Laura Craik's trendwatch: party season, normcore socks and the thrill of ice skating

Our arbiter of style on coat-iquette, skating thrills and when to ditch the ankle socks
Laura Craik26 November 2015

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

‘There ain’t no party like a London party,’ as Coolio would surely have sung, had he hailed from West Ham instead of the West Coast. One wonders what the rapper and erstwhile Celebrity Big Brother contestant would have made of a party I went to last week. Thanks to Downton Abbey, we’re all versed in the wide social gulf between ‘below stairs’ and ‘above stairs’, but this party took place entirely ‘on stairs’ — quite literally, in a stairwell. Which may sound kind of poky and damp, but wasn’t, being a Claridge’s stairwell and one of the most elegant in London. Four walls, a dancefloor and a DJ? So last year. I applaud Claridge’s for embracing this new, socially fluid third space, and feel all parties should take place on wide, plush, carpeted stairs for the remainder of the festive season.

Apart from anything else, stair parties are perfect for the time-pressed social butterfly, whose anxiety about leaving the room prematurely is banished, since there isn’t actually a room to leave. This being November, nobody has one party to go to of an evening; they have three. Possibly even four. This can lend a transitory feel to the most compelling of soirées, with everyone anxiously looking over their shoulder for the host, who they have six minutes to find and say hello to before a murderous-looking Uber driver comes to trundle them away to their next bash. Despite my sparkling, seasonally appropriate conversation (‘and then I smelled burning flesh, and realised I’d tonged my thumb!’), I couldn’t help notice my companion’s eyes darting around in that peculiarly London way that suggested a more important person had loomed into view over my shoulder — that, or a particularly lush tray of canapés. No one can compete with the canapés at Claridge’s, not even the Jolie-Pitts, naked and swinging from a chandelier.

There is one plea I would make this festive season, and that’s for partygoers to address their coat-iquette. It’s the question le tout Londres has been asking: when you have 26 minutes to spend at every party, what the f*** do you do with your coat? Do you check it in and waste precious time waiting at the cloakroom? Do you drape it casually over your arm, despite the certainty that a drunk person will spill red wine on one of the sleeves? Or do you keep it on, thus negating the whole point of spending £799 you didn’t really have on a party dress from Net-a-porter? I don’t know about you, but I find nothing kills the atmosphere stone dead like chatting to a bunch of people who can’t even commit to a party long enough to take off their coat. Like, sorry — am I keeping you? Are you really dashing off to another, better party, or are you going home to watch The Apprentice? Either way, the etiquette of coats needs addressing urgently. Certainly by Debrett’s. Possibly by Parliament — right after they’ve finished brokering world peace.

Christmas party looks

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GREAT SKATES

There are infinite ways to chase an endorphin rush in London, but none quite compare to the seasonal joy evoked by skating round in circles at one of the city’s many pop-up ice rinks. A Boom Cycle session doesn’t come close to the pink-cheeked rapture of managing to do a lap without falling flat on your ass. Then there’s the thrill of gliding past all manner of celebrities: Shirley Bassey was spotted at the opening of Skate at Somerset House, while Sam Rollinson and Immy Waterhouse showed that they could always retrain as Torvill and Dean if the modelling work dries up. What to wear? Bobble hats and lashings of fake fur. And waterproof gloves — not chic, but handy in a fall.

SOCK HORROR

It’s the moment fashion victims have been dreading: that poignant time when, finally, the mercury decrees that they must put away that last vestige of flesh — the ankle — until next spring. As someone who has been living in cropped trousers and turned-up boyfriend jeans all year, I’m finding this development way more traumatic than having to dig out the black opaques. Which begs the question: is it ever OK to wear cropped trousers with… an ankle sock? I’ve seen some women gadding around town in cropped trousers, Stan Smiths and defiantly normcore white sports socks, but I don’t think I can pull it off without looking like a Nebraskan tourist called Mary-Beth. Instead, I’m plumping for Saint Laurent’s star-strewn high-top trainers, which keep the ankles warm but still work with turned-up jeans. Not to be attempted with dressier trousers, though: they look awful.

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