Rigby & Peller

Many years ago I heard on the grapevine that Rigby & Peller was the place du jour to go in London if you wanted to be fitted properly for a bra. To get an idea of where they stand in the world of corsetry, they hold a Royal Warrant of Appointment which in plain language means that they are the official supplier to the Royal Family. Their fittings are free and you can either book an appointment in advance or simply walk in off the street and wait for a fitter to become available.

I have never been a fan of bras. I’ve always found them uncomfortable and restrictive but maybe that’s because I’ve never worn the correct size. For many women it’s not something that comes as a given when we choose our first off–the-rack bra at K-mart. As the years go by, many of us (you know who you are) just guess at our bra size as our bodies change with age.


Well enough was enough. If I had to wear the stupid things, it was time to find out what size I should wear. Anyone that’s handled the Queens’ bazookas is good enough for mine so last week I went along to the Conduit Street branch of Rigby & Peller for a walk-in fitting. Luckily there was no wait. I was ushered quickly into the changing rooms and told to strip off. After a quick glance at the goods, my fitter briefly popped out of the cubicle before returning with two bras for me to try on.

Don’t you have to measure me with a tape first?, I asked

She laughed in a way suggesting I was an imbecile.

We don’t need to use tapes, she poohed-poohed. We can tell.

And sure enough she could. Although slightly different sizes, both bras fitted me well.

How can I be two sizes?, I queried.

Which size you wear will depend on the manufacturer, she told me. So you should always try it on before you buy.

The da-da-da moment came as she told me what size bras I had just tried on. I was shocked. They were nowhere in the ballpark of what I had been wearing for the past EIGHTEEN years.

Happens all the time, she said. You should get yourself measured every 6-8 months actually.

Well I never. Ladies, do yourselves a favour and get fitted. It’s a whole new world upfront

Hair, Hair Everywhere

On any woman’s list of Significant Others, there are usually three to four people. Her partner (if she is so inclined), her bestie (sometimes more than one) and her hairdresser. The bond between a woman and her hairdresser is sacrosanct. She has gone through Hell and many bad haircuts to find him, or her.

On any given day you can walk along a London street and pass a myriad of hair salons, all offering you the world’s best cut. If only it were that easy. Men think it is that easy. They go into any one of those salons and come out happy, regardless of whether they emerge with a five quid buzz cut or looking like they’ve grown a badger on their heads a la Michael Bolton.

But for us women it’s a lot more complicated because we don’t just want a Hairdresser. We want a Fairy Godmother. We are looking for that one person who will magically know, after meeting us for five minutes, how to transform our dreary locks into the Best Cut Ever. A cut that instantaneously transforms us. Cheekbones higher. Eyes more glowy. We want to sashay out of that salon thinking we are Hot Stuff. Do you think this is a tall order? Try finding the person that can do this.

When I moved to London, I had no idea where to get my hair cut. I had no magic numbers in my phone book and no-one to guide me. So it was with trepidation that I ventured forth to a local hair salon. Luckily I had my hair seen to by Mark who had blonde streaks and more potential than was being utilised at the local cut and shave. After a few months, Mark left for his higher ground and I was stranded.

After being hacked at by several incompetents, I went to my Magic Eight Ball a.k.a Dr Google and asked:

Where are the good hairdressers in London?

The Dr proscribed Japanese hair salons. It turns out there is a glut of funky little hair salons in London bustling with well trained Japanese hairstylists who will lavish you with excellent service and cut your hair with the kind of precision they talk about in German car ads.

After a blissful first experience at Ticro hair in Convent Garden, I continued onto J Moriyama, (Both Mansion House and Marylbone branches) and B:zar. Moriyama was excellent but B:zar wasn't. I'm not sure what happened to the famed Japanese customer service because it wasn't present at this place. After my wanderings I returned to Ticro because I had discovered ......

If you think I’m going to share his/her name with you, you are out of your mind. I don’t even know you.

What I will say is this. Go and check out these Japanese hair salons. Cute interiors, cute staff who all smile and bow and cut your hair like a motherfxxxxr.

Black Is Back

When I lived in Perth I rarely, if ever dressed in a lot of black. Under the blue skies and sunshine, black just seemed like just a wrong choice to me. I wasn't a fan of neutrals either. Instead I embraced colour. Reds and greens; violet and yellows. Don't get me wrong. I didn't go around looking like a peacock but the Meditteranean climate of my home town meant that I reflected the sunny, warm surrounds in my dress sense. I also had a vague mistrust of people that wore all black (apart from Goths - I like Goths) or all neutrals.

What are they trying to hide?, I would wonder. When there are so many colours to choose from, why would you choose the absence of colour? What's wrong with them?

My oh my - how things have changed.

When I first moved to London, I stubbornly stuck to my love of colour. I was not going to give in. So what if everyone else was in grey or black. Sheep . What's wrong with them? Why are they afraid to stand out?

I must say, this was abit unfair of me at the time and obviously I was only seeing what I wanted to. After all, Londoners are hardly sheep when it comes to dressing. The women have a wonderful unique style of flinging layers and accessories together, usually finished off with a massive, great handbag. The men do the whole Professor thing really well (well cut suit jacket, jeans or trousers, scarf, leather satchel) or embrace the Eurotrash look. I'm generalising of course.

Life was going along swimmingly until one day I woke up and something horrible had happened. I was dressed head-to-toe in BLACK. I looked in the mirror and asked myself,

Why? How could this be?

I blame the long winters. On seeing so much grey, I started to wear it. And black. And neutrals. My theory is that winter makes you want to hibernate. To blend in and not stand out. You don't want to extend your senses to the world around you because you can't even extend your right arm out of your sleeve without getting frostbite. Winter is a season of laying low and hence you present yourself that way to the world.

Hmm. Is that rubbish? Probably. After all Christmas and New Years falls within winter and that is party season with coloured frocks galore and shiny shoes.

Here's my followup theory. London is a dirty place. Who the hell wants to be doing laundry all the time. Wear black and it hides the dirt. Case closed.

That's my excuse anyway.