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Lucia Mondini 8-13 Evija R 26-33 Laura Lake Hauser 40-45 Forever a sleepwalker 54-59 Scarlett Pimlott-Brown 74-81 Emily McHugh 90-97 Juliet is Summer 102-107 Worth Goddard 114-121


Kate Williams 5, 98-101 Natasha McGregor 6-7 Bethany Macdonald 14-17 Emma Morley 18-19 Eden Joseph 20-21 Cat Morgan 22-25 Kayleigh Cousins 60-61 Naveeta Bhatia 62-63 Nicole Bishop 72-73


Cover photo Š Sakura |

Dan Blumgart 46-53 Alexandra Snowdon 34-39 Illustrated recipes 82-89 Die Blauen Reiter 98-101


Emma Cheyne 108-113 Priscilla Izabayo 64-71



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Dear Readers, Welcome to the first ever issue of Spirit magazine! Summer is a time for adventures, when the sun makes it’s all too brief appearance and most people get a well-deserved break. My idea for this issue was to create something inspiring and honest. Summer means a great many things to me, it reminds me of times spent sticky and hot on holiday and the feeling that the tinkling sound of the ice-cream van gave me as a child. My goal was to create a magazine that you’d be happy to read lying on a rugged picnic blanket with an ice cold lemonade. Writers, photographers and artists from all over have created lovely things for you in this issue. From travel stories, to illustrated recipes, these pages will keep you entertained until the days grow short. I’m really excited to share this with you, thanks so much for reading!



THE BROW OF A HILL by Kate Williams The brow of a hill. Possibilities lie beyond. For me, aching memories, A distant past. Once-inspired song. But now there’s nothing to be gained from this path, Its tree-lined street all a’greyed. I shall not forget his embrace at the end. T’was my first. My last. I called him friend. Winter lingers in frosty hues but for me, here, spring will never stray. And emotional debts he promised to mend, as I sit waiting, remain unpaid. He wrote his name on the walls of my mind. Now the faint is fading. I wish I didn’t mind. We could have been sublime.


by Natasha McGregor

“Excuse me madam but the museum will be closing in twenty minutes.” Jane looked up from her sketchbook, nervously blinking under the security guard’s gaze. She nodded briefly, checking her watch and looking around the room. The guard moved off, stopping to talk to each of the few remaining visitors on his way back to his desk. Jane couldn’t help worrying. She was supposed to be here forty minutes ago. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she couldn’t do it. Maybe she’d been caught. A million scenarios rushed through her mind. No, that’s it, she’s not coming. As Jane stood up to leave she caught sight of a flash of red in the corner of the room. She risked a glance. Black trousers, black coat, black woollen hat. Red shoes. A red book. 1984. The signal. Her breath began to come heavier, her pulse quickened, she felt her palms begin to sweat. This was it. Crossing the room seemed to take an eternity. Finally she was stood beside her. A quick glance was all it took. The words were a formality, nothing more. “Funny weather for this time of year.” “Most peculiar indeed.” They smiled and headed for the exit. Once outside they crossed the road and entered the park. They walked for several moments, until the sounds of traffic and the town were muffled by the surrounding trees. They paused under the boughs of the weeping willow. Finally they were alone, or as alone as one could be in a society such as theirs. “Isabella...” “Don’t, I haven’t much time. They’ll notice I’m gone, then we’ll both be for it. Here’s everything you need.”

Photograph by Forever A Sleepwalker As Jane stood up to leave she caught sight of a flash of red in the corner of the room. She risked a glance. Black trousers, black coat, black woollen hat. Red shoes. A red book. 1984. The signal. Her breath began to come heavier, her pulse quickened, she felt her palms begin to sweat. This was it. From the depths of the coat appeared documents: a passport, visa, boarding pass, itinerary. They appeared only to disappear between the pages of the sketchbook. Desperate fingers fighting with delicate pages. “If I’m not there...” “Don’t say that!” Isabella placed a finger on Jane’s trembling lips. “Listen to me dammit! If I’m not there don’t wait for me. They may have already worked out what I’ve done. If they have it’s too late for me but you still have a chance. Get off the boat and get to the address. Your new life will be waiting there for you.” A moment of silence. Isabella managed a tense smile. “It will all work out. You’ll see.” She turned to leave. Jane reached out for her hand, pulled her back, brought her close and kissed her. The night disappeared. Their hearts beat together in one passionate, primal moment. Their breathing became one. Isabella broke the embrace, firmly taking a step back. They shared a small, somewhat awkward smile. “Until New York.” And she was gone.

Photography by Lucia Mondini

An extract from ‘Lusts and Luxuries’ by Bethany Macdonald Photography by Evija R

If a person’s residence was said to reflect their nature, Brackmore Manor did little to convey, with any great deal of accuracy, its inhabitants. It stood resolutely at the top of a sloping hill, caressed by rolling expanses of wildflowers and an array of provocatively shaped shrubs. Everything about it was cheerful and fascinating with reminiscences of a more genteel existence carved into every stone. The only problem with a fine country house is that one expects its inhabitants to be similarly refined, in the case of Brackmore Manor however, each visitor was greatly disappointed by those who called it home. There had once been a time when the name Bennett carried considerable weight in the surrounding areas, the annual balls and evening dinners at Brackmore were said to be the finest around, and were endlessly drawn upon for comparison to any others brave enough to host a similar gathering. But things fell apart, as they often have a habit of doing, and dear Lady Cybil’s death was the nail in the proverbial coffin for the poor old Lord, whose steadying decline can be directly attributed to his dependence on a fine port or whiskey. After that, Lord Bennett no longer found himself guest of honour at anything other than a public house, and there was no sympathy or invitation ever extended towards his son George. Their story simply became a cautionary tale on the impermanence of society’s tastes, told with a gasp or a giggle amidst the chorus of champagne bottles. George Bennett had taken the task of filling his incapacitated father’s shoes rather badly, not one person could fault the way he managed the estate, but his manner was something he rather neglected. In short, he ran the house like a gentleman but refused to engage in any activities expected of one. He embodied those traditional values that had fallen so far out of favour with society, preferring to deal with papers over people, and in his spare time, he simply surveyed his magnificent Gothic house and tended to his drunken father. Incidentally, these activities were wholeheartedly promoted by Stanley Engelby-Cooper, a priggish man who believed in the unprecedented joy found in the engagement of social frivolities. His belief in social engagements was so strong, that he presently found himself in the hallway of Brackmore Hall itself, innocent to the ubiquitous disappointment that he would face, should he expect any warmth from its inhabitants.

When George finally arrived to meet the mysterious stranger, he was greeted by a flustered fellow draped in some concoction of evening wear and rambling about architecture to anyone who was unfortunate enough to pass by. George cleared his throat to announce his presence, which seemed to startle Stanley into some sort of frenzied routine. “My dear fellow,” Stanley bellowed, shaking George’s reluctant hand violently, “Stanley Engelby-Cooper, pleased to meet you!” George smiled uneasily and returned the introduction, “Oh but of course I know the name of the owner of an exquisite house such as this – I’ll tell you, it’s no secret I fancied this house for myself when I first arrived here.” Stanley began reciting a list of things he found fascinating about the house, the west wing in particular took his fancy, he began talking of decorative masonry and bay windows, and things he would do to improve the place if he was the owner, when George cut him off abruptly, “What is it that I can do for you, Stanley?” he asked. Stanley laughed heartily, “Sorry, I do get distracted sometimes. Are you going shooting?” “I don’t shoot” said George. “Sorry old boy, I assumed that was your shooting wear. You absolutely must come down and we’ll get the guns out, it’s a brilliant sport. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.” “I didn’t say I can’t shoot” said George impatiently. Stanley immediately erupted into a bout of rather forced and loud laughter, and commended George for his good sense of humour, which led to a long-winded story about the acquisition of his first gun. After some time, George managed to speak up and remind Stanley that he had a large mound of paperwork to attend to and would need to get back to it soon, “My dear man,” Stanley smiled, “Why didn’t you say? How awful of me, dragging you away from your responsibilities and taking advantage of your good nature to ram ble about shooting and all sorts” “It’s quite alright” “The reason I am here is to extend an invitation your way, on behalf of Lord and Lady Manners” Stanley paused to allow George a moment of feigned excitement, “Do you know Lucy by any chance? Perhaps you have heard of her? She’s their daughter, and also my new wife.” “Congratulations” said George, unenthusiastically; he had never encountered such an eccentric and terribly self-centred person in all his life.

“Well, we are having a little soirée to celebrate this weekend, Saturday actually. I’m terribly excited; in fact, Lucy says I’m going extremely overboard. But you know women, fickle creatures.” “I’m sorry Stanley, but as I said I’m awfully busy and frankly I haven’t the time to attend any party, no matter how much I should like to.” “Oh pish! It’s a garden party old man, terribly informal and won’t take too much of your time. You simply can’t roam around here like an old ghoul forever.” “It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy myself -” George frowned, beginning to get flustered. “I insist,” Stanley smirked, “There, now you must come. I’ll bring the motor-car to pick you up, say one? Fantastic. Ta-ta old chum.” He barely waited for George’s inevitable protests and slipped out as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving George standing dumbfounded in the hallway wondering whether he had imagined the whole thing. Saturday rolled by in an instant, sped up by George’s persistent worrying, but as the hours crept by, he grew confident that he would never see the bloated, ruddy face of Stanley Engelby-Cooper again, and the whole sorry affair would simply fade away, but as he reclined in his chair, allowing himself to laugh a little at the thought of Stanley honouring his arrangement, he began to hear the quiet and unmistakable hum of a motor-car approaching the house. A feeling of dread crept over him as he scrambled to the window to confirm the very thing he had been fretting over all week, an ominous looking black motor-car was roaring along the drive containing, he knew, a very smug Stanley Engelby-Cooper.

New York By Emma Morley

New York City is one of the most inspirational places on Earth - there’s no doubt about that, but arriving there for a five day trip last April I found that I had many misconceptions about the place. Perhaps I’d taken the lyrics from Alicia Keys’ song ‘New York’ too literally, but I was under the impression that the lights of the city, and more specifically Times Square, would be the most inspiring thing I would ever witness. Yes, the lights were pretty and the nightlife had a real buzz but I failed to see what was so inspiring about them; there was something else that had captured my mind, something unexpected. As well as being a popular tourist destination, New York City is also the business capital of the world and I found myself overwhelmingly inspired by the businessmen and women of the city. When exploring Midtown Manhattan and visiting landmarks such as the Empire State Building, there was a constant stream of professional people barging past us on the ‘sidewalks’. I happily stepped aside in awe of their success and I honestly feel as if they have encouraged me to try my best in every aspect of my life. Prior to my visit I had already been on trips to other big American cities such as Boston, Chicago and Los Angeles so the culture wasn’t a shock for me. Their way of life is very similar to ours here in the UK except for bigger food portions (not complaining about that) and friendlier people. Don’t be too trusting, though, as pickpockets are rife and you may just find your phone or wallet missing from your back pocket after watching a captivating magic trick on a street corner. The food is one of my favourite aspects of the city (and America in general). I’m under the impression that they don’t have as many restrictions on artificial flavourings and colourings in food as we do in the UK, so I found some really bizarre treats over there. Hershey’s and Pop Tarts are amongst some of the great American treats. Yes, they are occasionally available over here but it’s cheaper to stock up when in the States. It also seemed that extravagantly flavoured chewing gum was the latest trend. The USA is great for stocking up on reasonably priced, great tasting goodies, but whatever you do, don’t be lured into the M&Ms store – it’s ridiculously overpriced! I tried my first ever Mountain Dew at Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Company (thanks to Lana Del Rey’s song ‘Diet Mountain Dew’). This was my favourite restaurant of the stay and I definitely recommend it. It’s full of Forrest Gump memorabilia too, which is my idea of heaven. Overall, New York is a magical city filled with amazing views, over indulgent foods and very interesting people.

Emma’s must see places • Grand Central Terminal’s Whispering Wall • Magnolia Bakery • World’s biggest Forever 21 in Times Square • Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum •The Rockerfeller Center


Words Eden Joseph Photograph Lucia Mondini

“But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.” Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle I came across this quote and was simply bewildered by how universal this feeling is. I have always been fascinated by the idea of loneliness. It is something that most of us are terrified by. How many times have we caught ourselves or someone else say “I don’t want to die alone” or that joke about how we don’t want to end up living alone in a house full of cats. Putting these jokes aside, there is nothing more profound than this fear. To live in a world where you feel you don’t belong to or a world which you just simply cannot comprehend. The most relatable experience of feeling alienated is when you are sat in a room full of people, and you just wish you were somewhere else. You feel yourself slowly drifting away and come to the realisation that neither your presence nor your absence in this room would have the slightest impact on the people around you. Nothing is more isolating than to be lonely in a crowded place. Even though most people have felt lonely at some point in their lives, and if not every day of their lives, it is very hard to admit it to other people. We just don’t want to seem vulnerable or weak. So some of us decide to put on this façade of “I’m fine being on my own” because there is this stigma attached to being lonely. We as humans do need someone to depend on and spend time with. Some of us are terrified of going to the cinema or to a restaurant on our own. We don’t want to be seen as a lonely being, we want to be seen with other people. How does one explain or begin to understand this need to love and to be loved in return. Some of us are possessed by the urge to find someone who can end this feeling of emptiness and give us a sense of belonging. This just makes me wonder whether we are meant to survive in this world solely on our own or if we can build a connection with someone which may cure this ever growing loneliness.

That tragic human condition of “born alone, die alone”, is that really true?

ITA By Cat Morgan


My two week travel adventure to Lake Como, Italy! By Cat Morgan Last year which seems oh so long ago, I visited North Italy for a break in the Italian sun. We went right after my final exams in the end of June, which was a good thing because it was completely empty! I realised that being surrounded by people and kids running about was actually the last thing I needed after two years of stressing and ripping my hair out while getting my A-Levels. So these two weeks of lying by the lake and doing literally nothing were fantastic! My parents were feeling the same, my Dad was trying to figure out what to do with his life at the time. Stay in a job that he wasn’t actually happy with, or start up on his own? He realised the answer was to start up on his own, for better or for worse and the holiday was a huge part of the process that led to his decision. But back to my adventure in Italy, I remember the roads being hideously bendy, which is quite dangerous...but we were on a mountain side so you do have to expect this I guess, just make sure you’re prepared for Italian drivers coming at you at some ghastly mph. Despite the fear factor, the lake was at the bottom of the mountain, which was a beautiful scene to behold. However, the lake was freezing, so in order to have a swim I had to squirm and squeal while furiously paddling until I was at a comfortable temperature again.

The big thing in Italy is the ice cream! There’s nothing quite like it, it’s delicious and available in every flavour you can think of, even Red Bull...I didn’t think that would be possible or even taste nice but after an Italian ice cream experience you’ll never let your tongue touch vanilla again. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed in my life, it is so important to make time for yourself and have a break from reality every once in a while. To sum up my Italian experience, it was probably one of the most relaxed holidays I’ve ever had. My parents were lucky to have friends out there so we borrowed their place for two weeks, and despite having to bend my head down every time I got dressed in my room, I’d definitely recommend Lake Como for something quiet around May/June time before all the families come and the hot weather becomes unbearable. Also, George Clooney lives there, and no, I didn’t see him (cry!)

Photography by Evija R

Alexandra Snowdon

Photography by Laura Lake Hauser

See more at

Photography by Forever a sleepwalker f

PS I love You by Kayleigh Cousins

Photography by Worth Goddard

Since I was seventeen, I’ve had a slight obsession with both the film and book version of Ps I Love You’, (seriously my wedding music has been picked out from the movies score). In my opinion the story is captivating, and having Gerard Butler in the cast only improves its worth in my eyes. Now, because I unashamedly profess my love of Ps I Love You, it seemed only natural that I’d be presented with a trip to Dublin for my 21st birthday. We got to the hotel I booked and at first glance it seemed lovely, the staff were nice and the place seemed amazing. Our room was spacious and well laid out but unfortunately, in the middle of the night the curtain rail fell off which led to the discovery that it had been held on with tape all along, needless to say we didn’t stay in that room for long. We got moved from the nice big room with three beds to what can be best described as a corridor, luckily we didn’t get to spend much time there because we were far too busy having adventures. One of my favourite days was a day trip around Dublin, we visited Wicklow Mountains National Park, the single most beautiful place I have ever seen, and coincidentally the meeting place of Gerry and Holly in the film version of the book. We gazed out across vast, unspoilt expanses of fauna and mountains across Ireland, vibrant with the bloom of colours and life. I could just imagine myself sat on the road side feeling inspired to do anything and everything. The coach took us further into the park next and we saw an old Monastery and an almost exact replica of Rapunzel’s tower. The history and stories this place had to tell were fascinating, I took about 500 photographs in order to preserve that day. Everything I saw I wanted to remember. We also drove past the same lakes they filmed in the movie, I really did have such fan-girl moment seeing all this scenery with my own eyes and seeing how astounding and awe-inspiring it really was. One of the last things I made my Mum do with me was find Whelans, for those of you unfamiliar with PS I Love You - it’s a pub that features in the movie, we had a well-deserved drink there while I admired the signed movie poster on the wall. I had the best time in Dublin and I would tell anyone to go to Ireland, the country has so much to offer that the scenes in the movie can’t convey. It sucked me in as soon as I stepped off the plane. The Irish should be proud of their fantastic architecture, wonderful people, and let’s face it, very sexy accents.

Photograph by Laura Lake Hauser

My Australian Adventure. By Naveeta Bhatia I haven’t travelled around much or visited many different places, so at the ripe age of 24, I decided it was time to change this rather embarrassing fact. I really needed a break and just thought, why not? I have an older sister that lives in Melbourne, Australia but strangely enough, I never really had much of an interest in going there, I had wanted to go to Los Angeles or New York (very obvious I know) but with a lot of encouragement from my sister I decided against going Stateside and started looking into going to Australia. When I had finally decided to do this, my next goal was funding the journey. Luckily I had my sister so I didn’t have to fork out for accommodation, but flights, spending money and pre-holiday shopping (I’m a girl so apparently this is allowed) the budget was on a steady increase until I finally went ahead and booked it. I worked my notice and left my job, which sounds extreme but it wasn’t a job I was happy in and I was sure I could easily get a job once I was back. After an excrutiatingly long flight, with two stops in between, a very tired, hungry and jet lagged Naveeta finally reached down under. In the first couple of days, I was astounded by the differences in lifestyles between the Aussies and the British. Obvious differences like actual sunshine and beaches didn’t shock me but the relaxed way of life and the care-free attitude Australians have somehow really did. I did however find a lot of fellow Britons there so I never felt too far from home. I spent a total of six jam-packed weeks filled with adventure and exploration in Australia, and I was able to experience life outside of my little bubble. I guess you can say it opened up my eyes to how much more there is out there (it’s a cliché I know) and in future I won’t be so scared to go out and experience the world.

Jewellery: Ebay Shoes: Nike

Outfit: Hypnotise Vintage Birmingham

Neon Spice

Styled and shot by Priscilla Izabayo

CONFIDENCE Writing by Nicole Bishop Photography by Emily McHugh

Confidence: a feeling of self-assurance arising from an appreciation of one’s own abilities or qualities. Confidence is a funny thing you know. It takes up quite a percentage of your personality, yet not many believe they have the confidence to do things. For example, something as simple as wearing a pair of bright yellow trousers you bought in the sale last year or speaking to that guy you walk past on your way to work every day can bring you out in a fevered panic. Don’t worry, I am exactly the same, I really don’t know what I was thinking when I bought those yellow trousers. I’m colour blind, obviously. Lack of confidence can be a barrier for most things. My friend and I were talking about this the other day and were saying how neither of us could even nip in to town without asking the other to come with because we were ‘scared’. Oh and we were like 18 at the time as well, which is slightly embarrassing, but it’s perfectly normal I’m sure… I mean, it’s not like we aren’t independent people, we just can’t hack doing certain things by ourselves. For instance, as a girl I haven’t got the slightest clue why we go to the toilet in groups, but as soon as I say I need the toilet, I find myself hoping that someone jumps up and says ‘Oh me too, I’ll come with.’ Practically every time, someone will come with you, whether they need the toilet or not. It’s not like I need someone to hold my hand while I pee, I guess it’s a comfort thing, knowing that you’re not alone. So I guess then that confidence pretty much lies next to having company. If you have confidence, you have a rare ability to do most things alone, without being racked by doubt. If you aren’t blessed with a large quantity of self assurance, you do things with other people. After having a few knock backs myself, some only petty, others the darker stuff, I could easily say that my confidence has blossomed since those days. I guess I can call myself a confident girl now, but I still can’t answer the house phone or answer the door without thinking a mass murderer is waiting on the other end ready to slice me up into tiny pieces and have me for dinner. Creepy. Hope I’m not the only one that thinks like that, otherwise I am seriously disturbed. But you know, confidence may seem such a lucid thing that everyone is overflowing with, but really, are we? If I’m wrong, and everyone else is, then I’d like a dose of whatever you’re taking. Hit me up!

Photography by Scarlett Pimlott-Brown

Lentil Soup by Naomi Bardoff

Stuffed Fritatas by Jennifer Orkin

Guacamole by Jessica Pollack

Chocolate Figs by Paula Pertile Find more at

Photography by Emily McHugh

An extract from Funny or Die by Kate Williams Artwork by ‘Die blauen Reiter’

Great Britain. There’s a fault in that name. It’s the end of the Draught War and noone could have predicted such carnage caused. No, not anyone. Even a decade ago, the brightest minds simply could not have envisioned this apocalyptic, sorry show. How did humanity fall so frail at the waste-side? Yet there’s still so many left scavenging, or to die; or wrongfully convicted and tried. The start of the recession saw growing unease, but the scale of overpopulation, the depths to which people fell, survival instincts taking over, the closest thing to Hell. No humanity, no hesitation. ‘Tis so easy for hope to be lost. Yet, as you can imagine, the rich have thrived. They predominantly survive. At a cost. They’re still in control of most of their lands. And in likely fashion, amongst the chaos, they have taken matters into their own hands. Thus we find ourselves in the Grand Hall of the Underground Orb of the prestigious City Chambers. Perhaps the most safe and secure bunker in the capitol; that is to say, safe for some. Audience members line the red velvet chairs, dressed in luxurious, eccentric clothing. There is a great gabble amongst them with talk of their children, and of their marriages, and of their lower-class loathing. Though mainly last night’s parties. Frivolity aplenty. The only thing to avert their attention is shining of a spotlight, brought-up central to the room. In it stands a person, unaware this will be their tomb. It is a little girl. The audience attentively ‘shush!’. Now, to say this little girl was frightened would be an appalling injustice to her. She was terrified to her core. Not even the master of macabre words Charles Dickens could have painted the bleakness of her. Starved, skin engraved with dirt, and lips parched as though she’d never known water. She stands there silent, for half a minute or so, trying to pluck up the courage to speak; but alas, all she can manage is quietened sobs. Whispered ‘help!’s. Murmured ‘mercy!’s. The vultures grow impatient. A shotgun lowers slowly into the spotlight from the side-lines. The owner of it? A soldier. He is dressed decadently in medals honouring his courage, valour and bravery. How befitting. The light gleams on the curve of the cylindrical metal, reflecting back upon the tear tracks now streaming down our little girl’s face. This is the last image she will unfortunately know; transfixed in a stare down those twin tunnels; and all-but collapsing as realisation grows. No light at the end. Hysterical words escape from her lips. “Dad! Dad! No, please! Help me, Da-“. No mercy. An almighty bang echoes in a throng. Simultaneous with blackout, at least she didn’t suffer long. Two audience members rummage swiftly in the dark to drag her along the floor. A now lifeless little Lucy disappears out the back door.

Silence passes. The darkness holds. Then both are broken by the grating of the chamber door, opening as an icy chill unfolds. Light from the passage floods into the room, giving almost relief to the momentary gloom. It rests on a central pool of crimson. Splashes and droplets as though a painter had been careless. Unphased, the gabbling of the great and powerful resumes. Silhouetted against the bright passage light, we see a struggle between three brawny figures, two forcefully pushing the third figure in. Amongst the chatter, as he takes his place, this third man catches odd phrases here and there. “Call that comedy?”, “What a bore”. Fools they are, they do not suspect the treat in store. There’s the slam of the chamber door. Hurried hushing. A spotlight once more. In place of the girl there now stands a man. Middle-aged. Sombre. Round as a pan. He seems perturbed. Distant. Wringing at his hands. A cough from the crowd causes him to look up in alarm. As he straightens himself out, we see sweat fall from him palm. His comical appearance would never connote harm. He has a mood across his face. An unvoicable qualm. He embodies the theatrical comedian persona; slightly round, rosy cheeks and an exaggerated smile. From the off-colour of white face-paint its evident his skin has not been clean for a while. He looks vacantly at the darkness before him, knowing the predators lie in wait. Tears are blinked forcibly from his eyes, aware he is their new found bait. “Well, isn’t this pleasant, eh?”, he pipes up. “All nice and cosy together. Mind if I sit on your lap madam? Try not to get too hot and bothered. I know your lot. All regal on the surface but your hands do dirtier work than a coal minor!”. He chuckles through a stifled smile. The audience themselves are taken aback. This one might actually be worthwhile.

Photography by Juliet is Summer

Emma Cheyne worked Graduate Fashion Week and lived to tell the tale... Blood, sweat and broken needles came to a pastel hued and pom-pom filled head at Graduate Fashion Week in London in June. Showcasing final collections from the best universities across the world, the fashpack descended in their neon yellow tones, jelly shoe clad droves to get a seat in the front row.

For fashion students across the world, London fashion week is a fairly talked about event. Graduate fashion week however, is the pinnacle. Whether up near the Loch Ness in Scotland or down in London, successful designers from across Britain – and this year the world - have the chance to show their graduate collections at Earls Court, London where the garments their futures depend upon will be seen by designers, bloggers and industry insiders alike. Being a second year design student, I was eager for a taste of what is to come in my third and final year. Torn between whether this work experience would excite or terrify me, I hopped on a train ready to dive head first into a world of blood, sweat and broken needles… Walking into the setup of a show at graduate fashion week is what it must feel like to step into a designer’s sketchbook, Mary Poppins style. Getting up close to the garments you can see every stitch, every layer, details which are often missed in the fast paced show. Every minute element is carefully pondered for hours to create the perfect platform for a show in which a garment will be part of for minutes. Models are selected, shoes matched to intricately to miniscule details in collections – accessories placed delicately upon heads and faces. Make-up and hair plays a key element in evoking the feel of a collection, whether it be seventies bohemia to nineties grunge. Trends are transformed with the addition of a scrunchie and a popping punch of lipstick. A slick soundtrack is what really brings a show together and makes it memorable. As an electronic beat or a haunting note fills the air the audience falls silent and looking on from the arena doors, all I can see is millions of eyes going backwards and forwards in sync, scrutinizing each show piece, dissecting the vision behind it. Backstage, breaths are held in anticipation; shoulders relax slightly as each model makes it to the end of the seemingly endless runway. Outside in the court the atmosphere is no less intense. Each university has spent weeks designing, creating and building a stand to showcase the portfolios of their students. Flicking through these it is easy to get lost in the mind and soul of a creative, seeing the process from inspiration, through exploration to final garments. Excitement and nerves are daubed across the faces of future students discovering the best place to shape and realise their dreams – a daunting experience I remember myself upon entering a world of big personalities and even bigger ideas. Aside from the grand spectacle that is the catwalk show, graduate fashion week also gives young designers the opportunity to rub shoulders with key figures in the industry, as they peruse their way through stalls and shows looking for the next big thing. Working the show I was given the opportunity to ask what catches their eye ‘We’re looking for something we’ve never seen before – we want blue sky thinkers with fresh ideas who push the boundaries of what is wearable in the world around them.’ From watching shows across the week I have found myself surprised - it is not the commercial, the wearable, the typically stylish designs that make judges lift their heads on the front row, or get the press cameras blinking at the end of the runway. Fashion is evolving, and the design students of the future - myself included - want to create the collection that gets everyone excited; the weird, the questionable, the mysterious, the unthinkable.

Coveted colours in combination with whimsical bubble prints and soft supple leather dresses and coats led Lauren’s collection to be described as ‘emotional’ – the asymmetrical shapes and appliqued paper clips evoked fun and fanciness through expert fabrication.

The George gold award is given every year to a young visionary to help them get their fashion career off the ground. The prize includes having their range put into production and sold across the country, and a cash prize to launch their own brand. This year’s winner was Lauren Smith, whose collection was picked by the judges from hundreds of talented graduates across the week. The collection had a cool and calming colour palette of sea blue and white, with hints of lemon yellow.

As the models floated down the catwalk, a bouquet of colours blossomed into view. Designers sent sickly sweet palettes of lemon yellow, duck egg blue and my-little-pony-pink down the runway across everything from swishy baby doll style dresses to sharp tailored menswear. Soft and harmonious rather than bright and clashing, patterns and prints were a mish-mash of childhood adventures and fairy tales. Wishy-washy dinosaurs adorned the softest of pleats, juxtaposed against army style multi pocketed jackets in futuristic PVC, brought into a new dimension with pockets brimming with mermaid haired pic n mix ponies. We want candy‌

Knitwear was a key trend on the catwalks this year, with wonderful woolies not being restricted to jumpers and hats! Elegant capped sleeve top and skirt sets were given a new dimension with 3d knitted patterns taking them from formal to festival. Oversized stitches are applied to evening dresses, whilst pom-poms adorn seventies bell sleeves, princess crowns and bad girl balaclavas. Repeat after us – knit one, purl one‌

Photography by Worth Goddard

Spirit Magazine Issue 1

Spirit magazine: summer  
Spirit magazine: summer  

Issue one of Spirit magazine