Fashion & wardrobe.

The jumpsuit. White with cobalt-blue Grecian embroidery — a deep V halter, a cut-out waist, and a flippy little hem that moves like a breeze off the Aegean. One piece, one decision, done.

The shoes. Navy espadrille wedges with ankle ties. The height is amazing! I think that I may be the queen of espadrilles too.

The scent. J'adore by the house of Dior — golden, floral, absolutely made for a day like this.

The face. I never wear makeup except on Sundays for church. I like a fresh face — and my skin is absolutely glowing.

The company. Benjamin has made an entrance in my pictures, and I love this for us. On this day we walked to the shop, and I took Ntombi to breakfast — she loved it. I can keep fruit down, so that is what I had. Ntombi had carrot cake. Why not! Anyone should be able to eat cake for breakfast.

Can you see the steely determined stare? As if I am starring someone down — like I am double daring someone to say something!

The tee. White cotton with a big Union Jack across the chest — full Geri Halliwell, 1997 BRIT Awards energy. Ginger Spice would approve.

The shorts. Short denim cutoffs, frayed at the hem. It is close to 30 degrees — spring for who? We slipped straight into summer.

The rest. Gold necklace and bracelet, and two pink proteas on the side — because Heritage Day deserves the national flower on set. The tee is my homage to my English roots, worn with pride.

Heritage Day, Braai Day — the majority call it Braai Day, and we barely remember its real name. But it belongs to a country with eleven official languages (twelve now, with South African Sign Language), and Italian, German, English, Portuguese, Jewish, Muslim, Indian and Malay communities who all call it home. We are truly the rainbow nation. We have a steel and a tenacity born out of oppression — and we knew a beautiful people. We never back down from a challenge. We are not afraid.

Happy Heritage Day to my people. History will record our greatness!

The dress. Cream, crochet, floor-length — with the most beautiful rose appliqués sitting on the straps. Crochet in a heatwave is a service to the city: it breathes, and it looks like a holiday.

The shoes. Pink sandals — the pop of colour this ivory needed. Soft, summery, and exactly right for tiles you could fry an egg on.

The accessories. A gold necklace and bracelet doing their quiet, gleaming work. Nothing loud; the roses are the jewellery.

The setting. The patio — wicker furniture, the wood stove, a round mirror, and the crystal chandelier throwing light around like it has nowhere better to be.

It is hot as hell in Jo'burg — and the crochet came out to play. Love today, and do everything you can today to make you happy, because tomorrow is not promised.

The bodysuit. Black, square-necked, sculpted. Under a pinstripe capri it is pure city — clean lines, zero fuss, all attitude.

The capris. Black pinstripe with the widest waistband belt and a silver buckle doing the talking. Cropped flares that move like they belong on a Manhattan sidewalk.

The shoes and the hat. Hot-pink mule heels giving exactly the pop of colour the look needed, and a silver sequinned baker-boy cap that is simply incredible. Wowzers.

The scent. Fantasy by the one and only Britney Spears. Love me some Britney — "Piece of Me" playing in the background, and it suits.

I could be from the Bronx or Brooklyn — even though I would love to be from the Upper East Side. But I am a Jozi girl, and Mzansi runs through my veins.

The dress. Emerald green, ruched and ruffled, in a material so beautiful it borders on the ridiculous. Some dresses are clothes; this one is an occasion.

The shoes. Ignore the bulldog photobombing every frame — focus on the shoes. Blush shells blooming over the toes, a heel that goes on forever. Wow.

The scent. Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue — loved since my Red Square days among the perfumes and cosmetics, and so perfect for summer. Beach optional; it still works.

I felt very Rome/Paris today. When I was young I posed in shop windows like a mannequin — pose hard, dear reader. I still do.

The tee. Orange, with bold blue lettering that says exactly what it says. The aunties may clutch their pearls; I will be over here being comfortable and honest.

The leggings. Leopard, head-to-toe attitude. Animal print is a neutral, and I will not be taking questions.

The shoes. White Kappa sneakers with the gum sole and that beautiful logo. Bucket-list lift footwear is officially decided — nobody hoists me in heels.

The accessories. Stacked gold chains, a white watch, pink nails, and a MacBook balanced on one knee like it is a Louis Vuitton clutch.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner. And nobody puts this gqwegakazi in one either — I am the one.

The jumpsuit. Denim, one piece, zero decisions. When the morning goes sideways, this is the piece that gets me out of the door in seconds — and still looks entirely intentional when I arrive.

The shoes. The perfect espadrille. Worn for the corridors of the vet hospital today, because even fear gets walked in style.

The scent. Ted Baker. Even in a crisis I am still me — his perfumes deserve that slow clap, not just the bags.

He has carried me through every seizure. Today it was my turn to carry him. Hold on for mama, Churchill.

The top. A sleeveless pop-art tank in hot pink, with comic-style faces and bold lettering. It is playful, loud, and exactly the kind of piece Andy Warhol would have approved of. I am a die-hard pop-art fan — slap me upside the head with Warhol any day.

The shorts. Tiny high-waisted denim shorts, rolled at the hem. Casual, a little cheeky, and the perfect foil for a busy top.

The shoes. Baby-pink platform espadrilles — iconic, feminine, and the exact shade of the pink in the tank. Hot-pink toenails peeking out for good measure.

The accessories. A white ceramic watch, slim bracelets, and the confidence of a woman who knows her heritage runs back to Boudicca.

The scent. Iconic Ted Baker. I do not think his perfumes get enough plaudits — he really deserves a slow clap for them, not just the bags, which I am obsessed with by the way.

"I wasn't raised, I was built." — Marie-Antoinette, executed 16 October 1793, Cass's birth date.

The jumpsuit. Cobalt jersey, double straps, an elasticated waist that gathers exactly where it should. Ten years old this year and still the easiest thing in the wardrobe. Good jersey and a good waist seam never date.

The shoes. The perfect espadrille — black suede with a studded ankle strap on a jute platform wedge. A wedge gives you height with a stable base, which is exactly what a body like mine needs. Blue toes to match the blue.

The jewellery. Rose-gold chain, a white ceramic watch and a slim bracelet. Nothing loud — the colour is the statement.

The scent. Tom Ford Lost Cherry, of course. Black cherry and bitter almond on top, turning to Turkish rose, jasmine sambac, tonka and roasted tonka in the dry-down. It is everything.

"I got a lot of hugs and smiles today. And why not — look at me, dammit."

The jumpsuit. One-shoulder, acid-wash denim, cut long and straight to the ankle with a soft distress at the knee. Denim on denim without the effort — it is one piece, so getting dressed took ninety seconds.

The shoes. Clear strappy heels with blue toes underneath. Clear perspex is the great neutral: it disappears and lets the denim do the talking.

The jewellery. Gold watch, gold cross, thin bracelet. Warm metal against cool indigo is the whole trick.

The scent. Tom Ford F'king Fabulous — leather, almond, amber. A deliberate contrast to a denim day.

"My glow-up is returning."

The dress. TPD, pink, sleeveless, with ruching at the side that does all the waist work without trying. It is hot-weather perfect — the kind of dress that stays cool in 28-degree Joburg heat and still looks like an occasion.

The shoes. White Brazilian designer heels, strappy and clean. They are the sort of shoe that makes you stand a little taller even when the paperwork is taking forever.

The scent. Tom Ford F'king Fabulous — and it is, honestly. A leather-floral-amber with a bite. It is not the perfume for the shy corner; it is the perfume for the day you officially reclaim your name.

The setting. My patio at home. I am so proud of the renovations and the changes I have paid for myself. Every tile, every beam, every bit of light is mine. It felt right to take the new-name photo here.

"Went umuhle. When you are South African, you know when you know."

The jeans are Freddy. I love my Freddy stretch jeans — they give you that apple-bottom lift you actually want, they hold their shape all day, and they never sag at the knee. If you buy one pair of jeans this year, make it a pair that does the work for you.

The perfume was Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb — patchouli, tea rose, jasmine and a sweet, unmistakable trail. Bold for a rainy morning, but Flowerbomb is never really about the weather.

The spectacles are classic Ralph Lauren. Were. The puppies ate them. Yes — destroyed. Completely.

This was also the season the weight started coming up steadily, and you can see it in my face. Good jeans, a good scent, a body slowly returning to itself.

Note the background — this was just before the house changed. Soft, French, lined wallpaper and the white set of drawers. See the before and after over on Interiors.

Enough said, how much frill is too much? To me, there is no such thing. The sleeves give theatre, the skirt gives volume, and the black bodysuit grounds the whole thing so it never feels costume-y. It is bold, it is feminine, and it is unapologetic.

The perfume was Ted Baker Polly — the perfect match for the look. Light, playful, a little sweet, and just confident enough to hold its own against all that pink.

"Subtle for who? Not me. Not today."

A nod to the sneakers: they are Pierre Cardin. White and charcoal, monogrammed panel, a slim retro runner silhouette — the kind of shoe that looks styled rather than sporty. Cardin was the futurist who put ready-to-wear on the map in the sixties, and there is something very right about walking back into my own body in a pair of his.

Physio clothes still count as clothes. Leopard at the ankle, gold name chain, lashes on, nails pink. Nobody in that room needed me to look like that. I needed me to look like that.

"If you are going to sweat, sweat like a woman in 1921."

The jersey was knitted by my mother. By hand, years ago, and it still fits better and looks better than anything I could buy — the balloon sleeve, the open cable panel, the exact right slouch. Mom, thank you. And please start knitting again. Nothing off a shop rail has ever loved me back like this.

With it: white melody jeans — high, clean, ankle-cropped, the kind of white denim that behaves. Then the boots, which deserve their own paragraph: crystal-covered pointed ankle boots with a stiletto heel, entirely unreasonable and entirely correct. They turn a jersey and jeans into an outfit.

The aviators are Versace, gold-framed and mirrored, worn indoors without apology. The scent was Tom Ford Lost Cherry — black cherry, almond, vanilla and sandalwood. Rich, boozy, impossible to ignore.

"Repeating an outfit felt almost illegal. Then it felt like relief."

This is my SA uniform. Khaki cargo trousers that fit like they were made for me, a gold chainmail top that catches the light with every move, and gold glitter heels that say I am here to watch the game — but I am absolutely here to be seen. The orange bag is the punctuation mark.

The perfume was Elie Saab — amber, orange blossom, rose honey and patchouli. It is warm, golden, and impossible to ignore, which is exactly the point. When you are dressed like this, the scent has to keep up.

Thoughts and prayers for Argentina this weekend — the Boks are about to make picanha out of them. But win or lose, the uniform stays. Green and gold runs through me.

"How sexy is this outfit? Smoking hot — and supporting my country while I wear it."

Be who you want to be, and can be. The rest of the room will catch up.

There are days I look back at 2025 and think, Lord, have mercy. But this look?This look is fire. The boots were patent leather mini boots — sharp, glossy, and completely unapologetic. Churchill and Stretford, my beloved English Bulldogs, eventually claimed them, so they have been laid to rest. But oh, I loved them.

The cover is technically just that: a cover. Something to throw over a bikini. But hey-ho, who needs to stick to convention when it comes to fashion? Not me, sir or ma'am. Never have, never will. If it feels right, it goes on.

If only the picture were the whole reality. The pain it masks cannot be spoken about — not really, not fully. I carry my cross on my own. But that is the point of getting dressed, isn't it? To decide what the world sees, even when the body disagrees.

"I carry my cross on my own — but I carry it in great shoes."

I am particularly partial to a good animal print. Being from South Africa, the penchant for a good print runs deep — straight through my veins and, if we're being honest, directly into my pancreas. This look? Well, what animal is this even? Leopard? Or a super-tanned giraffe that skipped the SPF on a walk through the Kruger Park? Either way, I think it's a knockout, if I say so myself.

Psssst — I buy my own clothing, and Ntombi is the photographer behind my iPhone. Zero makeup day. I love this look.

The perfume for this moment — perfect for day into night (sidebar: not that you would wear this dress during the day) — is Sì Passione from one of the greatest fashion designers, Mr Giorgio Armani. Incredible. It's full-on passion. The lemon notes are what make this perfume so iconic for me. Definitely my absolute favourite from Mr Armani.

And the shoes? They are their own spirit animal. I think they resemble a snake of some description? Who knows — they're amazing, and the perfect accompaniment to the overall look.

"Some prints roar. This one purrs — then turns around and asks for a glass of wine."

Well hello there, ma'am — yes, you can look, but you absolutely cannot hijack these boots. They are prized and beloved by all who see me wearing them. Iconic, really. Even on a bad hair day, the dress does the talking.

This white lace dress is one of those timeless statement pieces I bought eons ago from the Young Designers Emporium in Hyde Park. I adore white lace — it photographs like a dream, feels romantic without trying too hard, and works regardless of where or when. A dress like this is always a good one to have on.

The perfume for this look is Jean-Paul Gaultier Classique — the original. I fell in love with the bottle when I was at university, and the smell is so intoxicating it has stayed with me ever since. Never, and I mean never, bruise your perfume by crushing it. The smell remains consistent, which might sound like a good thing, but it isn't. Perfume is meant to accentuate your own scent; it should become a signature piece to you and you alone.

"Do not crush the hell out of your perfume. Let it breathe, let it settle, let it become yours."

Your perfume is an extension of you — a quiet announcement before you even speak. Treat it with the same care you give a beloved pair of boots or a timeless lace dress, and it will reward you by becoming unmistakably, beautifully yours.

Cass's scent rule

Spray from a distance, let it land, and allow your skin chemistry to do the rest. A bruised perfume is a wasted perfume.

In deep thought, but my casual fashion is still on point. I love African prints — the pink in this look is everything.The shoes are a new classic and an instant favourite. Clear mules, clean lines, and they let the print do all the talking.

A quiet night in, so I am doubling down on comfort that still looks considered. Hummus, labneh, warm flat breads — a little feast while I think about all the possibilities life has in store for me.

Casual does not mean careless. A good white tee, a bold print, and a shoe that feels like a discovery — that is the uniform for a night in with big thoughts and even bigger hope.

"Some nights you dress for the world. Some nights you dress for the couch, the hummus, and your own good company."

A column of black, three-quarter sleeves, and two gold zips running the full length of the dress — one that opens from the collar, one that opens from the hem. It is the kind of dress that does not need jewellery, a belt, or a bag to make a point. Black suede ankle boots, a watch, a stack of bracelets, done.

Winter cool is not about layering yourself into a duvet. It is about line. This dress skims, the zips draw the eye straight down, and the boots finish the sentence. Simple, sharp, and warm enough for a Jo'burg winter afternoon.

The perfume was Gucci by Gucci. I added it to my collection in 2008 and everybody went nuts for it — it is a fantastic winter scent, the kind that lingers in a room after you have left it.

"Two zips, one dress, no explanation required."

The dress. A small boutique find from Nicolway — the kind of place that has since packed up and moved on, and I cannot for the life of me remember where. The print is pink, black, tan and white, abstract and unapologetic; the sleeves are sheer black, the waist is nipped, and the hem is short enough to make the heels feel inevitable. It was made for a scorching Sunday.

The bag. A massive Louis Vuitton tote in hot pink and purple. It is enormous, it is loud, and it carries everything — sunglasses, lipstick, phone, faith, and the occasional dog treat. Some bags whisper; this one arrives before you do.

The shoes. Socrati Brazilian heels, strappy and white, with the footbed that only Brazilian shoemakers seem to get right. I walked past Socrati at Cedar Square recently and the collection was so sad I was horrified. Life is too short to buy and wear ugly shoes. Suffering for fashion is a must — who needs comfortable when you could look beautiful?

The scent. Elie Saab — orange blossom, jasmine, rose honey and amber. Stunning. The kind of fragrance that makes a warm day feel like an event, and a church pew feel like a front row.

The drink. Lemon-and-mint crushed ice-tea, because when it is that hot, hydration should also be a vibe.

"The miracle is not that I pushed through the pain to walk. The miracle is pushing through — and strutting in beautiful heels."