Kate Reilly James

Painting my bedroom ceiling blue was such a good idea. Waking up on even the dullest of days, I’m met with a cerulean blue skyscape which matches the calm waters of exotic holiday destinations I pine for.

I forgot to take my mascara off again. Reaching over to my bedside table, I pick up my phone and see the barrage of late-night texts from the girls. F&ck, that was a belting night out. My hair, still half curled, feels matted with cigarette smoke and shots residue. Laughing to myself, I sit up in bed and trawl through the pics and videos of us arsing about with a stag do of lads dressed up as superheroes.

Ahh, there’s that fit one who said I laugh like Daffy Duck. Cheeky ba&tard. He was right like, but still. When the manic laugh comes out, that’s when I know I’m pi$$ed. Haha. He said he liked my freckles. Weird, no one else has ever said that before. Definitely not dressed as Batman anyway. Fun times, should’ve snogged him, I just wasn’t sure if he was actually the groom to be and I won’t make that mistake again.

Mad to think of all the hilarious times we’ve had in just a small part of town. That time a bloke just picked Leah up, lashed her over his shoulder, and ran the full length of the street, proper Tarzan style. Her bag flew open, spewing make-up, coins, tampons, keys, the lot down the street. To this day, we still don’t know who he was or why he did it. We just cried laughing at her little head, bobbing down the street screaming “save me!”

I scooch back down under the covers and go for a full-body, cat-like stretch. It’s going to be a good day. Through the drapes, the sky is looking as blue as my ceiling which means my plans to wear the Vogue power suit, have gone out of the window. Too stuffy.

Looking around the walls for inspiration, my hectic studio creeps into the boundaries of my bedroom, stark in comparison. Having never fully grown out of the need to stick posters on my walls, my designing space is a riot of colour, cut-outs, and posters I have picked up at the cinema and vintage shops.

My favourites are the transport ones. We’re all commuters, one way or another. I love reimagining the 1920’s and 1940’s posters with modern fashion on the trams and old fashion motor cars.

Back when summer holidays meant a week-long visit to the coast, rather than a two-week break in Tahiti, travel was such a different concept. Long hemlines and long train journeys through the urban landscape to appreciate vast expanses of the sky at the seaside, were the norm. Beachside villas and country retreats brought about the same levels of excitement about shopping for a holiday wardrobe as we still get now. Something about packing makes me stupidly excitable.

No rest, nor holidays for the wicked just yet, there’s a collection to finish and meetings to attend. A bright, warm Monday morning calls for a splash of colour I think. Throwing back the blankets, I tiptoe on the cold floor to my walk-through wardrobe and trace my fingers along the rails. Oh there it is. The bright red, full length, wrap-around skirt with the white flower pattern. I first wore it for a play in sixth-form and tracking it down had been like a sequence from an adventure film. Call me Indiana James. Today it was the skirts time to shine.

Heading for the shower, with a spring in my step and Aretha on the record player, it was going to be a good day.