collected sentimentality.

There’s been plenty of times in my blogs that I’ve referred to my taste in jewellery as selective, simple and personal.  Generally when I travel these bits and pieces grow dramatically until I’m tinky-tinkiting around town and claiming bits of string I find on the ground have karmic significance. My collection of rings, bracelets, anklets and pendants are all meaningful and, as I evolve, gather more memories, and layer more jewellery the jingling noises get louder and my collected sentimentality grows too.

The chain that I wear around my neck daily is no exception and all of the pendants on it represent a person, story or experience either past or present.

Without further a due, let me introduce you to my collected sentimentality.

From left to right:


Camera – for obvious reasons. Ever captivated by the challenge of how I can most honestly portray bits of life through a lens I’m frequently described as constantly having a camera glued to my hand.

Vishnu – Yes Vishnu, the popular Hindu god, venerated by the Hindus as the Supreme Being. I bought this the first time I was in Thailand for about 50c and have cherished it ever since. Once upon a time my best friend explained to me that the ‘Divine Lord’ is kind of the Hare Krishna’s version of a deity. Since knowing Libby we’ve developed a joint, personal co-dependency on “the divine lord”, often trying to appease him/her by doing sporadic good deeds before we went out/went on holidays/asked a boy out so that we would be granted positivity. The Krisha’s don’t believe in material possessions so the divine lord can be present in any object or form that you allow it to be, I think there’s some correlation between Vishnu and the divine lord so I’ve always seen this pendant as representative of that. I like to think that it looks after me when I travel and it’s always a link to Libby.

Tiffany’s Padlock – 21st present from my college girlfriends. Oh the days of studying Events Management and sharing pieces of Vegemite Turkish toast because we couldn’t afford our own. (I still can’t.)

Fortune Coin – purchased on one of my favourite holidays to one of my favourite places in the world; Byron Bay. Also signifies the real beginning of my interest in Tarot cards. Unfortunately I can’t read fortune coins but I like to think they’re similar to a good luck charm.

Spanner – I got this from a boy I like to call my ‘Lobster’. Kinda similar to ‘the one that got away’…think unrequited love.

Tiffany’s Apple – from one of my great loves. He used to say my cheeks looked like apples when I smile.

Spoon – Originally this was a small vial with a twist top and the spoon was attached so you could use it to dip into the vial (you get the idea). My brother’s best friend (and now a very good friend of my own) bought this for me while we were travelling through Spain and Portugal together.  It reminds me of Barcelona, the poignant musical moments, the ridiculously amazing festivals we went to and all the laughs we had. Mid breakdown later in that trip when I was flying from Portugal to France (alone) I looked down and realised the vial had fallen off my necklace. I was devastated and promptly collapsed into a heap, listened to Apparat’s “Candil de la Calle” on repeat and cried for a really long time on the floor of Paris’ Orly airport. I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell him yet that it’s gone. Sorry Nathatron! x

Ball – a gift from Libby. She bought it to reflect my frequently used saying  and sometimes life philosophy “there’s so much beauty in simplicity”.

Key – this is the actual key to the jewellery box in these pictures. The box was a gift to my mum for her 21st birthday. Keys are recurringly symbolic for me, I’m not really sure why. I think I like the idea of being able to lock and unlock certain feelings and thoughts.

Wing – from the other great love.  It’s probably an angel wing but I always related it to feathers.

Feather – Also from Libby. Feathers have always symbolised freedom to me. At my 21st Mum gave me the advice: “Above all else value you your freedom, not just for yourself but for others”.  It stuck.

ImageSo, one day when you catch me catch me, alone, rolling one of the pendants between my fingers, staring off into the distance with a twinkly look in my eye and laughing to myself you’ll know vaguely what I’m thinking about….unless I’ve made up a story about flicking someone in the face with my sparkly unicorn tail or going on a date in a double story Lamborghini.

x j.

animal instinct .

Arriving 45 minutes early for my class I thought I would initiate the painful task of my financial planning and funding homework . Notorious for leaving things to the last minute (homework/assignment wise) throughout uni, which surprisingly saw some of my best results executed, I knew leaving it until the night before would only encourage my tendency to procrastinate until 2am, inevitably hitting my peak fuelled with coffee and redbull…though I’m determined to not repeat that process .

As 6pm approached, one by one, more people began to enter the room . But one in fact caught my eye with just a brief glimpse of her shoes…so naturally I looked up to check out the rest of her outfit…I must admit I was slightly intimidated staring at this perfectly poised, tall, thin, sun kissed entity who in my opinion had an amazing outfit on…whilst there I was in my daggy Zara pants, a white T and baby blue Chuck Taylors .

Amber L’estrange, former model turned stylist (and my teacher for the night), was surprisingly excited when asked if I could photograph her outfit for Honey&Hook (it only took me 2.5hrs to build up the courage to ask) .

“make sure you get the boots, they’re my animals” . and she was right . Whilst her outfit was femininely chic, those little “animals” exuded a captivating distinctiveness with her attention to detail on her accessories…her aura was very Byron Bay-esque…a very admirable look to pull off effortlessly .

I have a feeling Amber will be a frequent resident on Honey&Hook .

xx M .

2. eau de ooli: the 212


all this makes me wanna say is: “whats ya dick like homie what are you into?”

for those of you who aren’t blissfully aware of Azealia Banks’ lewd, crude bordering on obscene tune ‘212’ this is my most favourite line from it.

we all know that the world loves a hot black chick with attitude: macy gray, lauryn hill , M.I.A, beyonce, santigold and the newest member of this genetically blessed, overly talented group…Azealia Banks are just a few. whats not to love? they’re sassy, sexy and just so fuckin’ cool that they’re allowed to say ‘cunt’ more than 26 times in the space of 4 minutes. i’m not sure whether to bow down in thanks or punch myself in the face. us white girls, notorious as ever for being the biggest culprits of perpetuating the idea of ‘wanting what we can’t have’ make no exception in trying to imitate the ultra-cool-as-fuck look that these babes carry off so well.

denim shorts, boys kappa jeans (remember those?!), vintage basket ball singlets, chuckie taylors, oversized hoodies, genie pants, bandanas, adidas trackies and threadbare tees with rasta slogans on them get paired, no rhyme or rhythm with clashing garish tribal prints, hoop earrings, patches of glitter, flat brimmed hats and diamond encrusted bling teeth to create a look thats perfectly constructed yet looks more like it was haphazardly thrown together after priscilla got in fight with 50 cent. (my bad. fiddy.)

in her clip for 212 azalea looks like she’s rolled outta bed and on the way down to the local ball court to kick it with her homies has thrown on her shortest denim cut offs, favourite mickey mouse knit from kindergarten and high top nikes.


(picture from

aside from gwen stefani, though, i don’t know many white gals who can carry this look off without looking like a tom-boy drowning in their big brother’s basketball kit, or britney spears impersonating lil’ other words, white trash.

perhaps ooli knew that a white girl stepping into the sass boots of a black girl was treading a fine line between being  mothafuckin’ dope asssss or being buried but never one to shy away from a challenge she promptly changed her name to ooli-eeesha, snapped her fingers and got her ‘ooh run run’ on with the full fervour of snoop sippin’ gin & juice.

i like to think that 212 homegirl ooli developed before my very eyes in europe while we were clutching at fashion angel straws desperately attempting to construct some sort of original/borrowed/painted/stolen version of an outfit we’d been wearing for 3 months already. i was already vaguely aware of ooli’s bizarre penchant for flat brimmed hats but it really peaked when she dragged all of us into a surf shop, very inebriated, at 1am to painstakingly try on and then purchase a hat bearing the slogan ‘girls sk8’, or something similarly as ‘original’.


and, don’t even question why said shop was open at 1am, everything is upside down in Lagos, or, perhaps it was a sort of ooli type secret wardrobe shop which opens for precisely 47 minutes following the consumption of exactly 3 tequila shots, a nibble of a smurf, 3 sickly pink drinks and 12 high kicks then promptly disappears in a puff of smoke several minutes after her exit. with the flat brimmed cap as a sort of secret ghetto weapon, ooli’s outfits, dancing and whole demeanour steadily became more ghetto until ‘the 212’ was a fully fledged, rude, crude, poppin, crip walkin, crunkin, grinding new addition to ooli’s repertoire.  behold.


i don’t know about you but i get a very gwen stefani feeling from this. at the time of the ooli-gwen-212 debut i was too drunk to fully appreciate the gloriousness of this outfit. its only with the beauty of hindsight that i realise that this is where ghetto fab ooli really booty popped her way into the world. the best bit about this whole outfit is the gym bra/crop top which looks like it should belong to scuba steve. moreover, i have NO fucking clue where this top came from. clearly ooli had a private moment where she rubbed her paws together and prayed for biggy to fed ex it to her via ‘dope ass express’ cuz i sure as shit never laid eyes on it before.

 as ooli-esha grew more bold she proved to the world that an inner tinkerbell can blossom into an inner tupac. she took her home girl staples of chuckie t’s, the flat brim caps and oversized bling and married them with denim overalls, tye dye bikini tops, superman undies, suspenders, cheerleader socks and bandanas  crip walked around town and perfected the ‘hey, boys can we kick it?’ look with just the elements of sassy and sex chucked into the mix.

now she sits balanced perfectly on the very small platform of gwen-stefani-esque ghetto chic where most white girls never make it dressed in a midriff bearing t-shirt with the words ‘we cool‘ doodled haphazardly across the chest in gold sequinned cursive writing and yelling out to the rest of the world “bring ya doo rag too son?!”

peace out homies,

j. xx

antediluvian elegance .

I recently received Scott Schuman’s book The Sartorialist (yes I know I’m a little delayed) as a gift from my fellow blogger J . This book quickly became my bible . Scott established The Sartorialist to create a two-way dialogue about the world of fashion and its relationship to daily life . I love his perception and analysis of one’s outfit – his ability to identify intricate style details is phenomenal, just like that of Bill Cunningham . It is human nature to make assumptions however this book educates one to perceive others in a different light . perhaps there are contributing cultural or sentimental factors to ones outfit – those of which you wouldn’t know unless you asked .

take this photo for example . Talia frequents the races so one would assume this is just another hat she owns upon the thousands in her collection . This hat was given to her by her nan which at the time resembled a a disc of straw and a bow . with a bit of nurturing she was able to restore the vintage piece to its original condition . though it is a beautiful piece, what stands out the most are her eyes . If you stare a little longer you would almost mistaken them as vintage instead, the story behind them is rather captivating, but a mystery to most .


Talia wears vintage hat, silk shirt by Sandro, rings by Marc Jacobs & Folli Folli, earrings by Mimco, bangles by Peeptoe .

M .

1. eau de ooli: hippy stix lounge suit

if a unicorn princess had sex with bob dylan then its daughter would like look like this; a barefooted, wandering gypsy with bells on her ankles, long flowing gold-i-locks and dressed in a billowing grubby white genie suit. oh, and a kate moss (circa pete doherty) esque panama hat which you’re sure just miraculously floated up to her on the breeze from the ocean while she was undertaking her days work; braiding feathers into hair, painting blurry photos of stoned cats or performing upside down head stand scissor kick contortionist moves. i can’t even begin to explain how marvellous the genie suit (which i became fond of calling a ‘lounge’ suit’) really is. its sort of body suit pyjamas meets cat woman at the beach. and even though that combination should be enough to make you cough up your soybean salad it somehow manages to be organically, casually sexy without being slutty.

the tie up (correct – like the criss cross lacing that pamela anderson was so fond of in the 90’s) should be hideously tarty especially as it allows the neckline of the suit to pretty much dip down to navel level but it works in that sort of less is more way. with the addition of the panama, the bells and bare feet this suit becomes the single most gorgeously ridiculously, impractically, sexy, comfortable item of clothing i have ever worn.

it may defy every single law of style, fashion and tailoring known to woman but i sure as shit hope that it’ll soon be coming to a paisley couch near you.

x j.

eau de ooli

though i confess that i covet some celebrities’ style so much that i frequently claim that i want to ‘fucking cut off their skin and wear them’ i’ve never been much good at being a loyal follower of anyone In particular. quite simply my attention span mirrors that of a goldfish. nonetheless the idea of profiling is a writing style that i like. so here i go with the amalgamation of visuals, love and many-a-personal joke type description.

ooli (as her alter ego is so aptly named), isn’t a celebrity, (though she sure as shit should be) but is the one person, out of all the people i know who claim to be similar to carrie bradshaw who actually is. i’ve stolen that sentence directly from her mouth. she used it to address me, but, in contrast to her vision of me perched all bradshaw-esque at my window sill, tap-tap-tapitying away at my lap top, chain smoking, sipping an espresso martini and inhaling banana chips (yeh thats right 3 hands – que pasa bitches?) leg up on the desk, dressed in some amazingly ridiculous outfit of sparkly grandma bloomers, a basketball singlet and happily whiling away the hours deep in analytical virgo thought about ‘black hearts’ or ‘the death of chivalry’… my vision of her is interwoven with bradshaw’s by her wardrobe, though i like to think of ooli’s wardrobe more like a treasure box.

in actual fact victoria (the aforementioned ooli) presents nothing like bradshaw but it is her utter disregard for rules (both societal or style) and reckless abandon with which she approaches dressing that links them together.


having met victoria overseas and travelled to many a dusty paradise our friendship has evolved over countless primping, outfit assembling, fashion angel sessions. despite the obvious restrictions that travel places on you in terms of rules of practicality and following weight guidelines on aeroplanes victoria heeds none and apologises just as often. her ‘bags’ (multiple) spew out the most bizarre, wonderful and ludicrous items of ‘clothing’ imaginable; denim overalls, skirts, skorts, maxi dresses, mini dresses, ponchos, genie pants, boy’s t-shirts, one-zies, promo shirts from EVERY bar in town, body suits, scuba suits, drances, and more bikinis than you can find at bondi on a summers day. and i say ‘clothing’ because it doesn’t stop there…somewhere she manages to find room for flat brimmed caps, suspenders, platformed sneakers, head wreaths woven from plastic flowers, bandanas, scarves, water pistols, blow up bambi’s and all the other shiny objects she manages to collect – not dissimilar to a maternal magpie carrying out their interior decorating chores.

ooli follows no rules or style guidelines; she wears jackets as skirts, bandanas as bras, sunflowers as big as her head on her head, skirts as tops, pairs florals with stripes, paisley with football socks and rainbow crochet with tye dye denim.


when you watch ooli dress (very pervy!) you start to comprehend that its not so much a chore or a human process, it’s a fucken full stage theatrical performance complete with shiny props and mishaps where she trips over a wooden platform or gets a lacy pink g-string stuck to her foot (usually mine). when she sets out to dress this girl isn’t just covering her body or even endeavouring to impress a boy.. no, i fully believe that vic dresses to character every single time she goes out, or at least she conceptualises a certain look and evolves with it until it is her. one day she’s a dishevelled, guitar playing gypsy in a white lounge-suit, the next she’s a frat boy-esque meets science nerd cheer leader, a munted yellow-haired golliwog in deep orange overalls that look like they were made out of heshian sacks stolen from the bakery or a barefooted sunflower so innocent looking you think she has rainbows flavoured nipples.

you’d be right in thinking that this is a lengthy process. correct. every single fucking night whilst yelling at her ‘ooli SIN MAMARDERING, i swear to god woman…STOP FUCKING SHUFFLING’ she carried on this ritualistic dance and every single night i thought to myself ‘what the fuck is she doing? (of course with all respect and love intended) there is no way those knee high socks will go with that bowtie/sequinned sash, tribal print poncho, polka dotted onesie, crocheted body suit, high waisted mustard denim shorts’ or that she’ll be able to carry off ‘preppy school boy meets debbie does dallas’ but every night, as i looked down at my own maxi uniform of denim cutoffs and a plain white/grey/black loose singlet I WAS WRONG.

so, herein lies my point; the girl takes risks, and yeh, so do a lot of people but i’m not convinced that for them it is purely organic. with vic, i’ve seen all of her superheroes floral and other develop from a miss mesh of colours and textures on the floor, i’ve seen her dance around her obese, exploding bags tripping on bikini strings and half sucked chupa chups and build it all from scratch. the risk bit is what makes her more carrie-esque than anyone else i know, who claim with a superficial affinity for labels or ability to (mis)match dior with something vintage or ‘from topshop’….whoop de fucking vintage fur whoooooop. remember that fugly newspaper dress that carrie wears to confront natasha after having an affair with Big? nobody likes that dress but carrie doesn’t give a fuck. nor would ooli.

without any further mamardering let me introduce you to eau de ooli; the princess herself, and, all the captivatingly, wildly beautiful facades, themes and characters of my wonderful friend victoria.

xx j.


(all photographs stolen from ooli herself)