Here’s a strange thought…the maximum amount of masculinity I, as a female possess is the first 15 minutes out of bed. Now, I’d like to think it’s at the gym when I’m lifting weights, but really I am just another skinny girl with delusions of the Hulk. So crawling out of my bed in the morning is assertively when I behave most like a man. I have to set 10 alarms and only on the final one do I haul myself up and reach for my glasses. I grunt, I groan, I mutter in a croaky, dehydrated tone. My eyes are crusty in a way no lady’s should be. My pyjamas are hiked up in bunches or falling off at unflattering angles. You should see my hair, never cascading down my shoulders like Cinderella but more like Shrek, if he had hair. I am postively gross. Waking me up makes me miserable because it is so physically painfully. I am a heavy sleeper, I sink so deeply it takes me a good while to fully emerge back into reality. And in those first 15 minutes, I cannot speak to anyone and I become unreasonably irritated should anyone try to engage verbally. My body is so shocked to be awake, despite hours of fasting, I can never face breakfast. Eating in the morning makes me nauseous, as if every ounce of my physical being is revolting against not still being in blissful sleep. I am my most manly but also at my most horrible when I wake up. It takes two shots of espresso and a harsh face splashing of cold water for me to become Audrey. I am in awe of the people who jump and skip out of bed with the energy of a red bull can. That is not me, that will never be me. But then again, getting out of bed is generally the most difficult part of my day, which means every other task is uncomplicated in comparison. Anyway at the end of this digression comes this outfit, one of the very rare, perhaps the only post I will photograph so soon after waking up. This coffee right here? The first one of the morning. I slung this ensemble on in the same way I’m wearing this scarf, carelessly and clumsily so. Even Biba was still in her morning coma, she insisted on embedding herself in the scarf as a makeshift bed. I suppose my reasoning behind the scarf was similar to her’s, it’s big, soft and as close to a blanket I could get after stepping out of the apartment. We think as one, Biba and I. I failed to wear a jacket because I’m an optimistic idiot like that. I saw the sun shining, threw on a floral blouse and declared it a spring day, despite it being sadly only Febuary. Yes, I was cold. And no, the coffee did not warm me up. And finally, look at Biba in the collage photo, bottom right. Her expression was how I felt as we made our made to the cafe, too early and sans caffeine…
what i’m wearing: zara floral blouse, zara khaki fleece scarf, la redoute
camel chinos, mini furla bag via shopbop & asos cateye sunglasses
I always come to this cafe, it has featured here quite regularly since I moved to Barcelona. It’s called Cheri and reminds me of Paris, all my favourite cafes here feel French to me. The man who owns the flower shop across the street remembers my face but faithfully forgets I am not French, I think the conversation we’ve shared many times about Provence means in his mind I am indeed like him, from that region. Oh I wish I was. Being American is a trait I increasingly yearn to abandon. But back to the blouse, I abandoned florals for a good while. All the ones available and heavily worn were too garish, too bright, too ‘old lady at a tea party’ ; at 28, primary colours make my eyes hurt, like staring at the sun. They burn my sight. But my blogger friend, Chloe Helen Miles changed my mind when she suddenly started wearing all these sophisticated, subdued versions. So, while I cannot unfortunately declare, SPRING IS HERE in a melodic, overdramatic way better suited for a musical… I can assure you of this: I have fallen back in love with floral print, just of a more mellow, veering towards bohemian kind. What a riveting snippet of news, I am laughing at how painfully trite that statement was. What can I say, sometimes my basic fashion blogger comes out and steals away anything interesting, leaving quips about florals instead. I have been sharing my outfits here for a painfully long time, it’s bound to happen every so often. This basic blogger is my shadow, whispering and prodding me to talk about shoes with feverish enthusiasm, or sharing my love of camel with the intensity of an epiphany…on her worst days she’s encouraging me to join rewardstyle. But I banish all that away usually, wearing what I wear, writing what I write. And my final thought, as a rebound from my dull floral revelation; both the scarf and the blouse were 10 euros in the Zara sales, so they are no longer available. The shoes are 3 years old and the chinos are from La Redoute, which perhaps you can still buy but I couldn’t be sure. Let’s just say this outfit is here simply to inspire you, because that’s really what I aim to do. To inspire in an uplifting, multi-faceted way. And if you think my inclusion of books both here and on instagram are mere props, you are wrong, they are subliminal messages in hopes you read more. I promise it will make you sexier.
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