London.  I forgot how these streets are like self-proclaimed catwalks.  Sprees of ready-to-wear fashion at your fingertips and some all-not-to-ready-to-ever-be-

worn ensembles strutting down the pavements.  Stages where you can flaunt your wears and promote your identity, not matter what that may be.
This city is a cradle of trends, some genuinely original and some contrived in their frenzy to regurgitate the trends or beat them.  And ironically they just fall into another stereotype right? Mohicans with studded leather battle against twinsets and pearls (no doubt a flourish from Miss Middleton's influence).  Some perfectly groomed and others seemingly dressed in what could only be the results of tragic jumble sales in the suburbs... surely?  Who pioneered these wars between such fashion tribes I wonder? Estranged fashion identities merely cohabiting together.
It's practically balmy by London standards (I'm wrapped up in a sweater and biker) and there is all too much more than appropriate lily-white flesh on display.  That's what I love about this place.  Where back home the average sub-60 kg girl blushes over her under-toned underarm, these girls couldn't care less if their love-handles submerge their tube, waisted skirts, spilling out from beneath their crop tops .   Positively unbecoming, positively refreshing.
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