Today, I found myself contemplating the long, wise road that I have travelled - career wise, that is - and peeping back over my shoulder to the scarily winding road from which I have come. It's almost too easy to look back at when you were, say, 16 and had your five hundred inches too-long locks dyed a pitiful straw-green-blonde shade of muck and accordingly cringe until you grit your teeth so hard you end up choking on the remnants of what were healthy 20-something year-old teeth. (And while we're on the subject... Yes, I confess, I gave the whole blonde thing a shot.) 

So I got busy with the archive digging and came across an image that didn't send a tsunami of blood to the head. Here I am at AW11/12 fashion week - just over a year ago - about five days into a fashion week. I don't just remember this - I'm wearing converse. Which - if you're not Sherlock Holmes and have failed to understand the association - means tired feet.

Wearing: Marks and Spencer blazer, Gap cardigan, Marks and Spencer vest, Reiss trousers, Giambattista Valli belt, clutch from the Philippines, Converse and Links of London jewellery.

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