The Ward Robe

As the years roll on and my age and state of mind drift further and further apart, I begin to realise just how bloody gifted my childhood really was. I could lick all the flavouring off Shapes and cease to shower without any real consequence. I could piss away the hours of the day with little expectation of productivity or responsibility. But most of all, I could dress as I please with anything from the boys section at Target appropriately meeting my needs. Now despite my unisex ways there was one glamorous, ladylike adornment I couldn’t go past. A luxury item I believed few were lucky enough to indulge in - the feather boa my friends. Oh the texture, oh the vibrancy. On reflection, despite it’s rather nuvo riche qualities, the feather boa stands rock solid in my definition of GLAM.

At this point many of you may have drawn the conclusion that I am in fact a liability to the human race for such distaste, but alas, I have evolved. I have emotionally dealt with society’s shunning of the use and wear of everyday feather boas, so I’ve discovered the next best thing. Lost Ink’s supremely reigning detachable collared coat. The collar comes about as close to my friend the boa without taking the wearer to embarrassing levels of humiliation and is versatile… unlike my friend the boa. Whatever your stance on feather boas, one thing is obvious, this coat is the bomb ass.

Wearing: Lost Ink coat, Asos scarf, Acne Studios dress Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

I’ve got a debilitating case of travel envy as everybody and their grannies appear to be overseas, getting cultured, packing on their Europe weight and sailing through glorious islands. I remember my first and only European summer as if it were yesterday, with one memory in Greece particularly embedding itself. It was Mykonos 2013 and I was eating my third giros of the hour. The gooey garlic sauce was gently dripping down my leg while I sat and soaked up the beautiful sunset and saturated fat. This was living people, I had it made. Now, looking back I don’t know whether it was the four beers and three giros love potion or my first independent holiday but I felt like a damn goddess. A feeling I’ve only managed to replicate on a handful of occasions. This shoot was one of those times.

It was bloody windy and I was without a giros, but alas, I had a more powerful love potion. A concoction of silk, a Grecian headpiece and some self-confidence. Putting this headpiece on is uplifting and a feeling I can only compare to having spanx on. Anybody looking to emulate it, I can direct you to the Thurley site with mounds of encouragement and a hint of garlic breath.

Disclaimer – do not attempt putting the headpiece on in windy/or rainy conditions. It’ll make you pay.

Wearing: Asos dress (worn as top), Asos flares, Thurley headpiece, Vintage Chanel bag. Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

Shoulders, the small girl’s cleavage. For those lucky or unlucky girls, whichever way you see it, lacking in the juicy, juicy mango department have options. Showing off those shoulders can be just as scandalous as you know, getting your rack out. They don’t need supportive garments and are mostly, I hope, nipple deficient, therefore the obvious choice for every small busted, bra-less girl. This Asilio blazer is what a lacy, push up bra is to boobs and highlights my juicy, juicy shoulders (Dm for nudes).

Should I mention it also doubles as a blazer? Bra for the shoulders, blazer for the body and bloody good for the soul. My shoulders are far closer to a c cup than my breasts ever will be and thanks to Asilio the world can now appreciate em’.

Wearing: Etsy earrings, Asilio blazer, Winston Wolfe leather pants, Gucci loafer Photos: Ana Borrelli

I heart the Olympics. Whole-heartedly. Fully. Completely. Bloody love ‘em. There’s nothing quite like an athletic sob story, filled with sorrow, triumph and lots of Gatorade (spon). More spectacularly though is the opening ceremony. A typically 14 hour affair in which Olympic officials take advantage of the potent cocktail of four years pent-up excitement and dupe you into watching the entire event. Such tom-foolery, but one must not blame themselves. The one great perk to enduring the mental anguish of an opening ceremony induced coma are the athlete’s uniforms and this year I found myself spiritually and sartorially inspired. And presenting, my slightly inappropriate take on the athlete’s uniform. Look past evident absence of any elite sporting talent and the addition of thigh-high boots and voila! Rio ready and rearing to go, so to speak.  

Wearing: Ego boots, Ellery blazer, Alexander Wang skirt, Bassike tee, Acne Studios clutch, Etsy earrings Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

A wise woman (myself) once told me (a wise woman) that grey wasn’t my colour. She said the dulcet qualities of my slightly anaemic skin tone made me looked washed out when paired with grey and like a jerk I believed her. For years I steered clear of grey for fear of replicating the characteristics of an extra from The Walking Dead, but finally found the courage to tell that “wise woman” to politely get on her bike. With newly established arrogance reminiscent of Donald Trump, I now say differently. I can now convincingly rock a couple, if not 50, shades of grey (good one Rachel, didn’t see that one coming), with the strength of Dion Lee pumping through my veins.

Wearing: Dion Lee jumper, Asos skirt, Front Row shoes, Etsy earrings Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

Don’t have time to shave your legs? Finding yourself frustrated with your regular shaving regime? Nicks and cuts getting you down? WELL you big bunch of incompetent, lazy sloths, I have the solution to all of your hairy problems. Don’t shave! Grow it, braid it or dye it, either way leg hair is undeniably versatile and totally fresh this AW16 season. If this option doesn’t tickle your follicles like it does mine, I suggest the ever-steady and reliable thigh-high boot.

A secret agent type disguise for all things bad tan, leg fur or fnees (cankles not-so-identical twin sister), thigh-highs are the key to winter dressing success. I found these beauties at Public Desire for a penny not a nickel and would highly recommend them to anyone who'll listen.

Wearing: Public Desire boots, Acne Studios sweater, Zara leather skirt Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

With winter comprehensively assaulting every inch of our exposed flesh, it is as importante as ever to rug up, shape up or ship out and by that I mean, get yo skinny ass a coat. Last winter, I well and truly sucked the life out of every bomber jacket known to mankind, so this year, with wrapt enthusiasm I am whipping out the fur (faux or it’s less pretentious twin, fake). An all-in-one spectacle, the fur coat provides warmth and stylistic flair, a medium-rare combination that’s so bloody simple to style. Wear it with anything or as I have done, nearly nothing and still rock your sartorial socks off. Coming in every darn colour of the rainbow, its easy peasy and doubly fun to experiment with varying colours. The good lord knows my skin and wardrobe could do with an injection of colour this winter.  

Wearing: pink fur jacket (similar found on ebay), Jbrand jeans, Public Desire boots, Etsy earrings Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

Any poor soul who was an active Facebook user back in 2009 or so, would remember with total discomfort and unease the ‘Shoes’ video. This somewhat iconic, but mostly notorious video can only be described as a poor man’s niche porno and centred on one man’s passion for shoes, or total dislike for being a relatively balanced human being. Regardless of his ease at making the inhabitants of the internet universally uncomfortable, the man just loved his shoes. I can respect that, although many of the stompers featured in his music clip were more Degrassi High than cute.

I have vivid, very secret dreams of being an overnight YouTube shoe loving sensation and recently, with thanks to these bad boys, my dreams seem to be closer than ever. There is really not much need for breaking down how bloody brilliant these mules so I won’t ruin your brains with a lacklustre description but I will say, not only am I exceedingly proud to own these shoes, but beamingly proud to have spent the last half an hour of my life writing about the ‘Shoes’ video.

Wearing: Ellery 'Saxony' mules, Dion Lee blazer, Acne Studios shirt dress Photographs: Anastasia Borrelli

Excuse my tardiness in delivering this illiterate, vaguely engaging blog post but I was busy visiting the UN, helping Santa and plotting  Donald Trump’s assassination (two lies and a truth, you figure it out), but here we go. With one, lustful glance at this frock I deciphered its undeniable potential for race-day attire. Setting aside the fact that I am no fan of the barbarity of risking those beautiful animals’ lives for the sake of a few avid drinkers and punters, I am in fact, a superfan of the costume as well as the amazing annual post-race piss up newspaper stories on the 'Disturbing State of our Youth'.

According to the universal checklists for race attendance, the public votes crowns and crap (slightly douchey but brilliant) to be the numero uno item of importance. The people love a headpiece and I can’t blame em’. Evidentially trying too hard is my forte and is something that appears to be a common and collective theme for the races, what a match.

Recently, after a beer, chocolate and Gogglebox coma, my mother approached me with the rather gauzy question of ‘what is your calling in life Rachel?’. A question I had considerable trouble countering. Racking my brains, I listed off my talents. I can draw to a reasonable degree, crush a can between my shoulder blades and currently hold the family record of ‘most vomits overseas’, a title we as a family, take exceptionally seriously. So basically I am a walking, talking talentless sack of organs. Shit. A few nights later, with a bunch of my nearest and dearest, we decided as every gaggle of 98 year old women do, to play a few board games. Out came the cards, Cluedo and our false teeth – we were ready to get down. As pure instinctual skill took over my usually talentless sack of organs, I finally found my true calling. Mum, Dad, I am a bona fide Cluedo L-E-G-E-N-D, no gimmicks.

My new-found aptitude has begun to inspire me in other, non-homicidal ways, namely my sartorial skills. This outfit just screams Miss Scarlett with the candlestick in the conservatory. With an ashy baby pink colouring, this frock hides even the most savage blood splatters and its deep pockets can conceal your weapon of choice or you know, the answer cards. It’s just bloody pretty – no pun intended.

Wearing: Fashion Union dress, Lack of Colour hat Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

I have a dream, actually I have two. Number one is to not diminish the astronomical importance of the phrase itself and the other, well it’s to have a damn superpower. Initially I thought invisibility would be the way to go, you know, Harry Potter and all that but if we’re honest, orphaned wizard boy really didn’t utilise it enough. I mean, not only did he NOT steal any food or snoop through anyone’s stuff, he didn’t even try to perv on Hermione – dingus. I just can’t respect that. Now, although it would be totally magnificent to be able to check off all of the above, I think we can do one better. The ability to fly would be like, totally fly.

This Ellery number is giving me wings, no Redbull reference intended. This darlin’ is flattering and fitted, making my vast back catalogue of black on black look, well, rather beige (kinda like Harry and Ginny’s romance). Now before I begin sounding too comparable to a rumbling, mumbling and slightly inaccurate encyclopaedia of Harry Potter knowledge, I sign off with some wise words. Kym Ellery is undeniably our national darn treasure.

Wearing: Ellery top, Jbrand jeans, Dior sunglasses, R.M Williams ‘Millcent’ boots Photos: Ana Borrelli

I am currently suffering through the whirlwind, or more accurately shit storm, of 21st celebrations and recently found myself incredibly affronted. Apparently a friend of a friend (resisting the urge to name and shame) decided it was appropriate to have an ‘ugly sweater’ themed party, to which, some impertinent party-goers wore Christmas jumpers. What a bloody disgrace. Firstly, I must address the slandering of the time-honoured tradition of Christmas jumpers that has universally graced our world since the commercialisation of Jesus’s birth (2006-ish maybe). What a bloody disgrace. Secondly, I must make my personal views on the matter known. I am and have been for a number of years, an exceedingly proud owner of a tasteful, versatile and damn right nifty Chrissy knit. It is the crowning glory of my wardrobe and has served me so very well over the years.

Despite my slightly tragic loyalty to her, my Christmas jumper doesn’t make a smooth transition to casual wear, she’s better suited to glitz n glamour. For the sake of my casual wear game, I’ve hit up a crowd favourite – I Love Mr Mittens. Mr Mittens has all the answers to all your questions, kind of like Santa but with way less swag.

Wearing: I Love Mr Mittens knit, Misguided ribbed dress Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

I recently turned 21, a milestone that was celebrated with a cake or two, a beer or four and my first experience with an early-life crisis. My bucket list for ‘life before adulthood’ was far from checked off with my skin remaining untouched by the tip of a tattoo gun, no repertoire of holiday romances with hunky Bolivian men and no amateur blogging experience to put on my resume (baloney). After hours upon minutes of contemplation and review, a cruel realisation had washed over me. I was not ready to be an adult. According to folk law, or more accurately the gift card section at Woolworths, by age 21 you are supposed to own a house. What. The. Hell.

As my day of birth arrived, I sat myself down with a large chunk of birthday cake and a big ol’ cup of get the hell over it. I mean, surely there are some worthwhile perks to adulthood? Staying up late, eating what you want, not having to shower daily etc. Sounded pretty bloody good to me and as quickly as it had come, my early-life crisis was gone, replaced with renewed birthday cheer.

Wanting a wardrobe to reflect my new, matured outlook on life, I fed into my daily online shopping habit and stumbled across another benefit of adulthood – the pencil skirt, reserved for ages 21 and above. My coming of age was well and truly defined by my first post birthday purchase, this dazzling Dion Lee skirt. Below the knee and navy, both signs of evolution and utter maturity. Thus, beginning the systematic purging off all my old habits and previously juvenile rational. I’m basically as adult as it comes now, I’m just avoiding the card section at Woollies.

Wearing: Dion Lee ruffle skirt, Ellery top, Zana Bayne choker, Balenciaga heels.

Photos: Anastasia Borrelli 

They say that every naïve, young girl dreams about their ideal wedding day years in advance, finding ecstasy in deciphering every tedious detail of their big day but not me I’m afraid. Thanks to my dearest Mother, I have begrudgingly sat through more episodes of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding than is good for the soul and seen what these ‘glamorous’ nuptials can do to a person. Despite the obvious trauma I have experienced from this British budget production, the root of my issue lies elsewhere. Cheap, nasty corsetry is the real reason behind my shying away from all thing weddings. It’s a societal problem that has plagued us for years. As my Instagram bio suggests I am a philanthropist, activist and wanker so I felt it only necessary to bring awareness to this saddening issue – CHEAP CORSETRY SUCKS, but before this begins to sound too much like my own, personal manifesto of hatreds I want to point out the exception.

This bad boy Kitx dress is the ONLY example of corsetry I will allow in the Haus of Rachel. The palpable superiority and structure of this frock gives my black flab a lovely lil’ squeeze here and a nice hold there – thank goodness for that. Kit Willow is a bloody legend, kind of like all those wedded gypsies, except, well not.

Wearing: Kitx dress, Balenciaga Blade Boots Photos: Anastasia Borrelli

Character building. Raw. Tough. Ones teen years tend to herald more disconcerting tales than not, and mine were no exception. Despite the utterly fruitful supply of truly embarrassing shite I have done, seen and been, just one instance sticks out in my beaten, battered mind.

*Warning* What you are about to read may contain sexual references, drug use and explicit language (Although it totally does not – it’ll just make you want to repeatedly punch yourself in the face).

It was a blustery night in 2010 and sixteen year old, Myspace maven Rachel, the girl who took selfies with her dad’s waterproof digital camera, was out to impress. With her parents overseas and an abundance of warm beers (four of ‘em) at her disposal, she placed her party hostess hat on snugly and readied the house. Goon in box and fresh set of streaks in hair, young Rachel was ready. On one of her ‘high school party’ career debut nights – disaster struck. Halfway through the night, she realised it – the outfit she had so carefully curated was indeed, the most heinous, ugly thing known to man, animal and ‘other’ kind. Black, baby prostitute-ish with heavy-handed cut-outs, the dress Rachel had dreamt of gracing the night in, had indeed failed her. The ol’ holy-shit I look crap moment fogged her thinking and the party was done by 11pm. Failure hurts.

Something I cannot blame my fledgling self for is the difficulty of getting cut-outs right. Knowing what I know now, I wish I could’ve helped my pimply, heavily eye-lined teenage self, but hindsight can be a funny, cruel bastard. You see, preparation is key to success. Know your stuff, research and recognise who can make cut-outs distinguished and subtle, look online, library resources are helpful, encyclopaedias work too OR you know, just hit up Bec and Bridge – they’re pretty bloody brilliant at every-damn-thing they do. Go on, your teenage self will thank you.

Wearing: Bec and Bridge dress, Etsy earrings Photos: Ana Borrelli

I am a proud, founding member of thy itty, bitty titty committee – I even have the club tattoo and membership discount card to prove it. Despite my total contentment in my chest size, I have suffered. Suffered through the countless, traumatic questions regarding the status of my pubescence, difficulty in finding a bra that does not come with Powerpuff girls packaging and the persistent comparisons between breasts and pecks. With much thanks to an evolving societal viewpoint, curves are now celebrated (as they damn should be), with desired physical ideals changing. Big butts, big boobs and big ass confidence they say, leaving us somewhat voluptuously challenged humans, well and truly in the shadows. It can be a tough ol’ world out there for some.

Fear not gals, for there are some marvellous things about rocking a smaller bust. The liberating freedom that comes with total independence from bras, allowing gal pals all over the world to let their puppies as free as nature had intended. Another incomprehensibly brilliant plus is total and utter free will in your clothing choices. Low back, low front, open sides, cut outs, anything is possible as demonstrated by this Winston Wolfe number. Open back and high neck, comfortable and stylish – this dress says yes to everyone. It’s delicate, almost matte silk is necessary in navigating everyday perils but is also majestic enough for night time festivities. You see, small boobs can do whatever the hell it is they want to and that’s the beauty of ‘em.

*Just a quick reminder to show your IBTC discount card when entering any affiliated venues for 10% off

Wearing: Asos felt hat, Winston Wolfe rust dress, Hermes cuff, Marho the Label heels. Photos: Anastasia Borrelli 

Anastacia – an icon of a generation. Known for her gutsy vocal range and sass, her hit Left outside alone graced the ‘So Fresh’ line ups year after year. She battled and conquered cancer twice like a total boss and is known for her extensive philanthropic work. Despite this enormous repertoire of achievement, her most important and socially conscious body of work was her innovative pioneering of the tinted sunglass – truly inspired and well, well before her time. Her unwavering loyalty deserves true recognition as she both established and sanctified the continual rise of the tint, solidifying herself as a true legend. Like Anastacia, the tinted sunglass, who unquestionably ruled the nineties and noughties has not been seen nor heard from since – until now.

This yellow tint is going against every rule I ever made for myself. After a troubling incident in the school yard involving a pair of blue tinted reading glasses purchased from a retail store with the word ‘reject’ so aptly in its title, I swore them off forever citing irreconcilable differences. Despite my distressing history, these aviators are seeing my retro aesthetic fantasies come to fruition and have me almost, almost considering the practical ease of a transitional lens (almost). Categorically my favourite and least expensive buy of the season, you’d be wise, frugal and slightly creepy to invest in these babies. Wearing: Asos bikini, Lack of Colour ‘Sunny Dip’ hat, H&M white blouse, With Love Kristen sunglasses Photos: Anastasia Borrelli