I arise at 6am with a significantly improved mood and physical feelings after yesterday’s unwellness inspired malaise. That is, bright eyed and bushy maned in spite of the bed-exiting at dawn, there is much to be said for the lark lifestyle, however I am still on antibiotics so shall have to abstain from temptations to partake in merriment. Champagne, Mademoiselle? No thank you. How very unheard of in the history of my life.
First up was Paul Costelloe. A much too serenely beautiful show. At that early point in the morning I would have preferred a menagerie of riotous colour and screaming punk music to kick start the day/wake me up! Then came the worst part, the week in fact, registration. An inexperienced girl gave me the wrong info telling me she couldn't register me and directed me towards a woman who was much too busy and important to deal with her mistakes. Due to the hordes of people, she was also extremely difficult to get to. Then of course I practically had to part a sea of people, Moses style, to get back to the original girl who was, by the way, reprimanded for the error of her ways by not registering me. That done, I could move onto more important things-breakfast.
I was with my friend Hugo Harris from Spindle Magazine and we both went for the Crayfish Sandwich and Latte combo from Tom's Deli and went to find a spot in the sun on which to perch. Looking very real and some might say street, we were per-chanced by some fashion journalists from The Guardian and subject to a miniature interview on our style and photographed. How amusingly our answers contrasted when we gave reference to where we obtained our clothes from. Hugo, an infinitesimally stylish man was wearing a vintage Versace shirt, a Vivienne Westwood blazer, shoes by Raf Simons and bag by Gianfranco Ferré, whereas all my gear was from either Zara or Brick Lane.
Shortly after this glorious moment in the courtyard; the place for people watching, there was quite a kafuffle over a poppet of a pug, all handsome furs and bear brown face, people came from afar in the courtyard at least to photograph — gender indeterminate, lets say her for simplicity's sake, far too pretty to be a boy I fancy.
As the lens flashed and smitten devotees gathered, she adopted the pose of one that veered between the basking in their fame and dumbstruck smug naivety, most endearingly was her little lolly like tongue that lolled in a jaunty downwards angle. I can report that comely canines are the latest accessory but that is akin to saying black is the colour du jour. This marked theme of people admiring dogs, can count myself amongst its victims. Around 3 in the afternoon I was privy to this trend as I was lured under the spell of one of those gorgeous small dogs, my ignorance forbids me in naming its breed; a Chihuahua perhaps. Waiting for the Jerboa Jewellery show to start, I found myself entranced by its beauty, which left me feeling a smidgen of awkwardness as I had the suspicion that I had met the owner last fashion week, a marvellous man of verve and grandeur but his vastly different hairstyle since then left me too uncertain to offer a wave.
As I looked into the Malteser like eyes of this petit creature, I was reminded of the love before the love before and shuddered and put an end to this frivolous sentimentality by casting my mind to fantasies about shoes. Anyway enough of the dog tangent and back to the chronological order of the day.
Hugo and I checked out the press lounge and were fairly unimpressed, then we went our separate ways and I to Caroline Charles which was fairly similar to the one before. Always towards the back but then I guess at least I wasn't standing. My following show was a tres belle collection by Bora Aksu which sent my heart aflutter. I then finally left the confines of Somerset House to go to Fashion Mavericks at The Strand Palace Hotel, which as grand as it sounds was sadly not. I have learnt the hard way that the la-di-da-iest of titles usually means its converse. But upon arrival where I was bestowed with a front row ticket, Har-di-har, I soon forgot this detail.
After this jewellery show, I made a dash up The Strand, looking for cigarettes and a smattering of a snack. As always thoughts of food were interrupting my concentration. Meanwhile my phone was vibrating out of control. Hugo Harris and I resumed our fashion week companionship and he relayed a very amusing anecdote about a very ‘sweetie darling’ encounter that he had with Brix Smith-Start. The next show was by far my least favourite of the week. Hugo mused that he would not do a write up for it, as he didn't have anything nice to say and didn't want to berate a designer so early on in their career. I have a similar predicament, that of the nice critic.
Subsequent to this we were back out onto the street, once more in pursuit of food, satiating our hunger in a German Cafe, sausages all round. Then we conspired to smuggle myself into the Teatum Jones presentation, which I had outrageously not been invited to. We were confident or trying to summon it with the assertion that if they did not want me, I would take myself elsewhere. When I got to the lady with the clipboard, I made like I was on the guest list. Imagine our delight that my name was actually on the list and wondered how many of my invitations had gone amiss. Once in, I was glad, for it was one of the loveliest presentations and Martinis were served. I was ready to drink something other than Vitamin Water!
We then meandered over to The Old Sorting Office for The Basso and Brooke show, we waited a while but once at the front, it became apparent that Hugo's ticket was subject to greater privileges than mine and I was directed towards the back of an absurdly long queue. Which was fine in the end as I got to stand on a raised bit and could actually see the show properly for once. After the show, Hugo asked whether I'd like to tag along to Christopher Raeburn in the hope I'd gain admittance but went in favour of the bus home where I saw Princess Julia headed back east also. I received phone calls en route home from two of my favourite weekend partners in crime where they were informed I was not able to come out and play. I said no, I was going home for a nap, to wash my hair and then write up my seven catwalk reports and this diary for the day. But what actually happened was I didn't awake from my supposed cat nap.