Fashion Week brings up all sorts of existential questions. If no one takes a photo of your outfit, did you really wear it? Is the average length of a queue the same as the median length of a piece of string? Do things start to relax by Sunday at LFW, or do they just get more surreal? In some respects, by Day 3 we’d all settled into a routine – we knew what shows we were going to, we were well aware that if one designer ran late we might miss the next, and we’d started to recognise people in the queue. All my tickets were organised by time and I already had an idea which ones I was most excited about.
I could find my way to Freemasons with my eyes closed by Sunday, so if you enjoy irony, it was fitting that my first show was somewhere else.
Woo hoo! A lie in! I actually had some work to do for my day job, so decided to forgo the blow dry today and get some shit done. I manage an hour of productivity before I realise I have run out of clothes; I’d packed some fairly boring stuff in a rush and now nothing I had looked ok. I settle on a striped dress and my frock coat from Totty Rocks. The coat looks awesome. Everything else looks like I dressed in my sleep. I am not feeling my outfit today, and my handbag strap broke the day before so I have to carry a tote bag. I throw on a cropped sweatshirt from Boom Done, which saves it, but I hate my dress. I can’t stop thinking about how much I hate my dress. Why do I even own this piece of shit? I try to cover it up with as many layers as I can possibly muster and hope for the best.
My first journey on the Tube this weekend! Yay! Oh wait, I don’t like the Tube…
Shona from The Prim Girl and I can’t find each other outside Kings Cross, which is slightly embarrassing as I claimed I knew my way around the area. I was at DesignJunction at Granary Square for LDF last year, so at least I had a vague idea where we are headed. Vague. The Central St Martins campus is more difficult to navigate than I’d realised.
I get handed a bottle of apple juice. More on this later.
The show is about to start. Someone points out that I have somehow spilled my bottle of juice all over the floor, which is a disaster because this is also the catwalk; the models will be walking right over my fucking puddle of apple juice. Crap crap crap. Shona helpfully videos the whole thing.
Jamie Wei Huang. I’ve already requested to write this one up, so I’m thankful that I love it; the 80s inspired aesthetic, the collegiate stripes, that sports luxe vibe. I feel a bit conspicuous taking notes as the models are so close, and besides, I’m watching out for my trip hazard. By the time the show closes and I haven’t inadvertently maimed anyone with my clumsiness, I finally let out a huge sigh of relief.
We take a walk through Covent Garden and Neal Street from the Tube station, and spot a pop up that Shona has been wanting to visit called Reformation. We spend our “lunch” trying on dresses instead of eating, because, well, fashion. I instantly fall in love with everything in the store and their ethos of ethical, sustainable production. We run out of time to eat. Oops.
Pam Hogg. The queue for this one is a total shitstorm, and though everyone in the queue has tickets, almost no one gets in but VIPs. We are cold, hungry and tired. We make friends with some lovely folk in the queue who are equally cold, hungry and tired.
Cimone. We have high hopes for this, especially as this is one of our last shows for the evening. It does not disappoint. The exaggerated proportions, the sculptural aesthetic, and the styling of hair and makeup were all spot on.
Pret again. I remember they do soup. Soup and coffee, soup and coffee. At some point I buy a pair of shoes because my feet are killing me. We have a few hours spare, so we wander back to the queue of queues to say hi to some of the other writers with PlusMinus waiting on a 6:30pm show. At 7:15 they still aren’t in, so we go for another coffee. By the time we come back 20 minutes later, the doors have been locked because they’ve “made up” the lost time, and we’ve missed our last show. A strange ending to a strange day.
Wander home confused. I briefly consider going out for a few drinks, but then remember tomorrow is the last day of LFW and I want to be bright eyed and bushy tailed, not feeling like something the squirrel dragged in. I start writing up my favourite shows for the magazine and manage to get three done before I pass out face first in my bed. At some point I can hear my neighbour yell at some drunk guys downstairs, but I am way too tired to get up. Oh the glamour.