Miss Trunchbull Meets The Olympics

Usually, I feel a sense of love and belonging every time that I stumble across any reference to ZARA (whilst my bank balance shivers in fear of irreversible damage). However, I have to admit that the A/W '14 collection lookbook had me feeling just about as glum and lifeless as the clothes within it. 

Now, first things first, the model on the left looks like she's about to attempt an armed robbery at the petrol station. And both models clearly lost their own trousers and shoes and had to borrow daddy's. I really do fathom to believe that either of those two have feet so obscenely large. I'm a size six so please don't be fooled into thinking I'm the daintiest of them all, but I can tell you now my feet look about half the size of those hooves. 

In my opinion, the whole ensemble looks like a still image from an upcoming BBC drama about some troubled and misguided teens. Considering ZARA's usually bank balance-destroying prices for a high street store, I really can't see anyone out-pocketing themselves in an effort to look like a misled hoodlum. Unless of course, ELLE says it's the new black. In which case, all of the sheep will flock.

Ok, I have a thing about feet so I'm trying so hard to ignore the finger toes right now, but I think that they're trousers made to look like sweatpants. Any input on this? Is this the rise of comfortable work chic? It's like Miss Trunchbull meets The Olympics. Either way, Karl Lagerfeld just shat himself in horror.  

Holy fuck, can it be so? A PRINT? Had I for once in my print-adoring life been able to pull off leopard print after growing out of my leopard print fur coat and matching hat ensemble after the age of three, I may have been absolutely thrilled. However, as it stands, for the previous seventeen years, I have tried many a leopard print garment and unfortunately, the shudders of disgust have only grown deeper and longer after each look in the mirror. For some reason - maybe it's the curly hair - leopard print makes me appear as some wild, feral Flintstone that got lost somewhere between dinosaurs and civilisation. Well, that or a cheap whore. 

Admittedly, I'm still not really squealing in delight over the cut or style of the garments, but they're a darn sight better than the showcase so far. Well, if you don't look below the knees. After that point, it all goes pretty tits up all over again. I guess feet-enlarging shoes are the modern day LBD. If so, I think I'll just stick with my Converse. Or chop my feet right off...

Oh, and just like that...The prints are gone and ill-fitting, shapeless ensembles are back. And so - apparently - are kitten heels. I don't know why, but something about kitten heels really irritates me. Why not just wear flats? Go hard or go home, right? 

These kitten heels are of particular annoyance to me for the simple fact that the heel looks like those wall-attached doorstops that I spent the majority of my early childhood pinging backwards and forwards in order to piss off my parents. In case you lived a very sheltered childhood in an obscenely large open-plan household, in which no parent ever lived in fear of chipped wall paint nor door slamming...I'm talking about these little devils which, I'm sure, were many children's favourite toy :

Now, I'm sorry, I hate to be an opinionated little bitch (I don't really, it thrills me immensely), but honestly, I love ZARA more than my bank even know (yet) but this isn't acceptable. Autumn and Winter are grey and dire enough as it is - especially in England...So really, all I have to say in reference to the lookbook is: Where the FUCK are the patterns? Where are the prints? Where are the colours? And for fucksake, where is the fucking shape? Am I a woman or am I a ruler? (I did consider saying "Am I a lamp?", but my perfectly-chiselled, hourglass-shaped crystal bedside lamp just gave me a "don't you dare insult me" twinkle in the corner of my eye). 

But whatever, the point that I'm trying to make is, androgyny is all well and good and that...IF you can distinguish that it is supposed to be that, and not merely a heap of XXL menswear dumped in the wrong place. Unfortunately, if I were to stroll into ZARA and see this array of ill-fitting suits (a fashion faux pas which I cannot forgive in any being) and sweatpants (yes, fucking sweatpants), it wouldn't only be Karl Lagerfeld having a breakdown. I can assure you - I would leave my other half browsing on that floor and find the nearest sales advisor to show me the way to womenswear because ZARA, this just isn't it.