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My first proper memory of a department store beauty hall was getting absolutely bollocked by my mum for spraying too much Tommy Girl perfume on my wrists during a rare family trip to Debenhams. I was thirteen, wearing an alarmingly shiny lip gloss and a Tammy Girl top that I thought made me look sophisticated but actually made me look like I’d been dressed by committee. The beauty counter lady – all immaculate foundation and terrifyingly perfect lipstick – had given me that uniquely British look that manages to be both professionally pleasant and deeply judging. Mum dragged me away with a muttered “sorry about her” while I tried to argue that they put the testers out for a reason.

Twenty-four years and approximately 8,000 beauty purchases later, I still maintain that the British department store beauty hall is one of our most underrated national treasures. Where else can you get a free makeover that makes you look like a slightly unnerving version of yourself, accidentally spend half a month’s rent on a moisturizer you definitely don’t need, and be served by someone whose contour is so sharp it could probably be classified as a weapon?

Last Tuesday, I spent three hours in Selfridges beauty hall when I was supposed to be writing a feature about sustainable fashion. My editor thinks I was “doing research.” In reality, I was having what I call a “beauty hall meditation” – that unique state of mind where you’re simultaneously overstimulated by all the shiny packaging and soothed by the ritual of swatching seventeen nearly identical red lipsticks on the back of your hand. The only comparable feeling is being slightly drunk in a church – that same sense of reverence and mild guilt combined with the suspicion you might be about to do something expensive you’ll regret later.

Beauty halls have their own specific ecosystem that somehow transcends brands, cities, and even social changes. The lighting is always that particular type of bright that shows up every single flaw you didn’t know you had. The air smells like a battlefield where 47 different perfumes have fought to the death. There are always at least three women getting their makeup done before a special event, looking slightly terrified as more and more products get applied to their increasingly unrecognizable faces. And there’s always – always – someone’s boyfriend or husband standing awkwardly near a display, clearly wishing he’d waited in the café upstairs.

What fascinates me about British beauty halls in particular is how they effortlessly blend accessibility with aspiration. You can walk into John Lewis with twelve quid in your pocket and leave with a decent lipstick and multiple tiny samples, treated with the same reverence as the woman dropping three figures on La Mer. The beauty hall is a rare democratic space in the increasingly stratified world of retail – everyone’s welcome to play, regardless of budget.

Of course, each department store beauty hall has its own distinct personality – its own specific flavors of intimidation and delight. After spending what probably amounts to several months of my life in these fragrant pleasure palaces, I’ve developed a mental map of where to go for what, and which counter staff will actually help rather than just judge your pores (though a bit of pore judgment is part of the authentic experience, let’s be honest).

Selfridges beauty hall is the extrovert of the bunch – all bright lights and noise and stimulation. It’s where the cool brands launch first, where there’s always some sort of activation or pop-up happening, and where the staff look like they might have exciting after-work lives that involve exclusive clubs you’ve never heard of. The last time I was there, a very young man with skin so perfect it made me consider a lifetime of voluntary isolation offered me a “skin consultation” that was basically just an opportunity for him to tell me everything that was wrong with my face. I bought the serum he recommended anyway, because apparently being negged by beautiful people is my specific weakness.

What to buy at Selfridges? The exclusives. Their beauty buyers are wizards at securing products and brands you can’t get anywhere else in the UK. I swear by the Pat McGrath counter – her Skin Fetish highlighter makes me look like I drink water and get eight hours of sleep, which is a beauty miracle on par with loaves and fishes as far as I’m concerned. The Charlotte Tilbury space is always packed with women trying to figure out which shade of Pillow Talk they’re supposed to be wearing (answer: whichever one the intimidatingly gorgeous sales assistant tells you, regardless of whether it actually suits you). But my insider tip is to hit the Face Gym counter – their products are genuinely excellent and somehow still fly under the radar despite the facial workouts themselves being constantly booked up.

Liberty’s beauty hall is an entirely different proposition – the elegant, slightly eccentric aunt of the beauty retail world. Housed in wood-paneled splendor with that distinctive Liberty scent in the air (part flowers, part polished wood, part money), it’s where I go when I want to feel like I’ve made sophisticated life choices. The edit is impeccable – niche fragrances that make people ask what you’re wearing, skincare brands developed by stern-looking European doctors, and makeup that looks simple but costs more than your weekly food shop.

My Liberty splurge is always Diptyque candles – basic, yes, but sometimes the obvious choice is obvious for a reason. Their Baies candle makes my flat smell like I’m the kind of person who has fresh flowers delivered weekly and owns matching towels. The Margaret Dabbs foot products are also worth every eye-watering penny if, like me, you have feet that could probably be used as weapons. But the real gem is the Le Labo counter, where they mix your fragrance in front of you like some sort of scent wizard and print a personalized label that makes you feel special every time you use it. Last year I spent an amount I’m too embarrassed to specify on their Santal 33, and I still feel mild shame mixed with immense pleasure every time I spray it.

Harvey Nichols has what I think of as fashion-person beauty hall energy – slightly intimidating, very directional, focused on brands that beauty editors actually use rather than just what’s selling well. The staff have that specific HN blend of being both helpful and vaguely terrifying, like they might be assessing whether you deserve the products rather than just selling them to you. It’s where I go when I want to feel like an insider rather than just a civilian who likes nice moisturizer.

Their Fenty Beauty counter deserves special mention – the most consistently inclusive and genuinely friendly space in what can sometimes feel like a sea of predominantly white, size-zero beauty advisors. When I interviewed Freddie, one of their makeup artists, for a piece on the brand’s impact, he told me they’re specifically trained to make everyone feel welcome, regardless of age, skin color, gender, or how much they know about makeup. It shows – the last time I was there, a woman in her seventies was getting a full glitter eye alongside a nervous-looking teenage boy buying his first concealer, and both were being treated with exactly the same level of warmth and attention.

My Harvey Nicks must-buy is Sunday Riley Good Genes, which costs roughly the same as feeding a family of four for a week but somehow makes my skin look like I’ve been restored to factory settings overnight. Their Sisley counter is also dangerously good – I once went in for an eye cream and came out with three products and a significantly lighter bank balance, but skin that looked like I’d been cryogenically preserved somewhere expensive.

Harrods beauty hall is where I go when I want to feel simultaneously impressed and deeply inadequate. It’s so aggressively luxurious that it makes other beauty halls look like they’re not really trying. The marble, the lighting, the sheer scale of the place – it’s designed to make you feel like you should probably be spending more on your skincare routine than you currently do on rent. The counter staff all look like they’ve never had a bad skin day in their lives and probably sleep on silk pillowcases monogrammed with their initials.

What to buy at Harrods? Their fragrance selection is unmatched – if you want something genuinely unusual that nobody else will be wearing, this is your place. I’m obsessed with their Editions de Parfums Frederic Malle collection – complex, grown-up scents that don’t smell like everything else on the market. Their Guerlain counter is also a thing of beauty, especially if you’re into their iconic Meteorites powder pearls, which I maintain make you look like you’re being lit by your own personal flattering filter.

But for sheer British beauty hall joy, it’s hard to beat John Lewis. There’s something deeply comforting about their beauty hall – like the retail equivalent of a really good cup of tea. The lighting is marginally more forgiving than most, the staff range from genuinely helpful to politely disinterested rather than actively intimidating, and there’s a sense that they’re not just trying to sell you the most expensive thing on the counter.

My John Lewis staple is honestly their own brand skincare, which outperforms products ten times the price. Their Hydrating Day Cream is the unsung hero of my bathroom shelf, doing exactly what it promises without making wild claims or charging the earth. The Origins counter is also reliably excellent – their Drink Up Intensive mask has saved my skin through multiple British winters and long-haul flights. And their Clarins counter staff give the best skincare advice in the business – practical, straightforward, and rarely trying to oversell you things you don’t need.

Fenwick deserves a special mention in the beauty hall pantheon, particularly their Newcastle store which somehow manages to stock niche brands you’d expect to find only in Liberty alongside reliable high street options. Their beauty hall has the added bonus of being attached to their excellent food hall, which means you can reward yourself with fancy cheese after the stress of spending too much on mascara. Their Space NK concession is dangerously good – I never leave without at least one Drunk Elephant product I hadn’t planned to buy.

Department store beauty halls have weathered the storm of online shopping better than most retail spaces because they offer something that digital simply can’t – the sensory experience of trying products in person, the expertise of counter staff (even if that expertise sometimes comes with a side of judgment), and the simple pleasure of discovering something new by wandering rather than searching. You can’t replicate the feeling of spraying a perfume on your skin and seeing how it develops over hours, or finding exactly the right foundation shade through trial and error.

They’re also one of the few remaining retail spaces where genuine service still exists. A good beauty counter person is part therapist, part artist, and part salesperson – they’ll listen to your skin woes, create a solution that makes you feel better about yourself, and yes, probably sell you more than you meant to buy, but you’ll leave feeling like it was your idea.

I still get that same thrill walking into a beauty hall that I did as a teenager, albeit with marginally better lip gloss choices these days. It’s a space of possibility – you might discover your new signature scent, the perfect red lipstick that makes you feel invincible, or the skincare product that finally resolves that weird thing your face has been doing lately. Or you might just enjoy half an hour of spritzing, swiping, and chatting to someone who knows far more about acid exfoliation than any human reasonably should.

My beauty writer friends joke about the “beauty hall black hole” – that strange temporal phenomenon where you pop in “just to pick up some cotton pads” and emerge three hours later with a bag full of products you didn’t know you needed and a face half-covered in various tester products. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to rush to a meeting with one wrist smelling like an entire perfume counter and foundation swatches fading up my arm like some sort of beauty Morse code.

But that’s the magic of these spaces – they’re little pockets of self-care and possibility in an increasingly utilitarian retail world. Yes, we know intellectually that no serum is actually going to change our lives. But for a few minutes at that shiny counter, under the flattering (or brutally honest) lighting, with an enthusiastic expert telling us how transformative this little pot of something will be… well, we can believe. And sometimes, that feeling is worth the price tag.

The British beach holiday is a triumph of optimism over meteorological reality. Show me someone packing a suitcase for a UK coastal break, and I’ll show you someone who’s included both sunscreen and a raincoat, flip-flops and waterproof boots, a swimming costume and a chunky knit jumper. We are a nation of weather-hedgers, forced by our gloriously unpredictable climate to prepare for four seasons in a single day, especially when that day involves sitting exposed on a shoreline somewhere.

I learned this lesson the hard way during my first “grown-up” beach trip, a weekend to Whitstable with university friends. Having spent the previous summer interning at a fashion magazine where everyone dressed as if permanently en route to the Côte d’Azur, I packed accordingly—flimsy sundresses, impractical sandals, and absolutely nothing waterproof. Cue horizontal rain, temperatures that wouldn’t have been out of place in November, and me wearing every item I’d brought simultaneously while still shivering dramatically. My friends, all seasoned British holidaymakers, watched with a mixture of pity and amusement as I discovered that British beach attire has very little in common with its Mediterranean counterpart.

Since then, I’ve become something of a student of our peculiarly British approach to beach dressing—an approach that varies not just with the weather, but with the specific geography, social context, and unwritten rules of each coastal location. Because make no mistake: what works on Brighton’s urban pebble beach would look entirely out of place on Bamburgh’s vast, windswept sands. The appropriate attire for a day at genteel Southwold bears little resemblance to what you’d wear to surf-centric Newquay.

Let’s start with Brighton, shall we? As London’s unofficial seaside annex, Brighton beach has a distinctly urban energy. This is not a place for traditional seaside attire—no bucket hats or sensible sandals here. Instead, Brighton embraces a kind of performative beach style that acknowledges you’re as likely to end up in a beachfront bar or vintage shop as actually sitting on the pebbles.

The pebbles themselves are key to Brighton beach attire. Unlike sand, pebbles heat up significantly in the sun, making proper footwear essential. Flimsy flip-flops provide approximately zero protection from the hot stones’ quite literal assault on your soles. Instead, Brighton regulars opt for substantial sandals with proper straps (think Birkenstocks or their numerous imitators), canvas trainers that can be easily slipped on and off, or even Crocs, which have undergone an ironic-to-unironic rehabilitation among the city’s more fashion-forward residents.

“You can always spot tourists on Brighton beach,” my friend Sadie, a Brighton native, told me. “They’re the ones awkwardly hobbling across the pebbles in inadequate footwear, looking like they’re walking on hot coals.” The locals, meanwhile, navigate the terrain with practiced ease, their feet appropriately armored against the terrain.

Brighton’s proximity to London and its reputation as a hub for creative industries influences its beach style significantly. There’s a studied casualness that nevertheless communicates fashion awareness—vintage Levi’s cut-offs rather than generic denim shorts, oversized linen shirts from independent boutiques rather than high street beach cover-ups, interesting sunglasses that suggest you might work in media or design.

The city’s strong LGBTQ+ culture and history of counterculture also encourage more experimental dressing than you’d see at traditional seaside resorts. During Pride weekend and other events, the beach becomes a riot of color and creative expression, but even on ordinary summer days, there’s less adherence to conventional beachwear rules. Men in brief swim shorts that would raise eyebrows in more conservative coastal towns are commonplace, as are women in vintage-inspired high-waisted bikinis or swimming costumes with a fashion rather than purely practical focus.

Travel east along the coast to Whitstable, and the beach aesthetic shifts noticeably. Here, the London influence remains strong (given the town’s popularity with weekending city-dwellers), but with a more deliberately relaxed, maritime-inspired approach. Breton tops are practically the unofficial uniform, worn with white or navy linen trousers rolled up at the ankle, canvas espadrilles, and straw market baskets that do double duty for beach essentials and the obligatory visit to the town’s famous food markets.

Whitstable’s pebbly beach and foodie culture mean that beachwear often needs to transition easily to seafood restaurants and pub gardens. This has created a distinctly practical but presentable approach—natural fabrics that don’t look out of place with a glass of white wine and a plate of the town’s famous oysters. Think linen shirts, cotton dresses that won’t blow up in the coastal breeze, and layers that can be added or removed as the temperamental Kentish weather dictates.

“In Whitstable, you’re dressing for the whole experience, not just the beach,” explained my friend Leila, who has a weekend cottage there. “You might start on the beach, then grab lunch at the Lobster Shack, browse some galleries, and end up in a pub garden. Your outfit needs to work for all of that.” This translates to a sort of casual-but-considered approach—nothing too precious that can’t handle a bit of sea spray, but nothing so beach-specific that it would look odd with a glass of wine.

Moving to the Suffolk coast, places like Southwold and Aldeburgh embody a more traditional, quintessentially English approach to seaside dressing. Here, the influence of old-school British holiday traditions remains strong, updated with elements of the rural-luxe aesthetic that characterizes much of the region’s tourism.

“Southwold has quite a specific look,” noted my editor, who has a family home there. “It’s very Home Counties middle-class—Crew Clothing, Joules, White Stuff, Seasalt. Lots of navy blue, stripes, and understated prints.” Beach attire here often includes elements that would be equally at home at a countryside pub lunch—Barbour jackets for when the wind picks up, boat shoes rather than flip-flops, cotton Breton dresses, and quality basics that communicate a certain understated affluence.

The beach huts that line Southwold’s promenade create a distinctive beach culture where sitting outside your hut (often decorated in complementary coastal colors) is as much a part of the experience as being on the sand itself. This has fostered a kind of beach-adjacent dressing rather than traditional swimwear-focused beachwear—cover-ups that are destinations in themselves rather than just something to throw over a swimming costume, proper sun hats with brims substantial enough to offer actual protection, and always, always layers to account for the reliable unreliability of the East Anglican weather.

Head southwest to Cornwall, and beach attire undergoes another transformation, particularly in surf-centric towns like Newquay. Here, genuine technical beachwear dominates—high-performance wetsuits from brands like Finisterre and Rip Curl, specialist surfing swimwear that prioritizes staying in place over fashionable cuts, and a general sense that the beach is for activities rather than just posing.

“The serious surfers are easy to spot,” my friend Tom, who moved to Newquay from London five years ago, told me. “They’re the ones who look completely unfazed by the weather, wearing decent wetsuits regardless of the season and carrying boards that look well-used rather than freshly purchased.” Tourists, meanwhile, can be identified by their brand new surf-inspired gear, often from mainstream brands rather than the specialist local outfitters that locals prefer.

Even non-surfers in Cornwall tend to adopt a more active, practical approach to beach attire. Quick-dry shorts, technical sandals that can handle rock pools and coastal paths, and lightweight layers that can be easily stashed in a backpack are the norm. There’s less emphasis on looking styled for Instagram and more on being properly equipped for whatever the Atlantic might throw at you—which, given Cornwall’s exposed position, could be anything from glorious sunshine to sideways rain within the same hour.

The north Devon coast shares some of Cornwall’s surf culture but with its own distinct character. Places like Woolacombe combine traditional British seaside elements with more adventure-focused apparel. Here, you’ll see families in classic beach attire—bucket hats, sensible swimwear, beach tents laden with provisions for a full day on the sand—alongside surf enthusiasts in technical gear and walkers dressed for the South West Coast Path that runs along the cliffstops.

“Devon beaches require a bit of strategic dressing,” explained my cousin Rachel, who holidays there regularly with her young family. “The beaches themselves can be gloriously warm if the sun’s out, but the walk down to them often involves steep paths where you’ll catch the full force of the wind. So we always dress in layers and pack for multiple weather scenarios.” This typically means swimwear with easy cover-ups, sweatshirts or light jackets that can be tied around waists when not needed, and footwear that can handle both sand and the often challenging approaches to the beach.

As we move up to the Welsh coast, the beaches of Pembrokeshire and the Gower Peninsula have their own distinctive dress codes. These beaches, often rated among the most beautiful in the world but blessed with decidedly un-Mediterranean weather patterns, call for a practical approach with certain regional quirks.

“Welsh beaches have this wild beauty that demands respect,” my Welsh friend Rhian pointed out. “You need to be prepared for the elements changing quickly.” This translates to local beachgoers often carrying more substantial weather protection than you’d see in the southeast—proper waterproof jackets rather than just light windbreakers, walking shoes that can handle both beach and the often muddy paths leading to them, and always, always layers.

The strong outdoor activity culture in Wales also influences beach attire. Many beachgoers combine their coastal visits with walks along the stunning Pembrokeshire Coast Path or other outdoor pursuits, meaning that technical clothing from brands like Rab and Mountain Equipment is a common sight, even on summer days. Swimming is a serious business too, with wild swimming growing in popularity. This has led to increased sightings of dryrobe-style changing robes, swimming shoes for rocky entries, and other specialized gear that prioritizes function over conventional beach fashion.

Heading north to the vast, often windswept beaches of Northumberland, we enter another beach-style ecosystem entirely. Beaches like Bamburgh, with its dramatic castle backdrop and enormous expanse of sand, create a distinctive approach to coastal dressing that acknowledges the often challenging North Sea conditions.

“You’ve got to understand that even in summer, a Northumberland beach can feel like winter anywhere else if the wind’s coming off the North Sea,” explained my editor’s husband, who grew up in the area. “So people dress with that in mind—layers are essential, and you’ll rarely see the kind of minimal beachwear you’d find further south.”

What you will see are serious walkers dressed for the coastal paths, families equipped for full days out with windbreaks and substantial picnic setups, and hardy swimmers in wetsuits regardless of the season. The fashion element is minimal here—function dominates, with durable, weather-resistant clothing from outdoor brands taking precedence over trend-led beachwear. Dogs are almost as common as people on many Northumberland beaches, adding another practical element to the attire—pockets for treats, shoes that can handle both sand and mud, and clothes that can withstand enthusiastic shaking after doggy swimming sessions.

Scottish beaches represent perhaps the most extreme example of the British talent for optimistic beach dressing. On the rare perfect summer day, beaches like Luskentyre on Harris can rival any tropical paradise for beauty—and on such days, locals make the most of it, though rarely with the abandon of their southern counterparts.

“There’s always an element of weather-readiness on Scottish beaches,” my Scottish friend Isla explained. “Even on the most beautiful day, people bring layers, windbreakers, sometimes even hot drinks in flasks. We know how quickly it can change.” This creates a distinctive beach style where swimming costumes might be worn under easily-added layers, shoes are almost always practical rather than purely decorative, and cover-ups tend to be substantial enough to provide actual warmth rather than just modest coverage.

The wild swimming movement has gained particular traction in Scotland, bringing with it specialized gear for cold-water immersion—changing robes, neoprene gloves and boots, swim caps, and other accessories that acknowledge the genuinely challenging conditions. This technical approach extends to general beachwear too, with quality outdoor brands like Finisterre, Fjällräven, and local Scottish companies like Hilltrek featuring prominently in coastal attire.

What’s fascinating across all these regional variations is how they’re influenced not just by weather conditions but by the physical characteristics of the beaches themselves and the social context surrounding them. Sandy beaches encourage different footwear choices than pebbly ones. Beaches near urban centers with strong bar and restaurant cultures require outfits that can transition from sand to social settings. Beaches known for outdoor activities foster more technical, performance-focused attire.

There are temporal variations too—the British beach in high summer looks very different from the same location in spring or autumn, when it’s largely the domain of dog walkers, outdoor enthusiasts, and locals. Winter sees another transformation, with beaches becoming the preserve of the truly hardy—wild swimmers in full cold-water gear, walkers bundled against the elements, and the occasional photographer capturing moody seascapes.

For anyone planning a British beach holiday, understanding these regional variations isn’t just about fitting in (though there is a certain comfort in not standing out as obviously unprepared). It’s about being properly equipped for the specific joys and challenges of each coastal location, allowing you to enjoy the experience rather than fighting against inappropriate clothing choices.

My own beach bag has evolved significantly since that disastrous Whitstable weekend. It now invariably contains layers (regardless of the forecast), footwear appropriate to the specific beach surface, a substantial hat that won’t blow away in the first coastal breeze, and always, always a waterproof layer within easy reach. I’ve learned to check not just the temperature forecast but the wind strength and direction, which can transform a seemingly perfect beach day into an endurance test in minutes.

I’ve also embraced the distinct character of different coastal regions, adapting my approach depending on location. For Brighton, I’ll pack more urban-appropriate items that can transition from beach to bar. For Cornwall, more active, technical pieces that can handle a coastal path walk or an impromptu decision to try body-boarding. For Northumberland, enough layers to survive an unexpected Arctic front moving in from the North Sea.

The British beach holiday may require more wardrobe planning than its Mediterranean counterpart, but there’s something rather wonderful about our determination to enjoy our coastline regardless of conditions. We may not have guaranteed sunshine, but we have some of the most beautiful and varied coastal landscapes in the world—and as long as you’ve packed appropriately, there’s joy to be found on a British beach in almost any weather. Just don’t forget the thermos, even in August. Trust me on this one.

Bank holiday weekends hold a special place in my heart. Not because I’m particularly patriotic or have any idea which historical event most of them commemorate (sorry, GCSE History teacher), but because they represent that magical intersection of having both time off and sales happening simultaneously. It’s like the universe is saying, “Here you go, Olivia. Go forth and make questionable financial decisions while telling yourself they’re actually brilliant investments.”

I’ve spent approximately 67% of my adult bank holidays either physically shopping or hunched over my laptop refreshing pages with the manic intensity of someone trying to get Glastonbury tickets. My poor credit card has learned to expect a workout every time a three-day weekend approaches. I’ve developed something of a sixth sense for which retailers will drop their prices and exactly when to pounce. It’s possibly my most useless superpower, but here we are.

Last May bank holiday, I found myself in a changing room at 9:17 AM on Saturday morning, surrounded by a small mountain of linen pieces I’d been stalking online for weeks. The sales assistant kept giving me concerned looks, probably wondering if I was planning to move in. “I’ve been waiting for these to go on sale,” I explained through the curtain as I wrestled with a jumpsuit that definitely looked easier to get into on the website. She just nodded sympathetically. Retail workers on bank holiday weekends deserve combat pay, honestly.

The memory of triumphantly leaving with four perfectly fitting items at 25% off still brings me joy. So does the linen blazer I’m wearing as I type this, which has since accompanied me to two weddings, one job interview, and a somewhat awkward first date where I was definitely better dressed than him. Cost per wear? Pennies at this point. This is how I justify all my bank holiday purchases to myself, and sometimes it’s even true.

So as another bank holiday looms on the horizon, I feel it’s my professional duty to share the wisdom accumulated through years of strategic shopping. Consider this your battlefield map for navigating the sales with minimal financial regret and maximum wardrobe enhancement.

First things first: timing is everything. Most online sales now start before the actual bank holiday—usually the Wednesday or Thursday before. This is particularly true for the bigger department stores like Selfridges and Harvey Nichols, who tend to give their online customers a head start. Set calendar alerts, sign up for newsletters you’ll immediately regret cluttering your inbox, do whatever it takes to get that early access. Nothing—and I mean nothing—is more satisfying than snagging the last cashmere hoodie in your size while other people are still unaware the sale has even started.

I learned this lesson the hard way three bank holidays ago when I waited until Saturday morning to check a particular retailer’s site, only to find everything I’d mentally pre-selected was gone. I still think about that navy silk midi dress sometimes. We could have been so happy together.

Physical stores are a different beast entirely. While many launch their sales online first, there’s often in-store stock that never made it to the website. This is especially true for smaller boutiques. Last August bank holiday, I stumbled into a tiny shop in Marylebone I’d never visited before and found a rail of past-season Ganni at 70% off. The saleswoman told me they’d only put it out that morning. I still feel guilty about how smugly I messaged my group chat about this discovery.

Department stores typically restock their sale sections each morning of the bank holiday weekend, so if you’re serious about it, getting there for opening time isn’t overkill. I once spotted a fashion editor I deeply respect power-walking through Selfridges at 9:30 AM on a bank holiday Saturday with the focused determination of someone on a very specific mission. Our eyes met, we nodded in silent recognition of our shared purpose, and continued on our separate hunting expeditions. Fashion solidarity at its finest.

Now, about those smaller, independent boutiques—they’re the secret weapon in bank holiday shopping. While everyone else is fighting over the last medium at & Other Stories, these little gems often have quieter but equally good discounts. They’re also more likely to negotiate if you’re buying multiple items. That gorgeous independent shop you walk past and think “I’ll go in someday when I have more time”? Bank holiday weekend is that someday. Trust me.

I’ve developed close personal relationships with sales assistants at several smaller London boutiques purely by showing up reliably every bank holiday. There’s a woman at a shop in Islington who now texts me when certain designers I like go on sale. Christmas came early last bank holiday when she messaged: “Just put the Rixo dresses you liked on sale, put one in the back for you.” This is the kind of VIP treatment money can’t buy (though, to be fair, the amount I’ve spent in that shop probably paid for her holiday last year).

Online versus in-store is the eternal bank holiday shopping dilemma. Online means you can shop in pajamas with a cup of tea and comparison check prices, but in-store means you can actually try things on and sometimes find unadvértised specials. My solution? Both. I generally do a reconnaissance mission online in the days leading up, identify key targets, then hit select stores in person while keeping my phone handy to check online exclusives between shops.

Last bank holiday, this hybrid approach led to me sitting on a bench outside Covent Garden, balancing a takeaway coffee on my knee while panic-purchasing a jumpsuit on my phone that had just gone on sale online but wasn’t available in the store I’d just left. A tourist asked if I needed medical assistance. “Fashion emergency,” I explained. She nodded as if this was a completely reasonable response.

As for which retailers reliably deliver the goods during bank holidays, I’ve compiled mental notes over years of strategic shopping. The high street big hitters—H&M, Zara, Mango, & Other Stories—typically do 20-25% off, though Zara infuriatingly often waits until after bank holidays for their big seasonal sales. Mid-range brands like Whistles, Reiss, and Jigsaw usually offer around 30% off selected lines, while department stores can go up to 50% on certain designers depending on the time of year.

The May bank holiday specifically tends to catch the tail end of spring stock as retailers make space for high summer collections. This makes it perfect for snagging those transitional pieces that actually work year-round in Britain’s perpetually confused climate. Last year, I found a perfect trench coat at 40% off that I’ve worn in literally every month since purchasing. When you live somewhere where “summer” can mean anything from 32 degrees to sleet within the same week, these multi-seasonal items are gold.

Of course, there are the psychological pitfalls of sale shopping that I’m embarrassingly familiar with. The “it’s such a good deal I have to buy it” trap has led to me owning a chartreuse satin skirt that has left my wardrobe precisely zero times since purchase. The “it’s a little tight but I’ll lose weight” delusion resulted in a pair of jeans that mock me from the back of my closet. And who among us hasn’t fallen for the “it’s designer so it’s automatically a good investment” lie? My very expensive mistake from two bank holidays ago still has the tags on. Sometimes I take it out just to stroke it and whisper apologies for not being the sort of person who actually attends events requiring sequined evening wear.

To combat these sale-induced moments of temporary insanity, I’ve developed a few rules. First, no matter how good the discount, if I wouldn’t consider it at full price, it’s not actually a bargain. Second, if I can’t think of at least three existing items in my wardrobe it works with, I walk away. Third, anything that doesn’t fit perfectly in the changing room never magically fits better at home. Never. This last rule has saved me thousands over the years, though I still occasionally convince myself I’m the exception. Reader, I am not.

These days, I also try to approach bank holiday shopping with at least some semblance of strategy rather than just buying anything shiny with a red sale sticker. Before the weekend hits, I take inventory of what I actually need (with “need” doing a lot of heavy lifting here) and set a budget that I pretend I’ll stick to. Having specific items in mind helps navigate the overwhelming sea of options and prevents ending up with yet another black top that’s imperceptibly different from the twelve I already own.

Last bank holiday, my shopping list read: “lightweight blazer, white summer dress, comfortable smart sandals.” What I bought: all of those things plus a straw bag, two t-shirts “because they’re basics,” and a pair of earrings I’d never previously considered but suddenly couldn’t live without. Progress, not perfection.

For online shopping, I’ve learned to create wishlists ahead of time so I can quickly check what’s gone on sale rather than falling down a rabbit hole of browsing. Most sites let you see when items from your wishlist are discounted, which feels like getting a little ping of dopamine directly to your brain. I also keep a document of measurements for things like my favorite jeans and tops to compare against online size guides, having learned the hard way that a Medium at one shop is wildly different from a Medium at another. Nothing kills the sale-shopping buzz quite like paying for return shipping.

One final tip I’ve gleaned from years in the fashion trenches: bank holiday Monday itself can sometimes yield the deepest discounts as retailers get desperate to clear stock before the weekend ends. It’s a gamble—your size might be gone—but if you’re not after something specific, the additional reductions can be substantial. Two years ago, I walked into a high-end boutique at 4 PM on bank holiday Monday and found they’d just slashed their sale prices by an additional 20%. The assistant was literally still putting the new tags on. It felt like stumbling into a sample sale without having to queue at dawn.

So as this bank holiday approaches and you find yourself tempted by the siren call of percentage-off emails flooding your inbox, remember: strategic is better than frenzied, trying things on is non-negotiable, and sometimes the best purchase is the one you walk away from. Unless it’s cashmere at 70% off, in which case all rules are suspended and you should buy two.

And if you spot me speed-walking through Liberty on Saturday morning with the focused expression of someone on a mission, just know I’ve been planning my route since they sent the “preview our sale” email three days ago. This isn’t amateur hour—it’s bank holiday shopping, and I’m here to win.

I bought my first “investment piece” when I was 24, fresh out of university and working on a salary that barely covered London rent and my deeply unfortunate Pinot Grigio habit. It was a wool coat from Jigsaw that cost £280, which might as well have been £28,000 given my financial situation at the time. I remember standing in the changing room, staring at my reflection and trying to justify the purchase through increasingly creative mathematics. “If I wear it every day for four months, that’s like… £2 per wear? £1.50 if I include autumn? Practically paying me to take it at that point!”

My flatmate Imani found me still there twenty minutes later, trapped in a paralysis of indecision. “Just buy the bloody coat,” she said. “You’ll have it forever, and you live in a country where it rains nine months of the year. It’s not a luxury, it’s infrastructure.”

Infrastructure. I’ve thought about that word a lot since then, especially when contemplating expensive clothing purchases. In architecture, you don’t skimp on foundations. In a city, you don’t cut corners on bridges and water systems. And in a British wardrobe, certain pieces form the essential infrastructure around which everything else functions.

Eight years later, I still have that coat. The lining has been repaired once, the buttons replaced, but the wool itself looks as good as the day I bought it. When I calculate the cost-per-wear now, it’s down to pennies. More importantly, it’s kept me warm and relatively dry through countless winters, making the trek to early morning meetings and late-night events marginally less dreadful. Imani was right—not a luxury, but essential infrastructure.

British autumn and winter are uniquely challenging seasons to dress for. It’s not just the cold, though that’s certainly a factor. It’s the damp that seeps into your bones, the sudden downpours that appear from nowhere, the wind that renders umbrellas useless decorative items, and the peculiar ability of our weather to deliver all four seasons in a single afternoon. Our climate demands specific pieces that perform specific functions, and these are precisely the items worth spending more on.

So which autumn/winter staples actually justify the investment? Where should you allocate your budget when the leaves start turning and the heating bills start climbing? After years of trial, error, and standing at bus stops questioning my life choices, I’ve identified the pieces that genuinely earn their keep in a British cold-weather wardrobe.

Let’s start with the obvious: a proper coat. Not a fashion coat, not something chosen solely for its silhouette or because it was featured in someone’s autumn editorial. A proper, technical, designed-for-function coat. The specifics depend on your lifestyle—city dwellers need different features than those in rural areas—but certain elements are non-negotiable: water resistance (not necessarily full waterproofing, but something that won’t immediately surrender to drizzle), wind protection, and enough weight to provide actual warmth.

For city life, where you’re dashing between heated buildings and public transport, a wool coat with a high wool percentage is hard to beat. Pure wool naturally repels light rain, offers excellent insulation even when damp, and can look smart enough for work while still functioning on weekends. The key is checking the composition—anything less than 70% wool will not perform well in genuinely cold conditions. Those appealing £89 “wool-blend” coats on the high street often contain as little as 20% wool, with the rest being polyester, which explains why they look bobbly and sad by January.

Brands worth investigating include Jigsaw (still going strong), Toast, Reiss on the higher end, and Marks & Spencer’s Autograph line for more accessible options. Look for double-faced wool for extra warmth without bulk, a length that at least covers your bum (crucial for waiting at bus stops), and design details like storm flaps over zips or buttons and a collar that can be turned up against the wind.

If you’re in a rural area or regularly face serious rain, consider a proper technical coat instead. Brands like Barbour, Fjällräven, and Finisterre make waterproof or waxed options that perform brilliantly in genuinely foul weather while still looking presentable enough for non-hiking scenarios. Yes, they’re expensive—a good Barbour waxed jacket starts around £200—but they’ll last decades with proper care. My friend’s mother still wears the Barbour she bought in 1987, rewaxed regularly and now bearing the beautiful patina that only comes from years of use.

For those in-between days that define British autumn, when it’s too warm for a full coat but too cool for just a sweater, a good quality gilet is worth its weight in gold. Uniqlo’s Ultra Light Down versions are surprisingly effective for their price point (around £60), but if you can stretch to it, brands like Patagonia make versions that will genuinely last years. Look for one that’s slim enough to layer under a coat when winter proper arrives but substantial enough to keep your core warm on its own.

Next on the investment list: waterproof footwear that doesn’t look like you’re about to lead a polar expedition. Nothing undermines an otherwise good outfit faster than soaking wet feet, and nothing ruins a perfectly good pair of leather shoes faster than repeated drenching. The solution isn’t necessarily traditional Wellington boots (though every British wardrobe should include a pair for truly apocalyptic conditions). Instead, look for leather boots with Goodyear welted soles, which create a water-resistant seal between the upper and the sole.

Brands like Grenson, Crockett & Jones, and Tricker’s make styles that will last decades with proper care, though they come with corresponding price tags (expect to pay £250-400). More accessible options include Dr. Martens (their Made in England line is notably better quality than the standard range) and selected Clarks styles. The investment isn’t just in staying dry—well-made boots can be resoled multiple times, making them genuinely lifetime purchases if you care for the leather properly.

For women, a waterproof chelsea boot is perhaps the most versatile wet weather option. Dubarry and Penelope Chilvers make elegant versions that work with everything from jeans to dresses with tights. I invested in a pair of Dubarry’s four years ago, and they’ve seen me through countless rainy commutes while still looking smart enough for office meetings.

Now, knitwear—perhaps the most essential category of all for British winters. Cheap jumpers are a false economy in our climate. They pill almost immediately, lose their shape after a few wears, and provide minimal actual warmth. But a well-chosen, quality knit will keep you warm, maintain its appearance, and often look better with age.

Merino is the gateway luxury wool—softer than regular sheep’s wool and less likely to irritate sensitive skin. It’s ideal for layering close to the body and works well in autumn before the deep chill sets in. Brands like John Smedley specialize in fine merino knitwear that, while expensive (£150-200 for a basic jumper), will last for years with proper care. For more accessible options, Uniqlo’s merino range offers good quality for around £30-40, though don’t expect the same longevity.

For serious winter warmth, lambswool and Shetland wool provide more substantial insulation. Traditionally seen as rather itchy options, modern processing has made good lambswool much more comfortable while maintaining its excellent thermal properties. Community Clothing offers excellent British-made lambswool jumpers for around £95-120, while brands like &Daughter specialize in traditional knits with contemporary cuts.

Cashmere, of course, is the ultimate luxury winter fibre—extraordinarily soft and surprisingly warm despite its light weight. The issue with cashmere is that its recent democratization has led to quality compromises. That £89 “pure cashmere” jumper on the high street is likely made from shorter fibres that will pill almost immediately. If you’re investing in cashmere, you need to be realistic about the price point for quality—expect to pay at least £150-200 for a jumper that will actually last.

Brands worth investigating include Brora, N.Peal, and Eric Bompard on the higher end. If that’s beyond your budget, consider cashmere blends instead—wool/cashmere mixes offer some of the softness with much better durability at lower price points. And always check the ply—two-ply cashmere is standard but relatively thin, while three and four-ply offer significantly more warmth and longevity.

The unsung hero of British winter dressing is, without doubt, proper thermal layers. Nothing fancy, nothing fashionable, just technical base layers that actually keep you warm. Brands like Uniqlo (again, their HEATTECH range is genuinely effective), Marks & Spencer’s Heatgen line, and Icebreaker for merino options make pieces that can be worn under regular clothes without adding bulk but providing significant additional warmth. I’ve got HEATTECH tops I’ve been wearing for over five years that still perform perfectly and cost less than £15 each—possibly the best value winter investment going.

For those who walk or cycle significant distances, technical trousers are worth considering. Not the obvious hiking variety, but brands like Finisterre, Howies, and even Uniqlo make smart-looking trousers with technical fabrics that repel light rain, block wind, and often include subtle stretch for comfort. They look like normal trousers but perform significantly better in bad weather.

A quality scarf is another investment that pays dividends throughout the British winter. Pure wool or cashmere options from brands like Johnstons of Elgin offer genuine warmth rather than just decorative potential. Look for a generous size that can be wrapped multiple times—those skinny fashion scarves are about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a genuine British winter.

Let’s talk about the humble umbrella. I spent years buying £5 emergency umbrellas from corner shops, only to watch them implode in the first serious gust of wind, their metal skeletons twisted beyond recognition. Finally, I invested in a proper Fulton umbrella (the brand the royal family uses, which seemed a decent endorsement given how much time they spend standing around outdoors). The difference is remarkable—it’s survived storm conditions that destroyed every other umbrella around me, has never turned inside out, and the mechanism still works perfectly after three years of regular use. At around £30, it’s not even particularly expensive, just properly engineered.

Gloves are not to be underestimated in a British winter. Leather ones provide much better wind protection than knitted options, though a knitted liner inside leather gives you the best of both worlds. For those who need to use touchscreens (which is essentially everyone these days), brands like All Saints and Dents make leather gloves with conductive fingertips that actually work, eliminating the need to expose your hands to freezing conditions just to check Google Maps.

The item I perhaps never expected to become a winter investment piece is a serious hot water bottle. Not the sad, thin rubber things that cool down after an hour, but a properly insulated version with a thick cover that stays warm through the night. With heating costs what they are, this humble item has become essential infrastructure for surviving January and February without bankruptcy. The YuYu Bottle, which is longer than traditional designs and can be tied around your waist or shoulders, is particularly effective, while The White Company makes luxurious cashmere-covered versions that make excellent gifts.

Speaking of insulation, let’s take a moment to consider the home side of winter investment. A heavyweight dressing gown is practically a second coat during British winters—I work from home in mine on particularly cold days, shameful but true. The classic wool-lined waxed jacket of home apparel is the toweling robe from brands like The White Company or Ralph Lauren, but there are excellent options at lower price points from Marks & Spencer and even Dunelm.

The key with all these investments is considering your specific lifestyle and needs. If you drive everywhere, waterproof footwear might be less crucial than if you commute by public transport. If you work in a consistently overheated office, layering pieces become more important than one heavy jumper. If you live in a modern, well-insulated flat, your needs will differ from someone in a drafty Victorian conversion with temperamental heating.

My own winter investment strategy has evolved based on painful experience. After one too many mornings standing at rain-lashed bus stops with water seeping through supposedly waterproof boots, I prioritized proper footwear. After endless frustration with beautiful but functionally useless lightweight coats, I invested in technical outerwear that actually performs in British conditions. And after years of shivering in stylish but ineffective fine knits, I finally embraced the transformative power of proper wool jumpers and technical base layers.

The financial calculation is simple but compelling: buying one £200 coat that lasts eight years is significantly cheaper than buying a new £70 coat every winter when the previous one inevitably falls apart. The same logic applies across all these categories—initial investment versus repeated replacement of inferior items.

There’s an environmental calculation too, of course. Fast fashion’s impact is well documented, and nowhere is the waste more evident than in seasonal items treated as disposable. Quality pieces that last multiple seasons create significantly less environmental impact over time, even accounting for their production.

I still have moments of weakness when faced with trend-led autumn pieces at tempting price points. That leopard print coat that’s everywhere this season? The chunky, colorful knit that’s on every Instagram feed? They call to me too. But I’ve learned to ask myself a simple question: “Will this still be serving me next winter? And the one after that?” If the answer is no, it’s not an investment—it’s just expensive fast fashion.

So as the leaves turn and the heating clicks on, consider where your autumn/winter budget might be best allocated. What are the gaps in your cold-weather infrastructure? Which pieces would genuinely improve your daily experience of British autumn and winter? Those are your true investment opportunities—not just in style, but in genuine quality of life during our longest, most challenging seasons.

Last Tuesday morning, I left my flat in a light sweater and trench coat, feeling rather smug about my seasonally appropriate outfit choice. By noon, I was sweating profusely in surprisingly intense sunshine, the trench coat stuffed unceremoniously into my tote bag. At 4 PM, the heavens opened without warning, and I huddled in a shop doorway, coat back on but now soaked through. By the time I headed home, temperatures had dropped so dramatically I was genuinely contemplating buying gloves from the nearest Boots. Four distinct seasons, one increasingly disheveled fashion editor, and a day that perfectly encapsulated the unique meteorological torment that is British autumn.

Our weather’s chronic identity crisis is a national in-joke at this point. We’ve built an entire small-talk culture around it. But as someone who’s expected to look somewhat put-together for work events regardless of what biblical weather patterns emerge throughout the day, I’ve had to develop strategies beyond carrying an emergency umbrella (though obviously, I do that too).

The autumn layering conundrum hit me particularly hard when I first moved to London from Sheffield for university. Back home, my solution was simple—just wear a proper coat and accept that you’ll probably be too hot indoors and too cold outdoors, but at least consistently uncomfortable. London life, with its mix of overheated tube journeys, frigid office air conditioning, unexpected downpours, and the general requirement to look like you haven’t just been through a meteorological war zone by the time you arrive at meetings, demanded more sophisticated solutions.

My first attempt at autumn layering was what I now recognize as Classic Beginner’s Error—simply wearing as many items as possible simultaneously. I’d pile on thin layers like I was preparing for an Arctic expedition, not a day that might hit 18 degrees by lunchtime. The result was perpetual mild dampness (attractive), restricted movement, and the constant social awkwardness of having to remove several items everywhere I went, dropping scarves and cardigans on questionably clean floors while muttering apologies.

The turning point came during my second London autumn, when I found myself at an important industry event, having traveled there in pouring rain that gave way to unexpected sunshine. I arrived looking like I’d gone swimming in my clothes, with makeup sliding dramatically down my face. Standing in the venue bathroom trying to dry my shirt under the hand dryer while simultaneously fixing my mascara remains one of my most humbling professional moments. As I stood there, the fashion features director of a major magazine walked in, looking immaculate despite having presumably navigated the same weather. “British autumn,” she said sympathetically, before proceeding to unpack a tiny zip-up pouch from her handbag containing what appeared to be an entire emergency weather kit—mini umbrella, fold-up ballet flats, travel-size makeup, and even a small microfiber cloth. It was like watching Mary Poppins unpack her carpet bag.

“The secret,” she told me while I continued my pathetic hand-dryer maneuvers, “is strategic layers, not maximum layers.” That chance bathroom encounter genuinely changed my approach to dressing in this country’s most schizophrenic season.

Strategic layering, I’ve since learned, is both a science and an art form. At its core are several principles that have saved me from countless other hand-dryer incidents.

First, the foundation layer should be something that looks complete on its own during unexpected hot spells but pairs well with additional pieces. My go-to is usually a simple silk blouse or a fine merino wool jumper—both temperature-regulating natural fibers that don’t immediately broadcast sweat stains to the world (a crucial consideration). Cotton is lovely until you’ve been caught in rain and have to sit through a two-hour meeting with it plastered to your skin like cling film.

The mid-layer is where the magic happens. This should be something substantial enough to provide actual warmth but not so bulky it can’t fit under an outer layer. A fitted cardigan, lightweight jacket, or my personal favorite—the gilet, fashion’s most unfairly maligned item. Yes, I was once dismissive of them as something exclusively for countryside dog walkers and finance bros, but a well-cut gilet in a neutral shade provides crucial core warmth while leaving arms unencumbered. This is particularly valuable when transitioning between the Arctic conditions of outside and the tropical microclimate of the Central line.

The outer layer needs to accomplish several contradictory functions simultaneously: protect from rain, not be too hot, fold up relatively small, and still look stylish. After years of trial and error (and one disastrous white coat incident during an especially muddy fashion week), I’ve concluded that the ideal outer layer is a water-resistant trench in a mid-tone neutral. Light enough for milder days, substantial enough for proper cold snaps when layered correctly, and crucially, doesn’t show rain splotches like darker colors or dirt like lighter ones. The belt creates a silhouette even when wearing multiple layers underneath, preventing the “ambulatory duvet” look I was previously known for.

Accessories are the final frontier of autumn layering strategy. A lightweight scarf can be worn traditionally around the neck, used as a makeshift head covering during surprise showers, or even repurposed as a shawl in overzealously air-conditioned environments. I keep one rolled in my bag at all times from September through November. It’s saved me from pneumonia at least three times and doubled as an emergency outfit refresher more times than I care to admit.

Footwear presents perhaps the greatest autumn challenge, as anyone who’s ever spent a day with sodden feet can attest. The dream scenario is waterproof shoes that don’t look waterproof, a category that has thankfully expanded beyond wellies and hiking boots in recent years. My current rotation includes leather Chelsea boots treated with protective spray, loafers in a waterproof finish that genuinely don’t look like they belong on a fishing trip, and for dressier days, block-heeled ankle boots that can handle puddles without sending me skating across wet pavements.

The true layering masters I’ve observed over years of fashion industry people-watching have a couple of additional tricks. One editor I know swears by dresses over trousers—the dress providing a complete look for unexpected warm spells, the trousers underneath ready for temperature drops. A stylist friend always wears a thin thermal top underneath everything from September onwards, invisible but providing crucial warmth without bulk. Another has all her autumn coats tailored with slightly wider arms specifically to accommodate extra layers without creating the Michelin Man effect.

But the most sophisticated autumn dressers I know all subscribe to the capsule approach—a small selection of pieces specifically chosen to work together in multiple combinations depending on the day’s meteorological mood swings. This prevents the frantic morning wardrobe rummaging I’m still occasionally guilty of, trying to assemble an outfit with the weather app open, attempting to interpret exactly what a 60% chance of precipitation actually means for my footwear choices.

My own autumn capsule has evolved through years of trial, error, and at least three memorable outfit disasters (including the Great Suede Shoe Incident of 2018, which we shall never speak of again). It now includes two weights of merino jumpers, several silk blouses, a waterproof trench, a heavier wool coat for genuine cold snaps, that controversial-but-essential gilet, and legwear options ranging from lighter trousers to heavyweight denim to thick tights with skirts. Everything can be mixed and matched, layered or worn alone, and crucially, nothing is precious enough that I’ll cry if it gets caught in unexpected hail (a very real consideration in our meteorological lottery).

The payoff for mastering this very British skill isn’t just practical—it’s psychological. There’s something deeply satisfying about moving smoothly through a day that throws everything from bright sunshine to sideways rain at you without ever feeling uncomfortably hot, uncomfortably cold, or uncomfortably wet. It creates a sense of control in the face of nature’s most capricious season, a quiet confidence that comes from being prepared for anything.

This confidence was tested last autumn when I had back-to-back appointments across London on a day featuring what the BBC weather presenter cheerfully described as “very changeable conditions.” By this point, I’d refined my system to the point where my tote contained a lightweight packable raincoat, foldable ballet flats, and a cashmere scarf, while I wore a silk-blend thermal top under a merino jumper, with water-resistant ankle boots. As predicted, the weather cycled through about six different conditions during the day, including one downpour so intense it actually bounced back up from the pavement.

I arrived at my final meeting of the day—with a notoriously intimidating editor-in-chief—to find her looking uncharacteristically frazzled, having been caught in the same downpour. Meanwhile, I’d seamlessly transitioned through my layers, adapting to each weather shift without missing a beat. “How are you so dry?” she asked accusingly as we sat down. “Lots of practice,” I replied, feeling for possibly the first time in our professional relationship that I had the upper hand. Autumn layering mastery: better than any power suit for confidence boosting.

Of course, there are still autumn days that defeat even the most strategic layerer. The “atmospheric river” that descended last October couldn’t be conquered by even the most technical fabrics. Sometimes you just have to accept that British weather will humble you occasionally, regardless of preparation. During one memorable fashion week downpour, I witnessed Anna Wintour herself looking slightly damp around the edges—perhaps the most democratizing moment in fashion history.

As I write this, I’m looking out at skies that have cycled through bright blue, ominous grey, and curious yellowish within the past hour. My outfit today includes a light cashmere jumper that can stand alone if the sun decides to make a proper appearance, slim trousers that won’t drag in puddles, ankle boots treated with enough waterproofing product to survive a small flood, and a trench coat currently draped over my chair. My tote contains an umbrella, a packable rain hat I pretend is much chicer than it actually is, and a lightweight scarf in case the office air conditioning wages its usual war against human comfort levels.

Am I slightly over-prepared? Perhaps. But in a country where we’ve collectively agreed that discussing the weather isn’t small talk but rather vital strategic information exchange, proper layering isn’t just about fashion—it’s about survival. Or at the very least, about not having to dry your shirt under a hand dryer while a fashion director watches sympathetically.

So as we navigate this season of meteorological chaos, I raise my travel umbrella to fellow strategic layerers across Britain—silently acknowledging each other as we smoothly transition between layers while tourists around us get caught in downpours wearing entirely inappropriate footwear. We may not be able to control the weather, but we can certainly control how prepared we are for its mood swings. And in typical British fashion, that quiet preparedness, that stiff upper lip in the face of horizontal rain, feels like its own small victory.

The first real autumn day in Britain arrives like an old friend who’s been away too long. You know the one—that morning when you step outside and there’s this specific crispness to the air that wasn’t there yesterday, and suddenly your lightweight cotton jacket feels about as substantial as tissue paper. Last Tuesday was that day for me. I’d been ignoring the calendar (still wearing sandals in mid-September, the eternal optimist), when the weather gods basically laughed in my face and sent a blast of wind that nearly took my coffee cup right out of my hand. Right, then. Message received.

Autumn in Britain isn’t just a season—it’s practically our national aesthetic. Americans call it fall, but that feels too simplistic for what happens here. It’s not just leaves dropping from trees; it’s this gradual, multi-sensory shift that demands a complete wardrobe recalibration. And honestly? It’s our sartorial sweet spot. Nobody does autumn dressing quite like us Brits, because—let’s face it—we’ve had centuries of practice dealing with weather that can’t make up its bloody mind.

Last year I made the catastrophic error of packing away my summer clothes too early, only for us to have that freakish October heatwave. (Remember that? 25 degrees in mid-October? I was sweating on the Tube in a wool jumper while mentally cursing the storage boxes under my bed containing all my linen.) The year before, I got caught in a downpour wearing suede boots I’d just splurged on. They’ve never quite recovered, poor things. They’ve got this sort of… crinkled texture now that I’ve convinced myself is “character” rather than “ruined.”

This year, I’m determined to get it right. My mate Priya says I approach seasonal dressing like it’s some sort of military operation, but she’s the one who ended up buying an emergency scarf from Primark last November when the temperature dropped and she was still dressed for early September. Not that I reminded her of this during our coffee last week or anything. (I absolutely did.)

The key to British autumn dressing is understanding our peculiar relationship with practicality. We’re a nation that will simultaneously complain about the weather while being completely unprepared for it. Like my colleague Mia, who wears these gorgeous open-toed mules well into October “because they go with my outfit” and then acts surprised when her feet are freezing. But there’s a middle ground between climate denial and giving up entirely, and that’s where the magic happens.

First off, we need to talk about layers. Not just any layers—strategic layers. This isn’t the 2000s where we thought layering meant putting a long-sleeved t-shirt under a short-sleeved one (God, what were we thinking?). British autumnal layering is an art form, and it’s one that’s saved me from countless sweaty/freezing office scenarios.

The base layer is crucial—something breathable that won’t make you sweat the minute you step onto public transport. I’ve been living in these slightly oversized cotton t-shirts from Sunspel lately. Yes, they’re basic, and yes, they’re pricier than your standard tee, but they’re cut just right—not too clingy, not too boxy. I bought one in grey about three years ago and it’s still holding its shape after approximately 600 washes. When the cost-per-wear works out to pennies, you can justify it. (At least that’s what I tell my dad whenever he asks why I would “spend that much on a plain t-shirt.” The same man who has owned the same jumper since 1987 and sees no issue with this.)

Over that goes what I call the “mood layer”—the bit that actually communicates your personal style. For me, it’s usually an oversized shirt (current favorite is this ridiculously soft brushed cotton number from Toast that’s technically a men’s shirt but works perfectly for that slouchy look) or a lightweight cashmere jumper if it’s properly nippy. My friend Tom sticks to vintage workwear jackets year-round, just varying the weight. He’s got about 15 blue chore jackets that look identical to the untrained eye but are apparently wildly different thicknesses for specific temperature ranges. It’s so nerdy I can’t help but admire the commitment.

The third layer is the heavy lifter, the workhorse. This is your proper coat/jacket situation, and it needs to be something you won’t mind being seen in every single day for at least three months. I used to try and rotate multiple jackets until I realized I was spending way too much mental energy on this. Now I invest in one really good option each year. This autumn it’s a slightly oversized wool-blend coat in this absolutely gorgeous moss green that I had to hunt down across six different Cos stores because it kept selling out online. Sometimes I just stare at it hanging on my door when I wake up. (Is that weird? Probably weird. But I don’t care.)

The true genius of British autumn dressing lies in the accessories, though. This is where you can make even the most practical outfit feel intentional rather than just… necessary. A stunning scarf can elevate even the most basic outfit from “I dressed for the weather” to “I actually thought about this.” My mum passed down this incredibly soft lambswool scarf in a deep burgundy that goes with absolutely everything, and it’s become something of a personal trademark. Last week a colleague actually said “Oh, the scarf’s out! It must be properly autumn now,” which made me feel simultaneously pleased and slightly predictable.

Texture is the other not-so-secret weapon in the British autumn arsenal. When the colour palette naturally shifts to those earthy, more subdued tones, texture is what keeps things interesting. My flatmate Hannah is the absolute queen of this—she’ll wear all black, but it’ll be a black silk camisole with a black chunky knit cardigan over black wool trousers with these black suede boots, and somehow it looks magnificent rather than like she’s off to a funeral. Meanwhile, I’ve been experimenting with corduroy again after years of associating it with my primary school uniform. Turns out grown-up corduroy is actually quite lovely when it’s not in the form of scratchy bottle-green pinafores.

Footwear is where many autumn outfits live or die, especially in Britain where you might start the day with clear skies and end it splashing through puddles. I used to be that person stubbornly clinging to impractical shoes then complaining about wet feet—now I’ve finally seen the light. After years of trial and error (and many, many blisters), I’ve settled on three autumn footwear options: chunky loafers with thick socks for dry days, Chelsea boots for iffy weather, and these incredibly unsexy but completely life-changing waterproof hiking boots for when it’s properly chucking it down. The hiking boots were a hard sell to myself—they’re not exactly the height of fashion—but after wearing them through Storm Callum a couple of years back and being the only person in the office with dry feet, I’ve never looked back.

The thing about British autumn dressing that I think we sometimes forget is that it’s not just about practicality—there’s a real joy to it, too. That first day when it’s finally cold enough to wear your favorite jumper again? Unbeatable. The satisfaction of being properly dressed for the weather when the sky suddenly opens? Chef’s kiss. It’s like the sartorial equivalent of a really good cup of tea on a miserable day—it just makes everything more bearable.

Last autumn, I got stuck in this properly biblical downpour on my way to meet my mum for lunch. I’d checked the forecast (not always a given for me) and was actually prepared for once—proper raincoat, waterproof boots, tiny umbrella tucked in my bag. I arrived at the restaurant completely dry while people around me were doing that rain-shake thing like wet dogs. Mum looked at me with this expression of complete shock. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?” she asked. Fair enough—this is the woman who once had to bring me an emergency pair of shoes to school because I’d worn white canvas trainers on a day with 90% chance of rain.

If there’s one piece of advice I’ve learned from years of getting British autumn dressing wrong before (occasionally) getting it right, it’s this: buy the practical thing before you need it. That waterproof spray for your suede boots? Get it before the first rain. That slightly boring but incredibly useful thermal layer? Buy it while it’s still warm outside. Because the minute the weather turns, so does everyone else in Britain, and suddenly there’s not a decent winter coat to be found anywhere.

Oh, and invest in a really good umbrella. Not one of those flimsy things that turns inside out if someone three streets away sneezes, but a proper sturdy one that won’t betray you mid-downpour. Mine’s this slightly extravagant Liberty print one that my ex bought me years ago—possibly the only good thing to come out of that relationship, frankly.

So here’s to British autumn, with its moody skies and golden light and sudden gusts that blow your carefully arranged layers into disarray. It might be temperamental and occasionally downright hostile, but clothing-wise? It’s our time to shine. Or at least, to look really good while complaining about the weather. Because if there’s anything more British than our layering techniques, it’s our ability to turn weather-chat into an Olympic sport.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check if my leather boots need re-waterproofing. Again. The pavements might still be dry, but we all know it’s just a matter of time.

I’ll admit it—I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to supermarket fashion. There, I said it. I’ve spent too many years in the hallowed halls of fashion weeks and designer showrooms to feel entirely comfortable admitting that I’ve been absolutely obsessed with a £15 ribbed vest from George at Asda for the past three months. But here we are.

It all started innocently enough. I was doing a weekly shop, racing through the aisles in that frantic Friday evening way, when I took a shortcut through the clothing section and literally stopped dead in my tracks. There it was—a simple, ribbed, high-neck sleeveless top in the most perfect shade of butter-wouldn’t-melt cream. A woman was holding it up, examining the seams with the critical eye of someone who knows their way around garment construction. Our eyes met. We both knew.

“It’s all over TikTok,” she said, like she was passing on classified information. “My daughter made me come get one.”

At this point, I should confess that my relationship with TikTok is complicated at best. I downloaded it during lockdown, like everyone else, convinced I would finally learn how to dance or make that whipped coffee nonsense. Instead, I fell down a rabbit hole of fashion TikTok that has consumed approximately 37% of my brain capacity ever since. Fashion editors aren’t supposed to admit that we get trend tips from teenagers making videos in their bedrooms, but God help me, some of these Gen Z fashionistas have a better eye than people I’ve sat next to at Balenciaga shows.

So when this complete stranger in Asda invoked TikTok, I wasn’t surprised so much as annoyed at myself for being late to the party. I grabbed one in my size (they had exactly two left), threw it in my trolley next to the baked beans and off-brand cereal, and tried to look casual about it. Like I regularly bought supermarket clothing. Like this wasn’t a private crisis of fashion identity.

The vest in question—officially called the “Ribbed High Neck Tank” but known across British TikTok simply as “that Asda top”—is nothing revolutionary at first glance. It’s sleeveless, high-necked, slightly cropped but not belly-button exposing, and made from a substantial ribbed cotton that feels far more expensive than its price tag suggests. It comes in cream, black, chocolate brown, and a sage green that sold out so quickly I’ve never actually seen it in real life, though I’m told it exists.

What makes it special is the cut—slightly architectural, with a neckline that sits perfectly between casual and smart, and a length that works as well with high-waisted anything as it does layered over a fitted long-sleeve top. It’s the kind of basic piece that fashion people are always banging on about as the “foundation of a good wardrobe,” except it costs less than a middling bottle of wine.

When I got it home and tried it on properly (because of course I’d already sneakily pulled it over my head in the Asda changing rooms, weekly shop abandoned outside), I understood immediately why it had gone viral. It looked expensive. Like, “this old thing? It’s just The Row” expensive. The seams lay flat, the material held its shape, and the cut did that magical thing where it made my shoulders look elegant rather than like I’d spent too many years hunched over a laptop.

I wore it the next day to a breakfast meeting with a PR from a luxury brand I won’t name (but think Italian, think expensive). “Love that top,” she said, coffee in hand. “Is it from the new COS collection?”

I nearly choked on my avocado toast. “It’s George at Asda,” I replied, watching her eyes widen just a fraction before she composed herself. “Fifteen quid.”

“No way,” she said, reaching over to feel the fabric between her fingers. “My niece has been trying to get one for weeks. They’re always sold out.”

And that’s when I realized that this wasn’t just a random TikTok blip—this was a genuine phenomenon. The top had bridged the generation gap, creating weird little moments of connection between fashion-conscious aunties and their Gen Z nieces. Between me, a fashion editor who once wrote an entire feature about the perfect weight of Japanese denim, and the lovely checkout woman at my local Asda who had three in different colors and wore one with a gold chain necklace that made it look like it cost ten times the price.

I went home and finally did what I should have done weeks ago—I opened TikTok and searched “George Asda vest.” Over 15 million views. Videos of teenagers styling it with baggy jeans and Doc Martens. Middle-aged women pairing it with tailored trousers and statement earrings. A particularly fabulous drag queen using it as a base layer under a sequined jacket. Haul videos of people triumphantly finding one after weeks of searching. Others lamenting that their local Asda only had size 22 left.

The comments were a masterclass in British enthusiasm:

“GET TO ASDA GIRLIES THIS IS NOT A DRILL”
“Wore mine to work and my boss bought one on her lunch break lol”
“Can’t believe I’m fighting with teenagers for clothes in Asda at my big age”

From what I could piece together, the vest had gone viral for a perfect storm of reasons: the price (obviously), the quality (surprisingly good), the versatility (endless outfit possibilities), and that elusive quality that makes certain items blow up—it photographed really, really well. The slightly curved high neckline framed the face beautifully, the ribbed texture added interest to otherwise simple outfits, and the thick fabric meant no visible bra situations—practical considerations that transcended fashion tribes.

I found myself reaching for it constantly—with wide-leg jeans and a blazer for work, with a silky midi skirt for dinner, under slip dresses when the evening turned chilly. I even wore it to a fashion week event with vintage Levi’s and heels, where a street style photographer took my picture. The resulting Instagram post got more likes than anything I’d posted in months, and at least fifteen messages asking where the top was from.

Each time I admitted its origin, there was the same reaction—surprise, followed by determination to get one themselves. One fashion assistant told me she’d been to four different Asdas trying to find her size. “My boyfriend thinks I’ve gone mad,” she texted. “He’s like, ‘babe, it’s just a vest top.’”

But is it? In my fifteen years writing about fashion, I’ve developed a theory that certain garments capture a moment in time—not just the obvious statement pieces, but often the quieter basics that somehow define an era. The skinny jeans and ballet flats of the late 2000s. The Breton top and straight-leg denim of the mid-2010s. The oversized blazer with cycling shorts of the late 2010s (a look I tried exactly once before accepting it wasn’t for me).

This Asda vest feels emblematic of our current fashion moment—where TikTok has democratized trend-setting, where luxury and budget fashion mix freely in the same outfit, and where the cost of living crisis has everyone from teenagers to fashion editors reconsidering where they shop.

Because let’s be honest—we’re all feeling the pinch. In previous eras of economic stress, fashion responded with either flashy escapism (see: the 1980s) or extreme minimalism (the recession-era 1990s). This time feels different. There’s a pragmatism to current trends that’s refreshing—a focus on versatility, longevity, and yes, affordability, without sacrificing style.

The George vest phenomenon also gives me hope about the future of high street fashion. For years, we’ve talked about the death of the British high street, the rise of ultra-fast fashion with its questionable ethics, and the increasingly hollow middle ground between luxury and disposable clothing. But here’s a proper high street retailer—one attached to a supermarket, no less—creating something so right that it generates genuine excitement across age groups and style tribes.

Last week, I was back in Asda (I needed to replenish my chocolate supply, don’t judge me) and noticed they’d massively restocked the vests. A group of women—ranging from their late teens to what looked like their grandmother—were all selecting different colors, holding them up against each other for opinions. They were laughing, swapping sizing advice, creating an impromptu community around a rack of £15 tops.

“They’ve finally got the sage back in,” one of them told me conspiratorially when she caught me watching. “Better grab one while you can.”

I didn’t tell her I already had two, because that would seem excessive. Instead, I smiled, nodded in thanks, and found myself picking up the sage green. For research purposes, obviously. Because no matter how many years I’ve spent in this industry, no matter how many luxury press days I attend or designer interviews I conduct, there’s something undeniably thrilling about finding a genuine bargain that actually works.

So yes, I’m a fashion editor who gets excited about George at Asda. Sue me. In a world where designer T-shirts can cost three figures and Instagram makes us feel like we need a new outfit for every post, there’s something wonderfully subversive about a supermarket vest top becoming the most sought-after item of the season. It’s fashion democracy in action—and I’m here for it, even if it means I now automatically detour through the clothing section every time I pop in for milk.

And if you’re wondering—yes, the sage green is just as good as everyone says. But you didn’t hear that from me.