Anything could happen

Not only because I’m listening to Ellie Goulding as I type this.

My experience with fuffa:

I recently got back home from London, after more than a year spent studying, travelling, making friends, shopping and receiving a Masters in Fashion Management. Many of you might be familiar with that particular brand of feeling when you come back home after a stint abroad – the confusion, the vacuum.

But then that’s the only downside to going to London. As a resident of the fashion capital of the world, I learnt more about fashion in a year spent shopping and people watching on Oxford Street, trekking to Bricklane market over weekends, visiting pop-up stores in Shoreditch, working at Paul & Joe on Sloane Street and reading my free copy of Stylist magazine on the tube, than I did in the same time spent as a fashion journalist here.


Pop-up mall at Shoreditch

Wait, there was another downside. You shop so much that when you start packing up your life in two suitcases and a cabin bag, you realise you will be leaving behind more than just your friends.

My wardrobe had to be culled, and mercilessly. I had to choose only the clothes I couldn’t absolutely do without. And if you have been in this position, you know how hard it is to even leave your favourite cosy bathrobe behind. But I was brutal. The bathrobe went and along with it many of my favourite clothes and boots – clothes I hadn’t had enough of a chance to wear, and really, how often can you wear boots in Mumbai? (Unless you are an actor, then you wear boots and leather jackets everywhere.)

I made two piles. One went to Oxfam. The other pile became a party invitation – eat, drink and try on clothes. And when I saw my friends twirl in the dresses and coats and fall in love with them, it was all fine. I was leaving behind my clothes with my friends.


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