Beautiful Badlands.

"I felt all kinds of things looking at the lights of Cheyenne, but most important I made up my mind to never tag around with a hell-bent type, no matter how in love with him I was."

Badlands, Terence Malick's 1973 tribute to murderous youthful rebellion, has burrowed itself deep into my style subconscious. So much so that the very edges of my eyes seem encrusted with the red grit of those sandy Montana plains.

Sissy Spacek's flushed ingénue Holly knows so little about the disjointed world she inhabits- her life is furnished by the gossip of trashy magazines and the mind-numbing inertia of baton twirling. That is until bad-boy garbage collector Kit shows her the true meaning of getting your hands dirty (leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, of course).

Holly is the sweetest of runaways, all strawberry blonde hair and high-buttoned naivety. A dewy mirage in the scorched wilderness. An accomplice to murder that you'd be happy to take home to your mother. As unsure of herself as she is sure of her unhinged lover, she follows him without question, hands bloodied along the way.

Sweet sundresses and frothy white blouses are the fierce antithesis of her criminal status. Everything is teamed with that tough-wearing perennial, denim. Loafers and socks complete this most perfectly innocent of disguises. Saccharine utility.

And if there is anyone that can make double-denim look positively bad-ass, it's two murderess fugitives in the badlands of Montana.

With this in mind, all I want to wear right now is breezy cotton in traditional prints, the barest of makeup and denim... with everything.

Cheap Monday, Hansel from Basel, Topshop, Benefit, Lover, Chanel, Lascivious

Clog blog.

 Clogs; Funkis, socks; H&M

Alright. I’m lazy. There you have it. As if you needed clarification considering my absence of almost a month. I disgust myself, really. Too lazy for blogging. Too lazy for today’s French class (although the promise of revising the subjonctif was indeed tempting). And, as I confessed in my first post, too lazy for high heels.
 

That is, until these pretty much perfect Funkis clogs came my way. It seems to me now that no outfit is complete without the addition of these grayscale dinosaurs, the added bonus being that their clumpy brand of cool makes the stumpy legs on top look positively Alexa-esque. They are a sure joy to walk in, too- I’ve been avoiding the bus for days just to see the perplexed faces of unsavvy bystanders, and savour the slack-jawed envy of many a clog loving Sydney girl as I clomp by.
 

In the general habit of overdressing for entirely mundane occasions, I popped on my babies for a family function with some magical H&M socks. Aunties, cousins many times removed and assorted spouses let me know that I had committed the cardinal sartorial sin of socks and sandals. Mum let me know in no unclear terms that she had spent many years working this most characteristic British tourist trait out of my Welsh stepfather, and she didn't enjoy her firstborn succumbing to it. I told them all they "just didn't get fashion". Mum told me to "get over myself". Probably wise.

My favourite reaction to what are clearly the most incredible shoes in the world, however, came from my dear father. I spent many a school holiday up North,with nothing to do but watch dodgy regional TV, replete with equally dodgy regional advertising. As soon as I told Dad about the Funkis clogs, he burst into a rousing rendition of the jingle for a questionable local tourist attraction- The Clog Barn. All together now!

 

Come to the Clog Barn for a good time

See a piece of Holland Down Under!
With our Dutch coffee house,
Bring your family along
For the best fun in Coffs Harbour!
The Clog Barn!!

 

Props to Rebecca for the genius title. The only thing I like more than my clogs... is you!