For a Friday night: yielding home truths. Some say it best when they say nothing at all. I, on the right hand, say it best when I say a lot, or so I like to think. I'm a real talker; I was born with opinion in excessive measure, much to the dismay of many a soul, I'd imagine. Talking is what I do best. I would leave you to peruse three of my favourite looks from AW12 but my Friday night would subsequently be plagued by trepidation and anguish at the eventuality that there could be some kind of misconception re: what exactly inspires me about the Prada, Louis Vuitton and Marni collections. Don't tell me, I'm too cool.

I refer to these collections with affliction as more specifically, it is the dialogue between pattern, brocade and the amalgamations of heavily embellished Louis Vuitton that ring true with zia matta; my right hand (wo)man. That is, mad aunt. I have a fixation a penchant, shall we call it, for fabrics of considerable substance and monumental weight, heavy enough to render tip-toeing the most laborious of tasks. I'm still betwixt and between about that dip dyed hair though, Ginta Lapina. But heck, if anyone is going to gratify the validity of an amber wig beneath blonde locks, it's Ginta. And to conclude, a footnote if you will, I acquiescently dedicate this post to my darling friend Jennifer; I hereby affirm that the zia matta has well and truly materialised.

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