. Moving image in particular gives an exciting new platform to magazines that looks set to become much more mainstream. But other than the obvious flaws of digital (do you really want to read a 1,000 word article on your iPhone? And what about having something you can hold and touch and stroke?) there is one big problem. You can't wear an app.

As we spoke, and I tried to manage talking and eating (the strategy, in the end, was to do very little of the latter), I kept wanting to pinch myself. I couldn't believe I was talking about all of this with the person who makes it happen.

Between courses the judges moved around to give them the chance to speak to as many people as possible. As well as Alexandra Shulman the judges also included many Vogue staffers, a previous finalist and Lisa Armstrong. It was surprising how relaxed the atmosphere was throughout the whole dinner. Of course I was nervous, but I found myself really enjoying myself. The food was exquisite and I was surrounded by people I admire and felt incredibly fortunate to meet.

When it was time to go I didn't want to leave Vogue behind. Luckily, for another hour at least, I didn't have to, as we were all given a guided tour of the building. I contemplated hiding in a fashion cupboard, or downstairs in the archive room where we were shown a library of fashion books and shelves and shelves of old Vogues, but in the end (and after one of the best afternoons of my life) a revolving door pushed me back out onto the street.

I stood in Hanover Square with the seven other contestants, shell-shocked. We all needed a drink, I decided, so I marched the eight of us to a nearby pub.

The other finalists were lovely, and in place of competitiveness was a real sense of comradery. When I eventually headed home I realised that although I probably hadn't won, I would be incredibly happy for whoever did. They would have thoroughly deserved it.

And besides, there's always next year... :)

Cake Day, 2011
When things are stressful and getting you down, what do you do? I make cake. And not just that, I organise my friends around the country to get baking too. Because sometimes there is just nothing quite like the smell of icing sugar and baking cupcakes.
Two Weeks in Colour

Two weeks, two colours. My two weeks spent in head to toe red and pink gave me a whole new confidence. When you no longer fear walking down Oxford Street dressed like a walking raspberry, not much seems that scary. And that is so much fun. The two weeks also taught me a lot about colour and inspired me to inject more of it into my wardrobe. Whether you like it or not, our clothes talk about us behind our backs. I just want my clothes to say nice things.
Cosmo Girl
Hard Work Pays Off
'Work Hard and Be Nice to People'. This is what I read every morning when I wake up, and the motto I try to live my life by. I am a strong believer that you get out of life what you put in, and most of the time I find that this is true. This year has been hard work, but it has been well worth it.

I recently finished my first year with a First and then spent a brilliant three weeks doing work experience on the features department at Woman and Home. As well as assisting at photo shoots and employing my masterful skills of 'coffee management' I also spent much of the time writing. And it made me so happy. Yes I do love fashion, but I have finally realised that I love writing more. So that is what I should be doing.

An interesting year, now packed up into boxes. Now onto the next...

Libby

Goodbye Hackney

2011-07-30T10:54:00.000-07:00

(Apologies for the poor quality - the higher quality version on my computer wouldn't upload)

Happy Baker seeks sunny room in London loft apartment

2011-07-27T13:59:00.001-07:00

Flat hunting is painful. Apparently you used to have to leaf through the Evening Standard and stand in a telephone box for hours to find a new home (according to my mum). Thankfully we now have the internet to do the trawling for us, and to send the very best offers our way. My personal favourite of such offers over the past few weeks has got to be: 'Bob, 68, seeks single, female student to share a double room in Acton.'

Tempting though that seems, I shall not be taking Bob up on his offer. It got me thinking though, and I decided to have a go at coming up with an ad to rival even that of Bob, 68.

Here is my attempt:

Happy Baker seeks sunny room in London loft apartment

Are you a group of music playing rugby players with a spare room? Do you have an empty bed in your flat of young professionals in Notting Hill? Does your modern loft apartment with views over the South Bank feel lonely? Then there is only one thing you are missing: a Libby.

Interests include smiling, shopping and photography. Currently a journalism student at the London College of Fashion, in my spare time I enjoy spring cleaning and exploring London, not forgetting (of course) its best pubs. For me testing the food and drink in new pubs and cafes is not just a hobby, but a duty I take very seriously.
Despite being a self-confessed workaholic, I enjoy letting my hair down. Hobbies include expressive dance and fancy dress (see above).
Although studying journalism, my other calling in life is baking. I love to make cakes for people, and have been known to leave boxes of cup cakes for my flatmates with stickers reading 'EAT ME' on them, scattered around the apartment.
I am not just looking for flatmates, I am also looking for people to take on the very serious positions of Official Cupcake Testers for my latest creations. This is a somewhat appetite-consuming role so I am looking for people with sweet teeth and hungry stomachs.
Wednesday nights in Libbyland are Pancake Nights. Potential flatmates, therefore, would have to be OK with having pancakes made for them on Wednesdays, as it is an important part of the Libby Code to, 'Never Eat Cakes (Pan or otherwise) Without also Making Them for all Those Present'.

So, if you need a flatmate / happy baker, and especially if you are: Ewan McGregor, an Italian Count, a rugby team or have: a river view, a claw-foot bath, a sunny garden or a walk-in wardrobe, then get in touch. (Time wasters need not apply.)

Libby

P.S (Warning: some of the above may have been subject to exaggeration)

My (not so) Glamourous Life

2011-07-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

(As told to Libby Page by Miss Fashionista)

“Do you have any questions?”

I looked around the flat. No I didn’t have any questions.

“You should know, we sometimes get rats.”

Yes, definitely no questions.

“This is the sitting room. As you can see we have three sofas.”

Three grey sofas huddled in the carpeted room around a boxy television. The sofas wore a sad expression and a jumper of stains.

“If you follow me out this window we get to the balcony. It obviously isn’t great now but in the summer…”

At this he trailed off, leaving the end of the sentence hanging in a question mark in the air. In the summer… In the summer you could sit outside among these margarine tubs filled with soil and suspicious looking plants, and admire the view of the rear end of a block of flats.

“If we climb back inside…”

I followed him back through the sitting room and up the stairs.

“Be careful of the wires. Now, this is the bathroom.”

My eyes headed straight for the dark patch of mould creeping across the ceiling.

“We do have a bit of mould. But don’t worry, the landlord said he might fix it.”

I tried to imagine myself standing naked in this damp room. Maybe I would just have to shower with my clothes on.

“And if you follow me next door, this would be your room.”

Putting my head around the corner of the next door I saw a bed. But no room.

“We used to have a desk in here…”

I think he noticed my eyes widening at this small miracle.

“But Callum decided to take it out to brew beer instead.”

So that explained the large vat of yellow liquid standing on the shelf above the bed. I was quite relieved.

“As you can see it’s a fine room. Now this is your wardrobe.”

He opened a cupboard just outside the room to reveal a broken clothes rail and a heap of indiscernible items of clothing on the floor.

“And you saw the kitchen on your way in. So that’s it really.”

I followed him downstairs and we stopped in front of the door.

“So is there anything you want to know before you leave?”

Resisting the urge to cry, I forced myself to speak.

“How have you found living here?”

A noise, any noise, is more reassuring than a pause.

“Yes it’s fine. So are you interested?”

“Well I’ve got some other flats I’m viewing this week,”

(I’m lying. Can he tell that I’m lying?)

“But I’ll be in touch.”

I was never very good at lying.

“Ok well I don’t know how long it will be left for. I’ve had lots of other people looking around actually. So far no one has got back to me. But I have more people coming round.”

“Well thank you very much for showing me around. I’ll be going now. How do I get out?”

He opened the front door and pointed down the corridor to a heavy metal door, “You need to press the emergency exit button because the door isn’t working. And when you get downstairs watch the bikes as you leave.”

“Ok, thank you. Bye.”

I walked quickly away from the flat. At the end of the corridor I managed to get the door open and then made my way down the concrete steps. I tried to ignore the smell and the puddles. Once at the bottom a cluttered rack of bikes nearly got in the way of my escape. Pushing myself up against the cold wall I squeezed past and burst out into the street.

Freedom tasted like smog.

I gripped my umbrella close to my body and walked as fast as I could back through the graffiti jungle. All I wanted to do was get home and have a hot shower.

“So,” I thought as I emerged back onto the main street, all visions of a Cath Kidston decorated loft apartment with a roof garden faded into nothingness, “the search continues…”

A Poem

2011-07-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

Ode to East London Boys

String vests and birds nests,
chest 'fros and dickie bows,
wicked beard, Dukan reared,
geek specs, rocking checks,
set for school, 'cos I'm cool

Libby

Only in East London...

2011-07-27T11:15:00.000-07:00

After a year of London Fields and Broadway Market, I will be moving out of Hackney at the end of the week.

I have loved so many things about living here. Columbia Road on a Sunday makes my soul smile, Pub on the Park does the best chunky chips in London, Bridge Café in Shoreditch feels like a Parisian bar and sells sticky sweet baclavas, and Regent's Canal is the perfect place for quiet wandering in the big city.

But there are some things I won't miss.

There is only one place where checked shirts, geek glasses and sailor tattoos on men aren't just acceptable, but practically mandatory. East London is that place, and on Saturday I will be more than happy to see the skinny derriere of the East London Look and wave it a cheerful goodbye.

Yesterday I nearly had a breakdown in Tesco. If I saw another man in a string vest and pink plastic ray bans I was going to cry. In the fruit and veg aisle I counted eleven adolescent-looking adults wearing postage stamp shorts, grey school socks and brogues. By the time I reached the cereal aisle I had counted three more, plus twelve shaved heads and floppy fringes, nine dicky bow ties, five crucifix earrings, a pork pie hat, two berets, four tea cosies on heads and seven v-neck vests (revealing chains and chest hair). A middle-aged man wore dungarees, a checked shirt buttoned up to the throat, an oversized bow tie, a cap, and sock-less loafers. "That's someone's DAD," I said to myself as he pulled a family pack of biscuits from the shelf.

Where did masculinity go? Certainly not Tesco, Hackney. I could feel myself choking up in panic as my local supermarket became a mirror and I found myself faced with the harsh reality of my own reflection: "Is this really what my life looks like?" What is the cider-drinking girl from Dorset doing here? How did I get to the stage where dressing in a skirt and jacket and lacking either a shaved head, dip dye or pair of biker boots makes me stand out like someone wearing a cattle bell around their neck?

Let me not be misunderstood: I am not condemning self-expression. In a fashion election I would vote for individuality no questions asked. But the East London Look isn't about individuality. It is a strictly dictated uniform for the 'Cool Club'.

There's just one problem. I don't want to join your club.

Libby

L is for...

2011-06-18T10:07:00.000-07:00

L is for love
L is for lollipops
L is for life
L is for Louboutin's
L is for Libby
L is for London

A snapshot of my lovely London life...

Libby

An incredible end to my first year at LCF

2011-06-17T07:21:00.000-07:00

I am so happy that my smile is making a dash up my cheeks as if attempting a speedy exit somewhere near my ears. And all because of one letter...

I have finished my first year at the London College of Fashion. After a long final day my friend and I celebrated with an all American feast at a retro diner. Over milkshake cocktails we discussed our first year and our hopes for the future. Yes, we were both happy to have finished our first year. But finishing our first year meant we were closer to finishing our second year, which meant we were closer to finishing our third year which meant we were closer to the daunting prospect of graduation.

In an industry as competitive as the one we have both chosen, we had to admit: it can be a little bit terrifying to say the least.

When I got home I opened my post box to find a letter that is in my opinion quite possibly the best thing ever delivered in the history of the Royal Mail.

It was a letter from Alexandra Shulman, the editor of Vogue, telling me that I am a finalist in the Vogue Talent Contest and have been invited to lunch at Vogue House.

I enter the famous writing competition every year but never in a million years expect anything to come of it. Even now when I look up at the letter hanging proudly on my pin board I can't quite believe it is real, or that the large scrolling signature is really that of the editor of Vogue.

I don't for one minute expect to win the overall prize (incidentally: £1000, a month's paid work experience at Vogue and an accolade so well-recognised that it would be a fairly monumental start to my career). I don't think what I wrote is good enough to win the overall title and I'm sure there will be some amazingly talented people at the finalist's lunch. Besides,thinking about winning is a treacherous route to take. I don't even like to think about how much it would mean to me. So instead I am just incredibly excited. Excited to have got this far and to get the incredible opportunity meet the editors of my favourite magazine and to have lunch behind the doors of Vogue House.

Now for the important decision: what to wear? Above anything I want to wear something that says Libby, which will probably mean a dress, a pair of heels and something red, but beyond that I don't know. But there is one thing I will definitely be wearing. One HUGE smile.

Libby

The Skype Story

2011-06-17T03:30:00.000-07:00

Since starting university Skype has become an invaluable way of keeping in touch with the people I love. With this in mind when I was given the task last term of writing the script for a short documentary about a technology that has changed the world, I knew what I wanted to make mine about.

I then set about interviewing as many people as I could via Skype. I wanted to tell the Skype Story using the medium itself, and to give a snapshot of the positive way in which technology, when exploited properly, can affect and help the lives of ordinary people.

As well as the script I had to write I was asked to make a really short clip just to illustrate the idea behind the programme and the form it would take. Here is my clip for 'The Skype Story.'

Thank you very much to everyone who was kind enough to help me out. What an ideal project really: an excuse to talk to some lovely people and hear their stories.

Thank you Skype.

Libby

Fashionista on the Farm

2011-06-17T02:10:00.000-07:00

For the past month or so I have been flitting between Hackney, where I live, Sheperd's Bush, where I study, and Kentish Town, the subject of this term's project.

I had never been to Kentish Town before but instantly fell in love.

My favourite thing about Kentish Town has to be Kentish Town City Farm. When it opened in the 70s it was the first of its kind; there are now 15 city farms in London.

Walking down Kentish Town Road or through a labyrinth of residential streets you wouldn't expect that just a few hundred metres down the road you could find yourself standing amongst goats and sheep, listening to the piercing cry of a cockerel. The farm, which includes a yard, classrooms, several fields and community allotments, is sliced in two by a busy train line.

The farm is a hub of community, run with the help of volunteers, including young people doing community service or work experience and little ones who can work there from the age of 8. From the first moment I stepped through the rickety door and into the yard (heels swapped for a trusty pair of boots and denim shorts) I thought it was a brilliant story that I couldn't wait to investigate further.

The course I am studying at the London College of Fashion is print and broadcast journalism. For the broadcast part of the course we had to create a 30 minute documentary about an aspect of our assigned area. Watching children pushing wheelbarrows through the yard whilst birds sang in the trees and a train clattered past I decided I wanted to use our 30 minutes to tell the story of this extraordinary city farm.

I took some photos and went back to my group buzzing with tales of city chickens and Farmer John, the gruff yet affable head of the farm who swaps between barking instructions at the children and fondly smiling and joking with them.

I was pleased when the rest of the group fell for the same charm that had me hooked.
For the next few weeks I became a regular visitor at the city farm. At 9 o'clock on a weekend I would be there with camera, microphone and notepad, ready to spend the day interviewing workers and visitors or filming pigs rolling happily in their muddy enclosure.

When I approached families to ask them if they minded me filming their visit to the farm they would inevitably ask what university I was studying at.

"Bizarrely - the London College of Fashion," would be my general reply. When I applied to LCF I never thought I would find myself here: holding my camera above my head and jumping backwards into a bank of nettles to avoid two huge and boisterous pigs charging down the path towards their enclosure, or climbing onto a stack of hay bales to record the colourful chaos of a May Pole dance.

The farm is first and foremost a working farm, but it arose through a need in the community as somewhere to provide both an escape and to give young people an education that goes beyond the classroom.

One day we filmed a school visit in which the farm's education officer took the children around the farm, showing them young potatoes in the soil and explaining why it is important to sheer sheep as one ewe wriggled uncomfortably under the arms of Farmer John and his whirring razor blades.

At one point a girl spotted the resident farm cat hiding in the corner of a barn. The education officer took this opportunity to try and explain why cats are an important form of pest control on any farm.

"Now children, what do cats eat?" he asked.

A tiny hand shot up in the air, "cat food!"

Of course.
In our documentary I tried to tell the story of the farm and show the role it plays in the Kentish Town community. In today's world we are so often surrounded by negativity that I wanted to show a modern day success story. 'Big Society' seems to be David Cameron's buzz phrase and an ideal he is looking to create. But over the past few months I have found that if you look closely and venture to places like Kentish Town City farm, you will find a society that is already bursting at the seams.
Filming our City Farm documentary was definitely one of my favourite things about this term. I have completely surprised myself: of all my lectures at LCF my broadcast lessons have been by far my favourite. With this in mind I have decided to specialise in broadcast journalism next year.

When I arrived at LCF I was completely focused on print journalism and would never have even considered getting behind or in front of the camera. The past year has been a huge learning process for me and has opened my eyes to exciting new opportunities.

I have found that finding a story and planning and filming it isn't all that different to writing an article. Although I always want to write, I ultimately want to be a journalist. Journalism is undergoing such huge and exciting changes at the moment that I think to emerge in 2 years as an employable journalist I have to really embrace these changes. Moving image is becoming so much more important that I hope an understanding of how to film and edit will stand me in good stead.

I do find the prospect of broadcast journalism a little daunting. As I said before it is never something I would have seen myself doing in the past. But I have realised that I am at university above all to learn, so I should make the most of the facilities and opportunites available to me to learn the most I can about this dynamic and ever-changing industry.
For now at least though, the wellies are off. But if journalism doesn't work out you will know where to find me: I will be down at Kentish Town City Farm, chatting to Farmer John and sitting in the sunshine admiring that view.

Libby

My articles in FOX magazine...

2011-06-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Rankin Loves Kentish Town

In a bright reception beautiful faces look down from frames on the walls whilst next-door a studio is buzzing with assistants. In the flat upstairs Rankin's two dogs wait for their walk.

Since 2009 the impressive facade of Rankin's gallery, studio and home has stood on an unassuming patch of Grafton Road. "I always wanted to have a gallery and studio space of my own, I'd been dreaming of it for a long time," says Rankin.

The gallery gives the public the first chance to see Rankin's work exhibited in a solo space. "When this building became available I jumped at the chance to make it my own," he says.

Rankin was heavily involved in the design of the building itself. Inspired by a 35mm film, it is a sleek silhouette stamped against the cluttered backdrop of Kentish Town.

"It's very modern, quite stark, and all monochrome," says Rankin as he describes the flat he lives in on the top floor, " it has incredible 360 degree views around London. I never tire of the view."

The gallery may be situated on a still and leafy street just a stone's through away from the bleats and oinks of the City Farm, but it couldn't feel like more of a contrast.

You are not likely to find any animals in the all white interior of this building. Apart from Rankin's dogs, of course. When I meet with Kerry Schofield, head of house at Rankin Photography, she is on her way towards the door. As well as overseeing the gallery's upkeep, helping in the studio and organising events, it seems 'dog walking' is an important job requirement.

"It's great to have everthing in one building," says Schofield, "although we have nearly doubled as a team since 2009 being here feels homely. It's like a family."

Despite the family feel, working for one of Britain's most famous fashion photographers isn't without its surreal moments.

"The only time I have ever felt properly star-struck is when Jude Law was here," says Schofield. "He had a lovely bum," she adds with a smile.

With Jude Law (and his bum) coming through the doors and a project with Damien Hirst in the pipeline, Rankin's gallery on Grafton Road seems like the place to be. For now at least though, it is time to leave. I have kept Rankin's dogs waiting quite long enough.

110-114 Grafton Road, open 11:00am to 6:00pm Monday to Friday
Urban Decay

Andrew Pegram has lived in North London all his life. Little surprise, therefore, that the title 'urban artist' fits him like a well-crafted suit. "If I go to the countryside I see beautiful things but I don't feel like an artist," he says, "I want to rush back to the city to what I know and love."

With a background in interiors Pegram made the leap to the street in 2005 when he became unhappy working in the family cabinet business. Supported by his wife he embarked on a career change that saw him setting off, camera in hand, to photograph buildings around London.

A self-described 'print-maker, photographer and collector,' Pegram's work draws constant inspiration from his urban environment.

Many of the buildings he captures become colourful prints, whilst others found their way into his book 'Devine Decline,' a collection of images showing London buildings that have fallen into disrepair.

Not the most likely subject for a photographic book, perhaps?

"A lot of my art has to do with finding beauty in what other people don't find beautiful," says Pegram, "in the book I'm showing things that people are predisposed to think are ugly and sad and trying to show that they have an inner beauty."

Yet there is a political message to Pegram's work too. "Although I find the decline divine, it should never have happened," says Pegram, "the main point I'm trying to make is that these are beautiful buildings that should never have been allowed to fall into disrepair."

Peeling paint and empty shop fronts are not uncommon here in Kentish Town. In fact such buildings could be said to be threads in the rich tapestry that is the community. So we have it: the paradoxical beauty of urban decay.

See www.blurb.com for details of Andrew Pegram's book

Watch this Space

If a building could speak, I wonder what stories it would tell?

Number 3 Leighton Place would certainly have a lot to say. It was originally a piano factory and throughout its history it has also been a musical school for the blind.

Ten years ago Greek artist Stathis Lagoudakis converted the dilapidated building into a studio and modern flat. The one-time factory became an artist's sanctuary carved into a quiet corner of Kentish Town.

The greatest transformation, however, takes place at the weekend. From Monday to Thursday the ground floor operates as a gym. Come Friday, dumbells, yoga mats and motivational tunes are packed into the cupboard and the room becomes Leighton Space, an exciting exhibition space for cutting edge artists.

"It is not a gallery per se," says Lagoudakis, who opened the arts space in November last year, "it is a space where artists can come and do whatever they like. Apart from destroy it!"

Whether it be a group of university students looking for a space to photograph their work, or a local artist seeking a platform, there is a thread that runs throughout the work exhibited in Leighton Space.

"I look for artists who don't want to do something simply as a commercial enterprise. I want something exciting and different."

The split personality of Leighton Space affords Lagoudakis this liberty. The money made through the gym pays the rent, leaving Lagoudakis free to indulge. "I look for new ideas, for things that aren't just about packaging and selling. Renting spaces puts too much pressure on artists, they need to be able to show their work and experiment."

So why Kentish Town?

"I used to live in Hoxton before it started being Hoxton. The more places like Dalston and Hoxton grow, the more they become pretentious," says Lagoudakis, "this place has a real feel about it. There is an audience here and an energy, the energy you get from having lots of artists and galleries in one area."

It is an energy that Lagoudakis has seen before. "I studied in Chicago and saw how the city changed," he says, "I watched how development followed artists and the places they chose to set themselves up. It's almost like artists are used to develop an area."

The metamorphosis of Number 3 Leighton Place is not just the transformation of a building, but the development of a burgeoning arts scene in Kentish Town. Watch this space? Watch Leighton Space.

3 Leighton Space, available to hire from Fridays 10:30am to Sundays 9:00pm, info@leightonspace.org.uk

Cosmo Girl

2011-06-12T09:37:00.000-07:00

A few months ago the Cosmo girls asked me back to help out: they needed a student to photograph for June's issue of Cosmo on Campus, their student publication. Over the last few weeks I have received many surprised text messages from friends at universities around the country: "I was just eating my cereal and flicking through Cosmo on Campus when I saw a smile I recognised..."

: )

Libby

My First Editor's Letter... : )

2011-06-12T08:48:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the first issue of FOX magazine...

Walking through Kentish Town is like crossing back and forth between a country village and an urban metropolis. We foxes are at home both stalking the street at night or eyeing up the chickens on a country farm. In our first issue of FOX magazine we bring you a varied representation of these contrasting sides to Kentish Town.

Photographers Alex Pielak and Victoria Mullins were assigned the task of giving us their view through the lens of Kentish Town. The results give a snapshot of the many facets of Kentish Town and can be found on page 25.

FOX heads to Kentish Town City Farm for a glorious fashion shoot, shot by Bonny Sadr and styled by Zadrian Smith. Kentish Town is teaming with young talent and with this in mind Zadrian sourced clothes from a range of young designers. He and Bonny have created some beautiful images of a girl who is more than she seems. Sipping water from a pond swarming with tadpoles she becomes a creature in herself (Ey Iy Ey Iy Oh, page 13).

As a complete contrast to the city farm, FOX also pays a visit to one sleek black building on Grafton Road, which just happens to be the home and studio of world famous fashion photographer, Rankin. Be sure to see his interview on page 23. In his own words, "Kentish Town is a place to watch."

With Rankin's stamp of approval, North is officially the new East. Kentish Town is growing as a destination for both artists and galleries. In this issue we present to you Leighton Space, an exciting new arts venue that doubles up as a gym during the week and is the definition of both versatility and cutting edge art (Watch this Space, page 22). FOX also speaks to North London artist Andrew Pegram about the paradox of urban decay and what it means to be an urban artist (Urban Decay, page 24).

Back to the countryside and one of the integral parts of any rural community: the country pub. Kentish Town isn't short of pubs, and in this issue Drunken Fox Tom Williams visits the best of the bunch. A week spent eating and drinking; his dedication is surely admirable. Our resident foodie Ellie Mathews also brings you a round up of the best independent food stores in Kentish Town, as well as catching up with John Grayson of Earth Natural Foods. You may have walked past countless times, but did you know the story of its pioneering co-owner? (page 8)

Another stalwart of the Kentish Town high street is currently looking ahead to a sad future. Zadrian Smith interviews the owner of Bluston's, revealing the history of the family business that has been a part of Kentish Town for decades but which is now facing its downfall (Bluston's Last Ration, page 20).

In a lighter vein, Fox About Town Maria Medvedeva reports from the HMV Forum as Snoop Dogg makes his UK comeback in Kentish Town. Continuing the musical note: Map Café may be well-known for its weekly jazz nights, but it is also a recording label that promotes fresh new talent. Mona Maahn meets the man behind the Map (page 12).

FOX has also found the best things to do in Kentish Town over the summer. See our summer calendar on page 6.

Now for a flash of orange tail as FOX is off, on the hunt for the best that Kentish Town has to offer in time for next season's issue.

FOX magazine

2011-06-12T06:53:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am still alive. Things have been rather quiet on here recently as for the last few months I have been somewhat distracted by my third term's project at the London College of Fashion.

Term 3 at LCF has been by far the hardest, but also the most rewarding. At the beginning of the term we were split into groups and given the task of creating a magazine and a 30 minute documentary about an area of London. We were assigned Kentish Town, and I was the Editor in Chief of our project.

Over the last few months my laptop and I have become like young lovers: rarely apart and unable to keep our hands off each other. Sleepless nights have been spent creating layouts for the magazine or editing articles and images. At one stage I was seriously considering bringing my sleeping bag with me to the edit suite where I had spent another 12 hour day editing our documentary.

But somehow, remarkably, after a term of stress, disagreements and lots and lots of hard work, it is all over and my project has been handed in. I have finished my first year at LCF.

A few pages from our magazine...

Let's go to (Kentish) Town

I must admit that when our group was assigned Kentish Town as our area to write about, I had never been there before in my life. I wasn't even sure where it was.

Unusually for me, I wasn't jumping off my chair trying to be the leader of this project. In my first year at LCF I have been lucky enough to work with some incredibly talented people whom I have learnt a lot from. When it came to our first group project I wanted the best person to do the job, so if that meant stepping down and sitting this one out, for what was probably the first time in my life, that was fine by me. I was more than a little surprised, therefore, when the group came to a unanimous decision: they wanted me to be the Editor in Chief. Maybe I was just destined for writing lists, creating timetables of deadlines and yaberring away in front of a room of people about our ideas after all...

FOX Magazine

To best explain the concept of our magazine, I am copying the first paragraph of my editor's letter (the writing of which was a surreal and inspiring experience. The first of many I hope...):

"Walking through Kentish Town feels like crossing back and forth between a country village and an urban metropolis. We foxes are at home both stalking the street at night or eyeing up the foxes on a country farm. In our first issue of FOX magazine we bring you a varied representation of these contrasting sides to Kentish Town."

FOX became not just our name, but a concept that shapes the whole magazine. When we visited Kentish Town one of the things that really struck us was the mix of urban and rural: Kentish Town City Farm is a rural haven and many streets here look like postcards from a country village, yet you are still in the heart of the city. From this idea, 'FOX' was born: our magazine would be a mix of urban and rural in the same way that you get country and city foxes.

Just like foxes wander the streets we aimed to sniff out the best of the best in Kentish Town in order to create a reinvention of the community magazine. Why shouldn't the community have a trendy, fun magazine serving the same purposes as a traditional magazine or paper?

When we picked up our magazine from the printers they told us that they had all been looking through our magazine and loved it. One of their drivers, they said, had lived in Kentish Town all his life, yet he said he found out things he never knew about the area from reading our magazine. That is something I am proud of and have enjoyed this term: meeting new people, discovering new things and feeling like a proper journalist.

I am really proud of what we have produced, with a little help from the artists and photographers we commissioned. I loved being Editor in Chief and have learnt so much from the process. Of course I have learnt technical skills: I designed the layouts for the magazine using Photoshop and Indesign and although I had never picked up a film camera before in my life before starting LCF, together with one of my coursemates I filmed and edited a 30 minute documentary. But I have also learnt a lot about myself.

When people hear that I have a whole drawer dedicated to baking supplies and a room decorated with bunting, they often jump to the conclusion that I'm as soft as the pink cushions scattered across my bed and not up to a career in one of the most vicious of industries.

At the end of this project one of my group mates went around the group asking everyone what I had been like as an editor.

One response in particular made me laugh: "you could ask Libby to do anything and she would get it done. She is to the point and straight in what she wants. When she asks you to do something you know you have to do it, because if not, you're in for a ride."

These past few months have been full of stress and have left me exhausted. I have had to deal with the problems and inevitable setbacks that come from editing a magazine as well as working with a group of strong-minded people. I have had to defend my ideas and fight the corner for our group when faced with difficult questions about our magazine from our peers and lecturers. But despite all the stress it has definitely been worth it. I have a copy of FOX magazine sitting proudly on my shelf, and have proven to myself that you can be and Editor in Chief and still bake cupcakes and love pink.

Libby