Fleur Wood

Walking in here is like strolling through the pages of Frankie magazine.
They’ve got a similar aesthetic — vintage touches, a bit intimate and breathy, eco-​awareness done with a gentle, lace glove covered touch. They’ve even got a similar colour palette, all robin’s egg blue and taupe. Colours which unfortunately make me look like a consumptive harridan hacking up blood discreetly into a hand-​embroidered hanky while reclining precariously on a chaise longue. And not in a good way.
I can’t wear the clothes, but I can look, and the aesthetic in here is lovely to witness, the changerooms have vintage religious saint art on the walls, and you’ll find the odd cross-​stitched Obama throw pillow lying around. The clothes are lovely, if that needs to be said, of the wispy, über-​fem, romantic type. Not for weeding the driveway in, unless you move in more glamorous gardening circles than I.
A quick appreciation for the lovely staffer the other day too, she was genuinely friendly unlike many of the designer fashion style guards who dismiss you with an eyelash-​extended once-​over. Much appreciated. We commiserated on the difficulty of coming home with any pay when you work in retail in a place you like. I’ve been there. ‘At least it’s all pretty’, she said with a smile.