ALOHA. I’m writing this from my pyjamas with a baby lil prosecco, mojito and McDonald’s cheeseburger hangover. The best kind, obvs.
How you guys doing? Sunburnt and overdosed on Pimms yet?
Anyway, so, alright, my four-hour flight to Lanzarote wasn’t long haul. I had enough time to devour a beef ready meal and a chocolate mousse and discuss whether or not I’d get lip fillers and then hey whaddya know there’s a volcano and we’re here.
But still, I’d 103% wear this long haul. I feel like I’m in pyjamas. After 26 years of accidentally wearing denim shorts that cut off my circulation and pretty sundresses that leave me with blue legs, I have finally nailed how to achieve comfort on an airplane. I *think* this is what heaven feels like.
Also, a few of you asked for this post. So if anyone’s like FFS why is this girl producing airport outfit posts every other week, I’m a bit soz but not that soz because it was requested and also it’s a good way to kill time when you’re waiting for your gate to board and OMG IS THAT A NEW MAC LIPSTICK IN DUTY FREE *spends all the money*.
I’ll start with the main queen bae of this outfit – the humble maxi cardigan. Oh sweet hubba hubba, why did I not wear this out of the house sooner? I’ve been treating it a bit like a house coat – y’know, something slightly smarter than a dressing gown to open the door to the ASOS delivery man in.
It’s ancient and from Primark but so ridiculously cosy. It doubled up as a blanket during the flight and meant I didn’t have to bring a jacket to awkwardly drag around the airport with me.
I paired that boo with these striped culottes (read: full length trousers on my stumpy lil frame) from Warehouse. I’m all about that elasticated waist band life on a flight because I tend to bloat up like a bag of crisps.
And then I polished off my lil combo with a plain black cami, a pair of flat black sandals (although wah, I did have to take these off for security – damn you cute little metal details), a fedora to hide my greasy barnet and almost-make-up-free face and a tote bag for snacks and enough electrical to open a branch of Cash Converters.
I hope I didn’t look too bag lady-esque but then y’know what? I kinda don’t care because you hit your mid twenties and suddenly all you want is chicken broth and hugs and blankets and a mug of English tea and warmth and that is this outfit.
Peace out chickas.
That’s a hideous word, I’m sorry.
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