After "winning" the so-called golden ticket to none other than London Fashion week, Violet and I were beside ourselves with excitement as to what to wear and we plotted and planned around the following day's activities. What is a girl supposed to do hearing that she is going to an event riddled with society's who's who and fashionistas galore just the day before?
I rushed home on Friday and raced straight into my bedroom and desperately opened my cupboards hoping to find some kind of "Pandora's box" imagining I would find some hidden creation that I had forgotten about or be inspired to concoct something gorgeous to don the following day. I savagely attached my hangers as I trawled through my enormous and sardine packed built in cupboards only to find that I had a never ending supply of average and ill fitting (super tight) clothing that are destined for the charity shop. Holy crap, when did my clothes all suddenly start hating me so much that now feel the need to strangle me into oblivion? I had no option but to go on a frantic operation fashionista mission to the shops with Violet on Saturday morning a few hours before the event to see what I could find.
Violet, little Miss Hot Body, obviously found a "second option" number to wear but oh dear my situation was dire. Eventually after sending Violet home to start primping and buffing I raced off to yet another shopping mall to find whatever ever it was that I was looking for.
Eventually I had to settle, and what I got was a black 60s style tunic to wear over apparently leg lengthening and slimming black trousers. These bloody pants stopped just short of slicing and dicing me in half, thank God the tunic covered the nether regions!
Violet and I felt terribly glamorous and changed into our fancy shoes just before we walked into the venue, Somerset House. Our mouths were gaped open wide like really little farm girls seeing the city lights for the first time. We had crossed over into some parallel universe of uber coolness, colour and opulence and clearly we were foreigners in our safe but apparently sad black outfits. I think the only thing that made us slightly fabulous was Violet's thick mane of flaming red hair and my sparkling enormous diamante broach.
We found ourselves sitting in the third row, gawking at each and every creation that sashayed past our eyes and I am just talking about the guests. The flurry of flashbulbs were blinding as the celebrities arrived one by one until it was time to unveil the beautiful pure white catwalk, turn the lights down low and await judgement day for the poor young designer in the making.
One by one the stick insects (aka size zero models) crawled up the catwalk covered in sequence which looked almost too heavy for their frail frames. Violet and I were in hysterics, clicking our cameras making sure we had some sort of proof that we were there, although Violet almost had an aneurysm as her camera battery decided to die right there and then - tragic!
Was the show any good? we did not really care, we just wanted to analyse the experience and people watch over a bottle of wine. Much to our horror, we discovered that there was no wine on sale - can you get a load of that? Clearly this parallel universe is not a place I would like to live in, besides drowning in the air kissing, the camp 'performance art' and the exclusive air that is suffocating - they did not have a bottle of wine in sight!
Violet and I kept going in our glad rags and found a sanctuary in a local bar, drinking cocktails, eating Nachos and revisiting every second of the event.
I have decided that London Fashion week is definitely an invitation a Goddess wants front row seats to but I have to admit, the celebrity posing, the plastics and the over top try hards are far more entertaining than the precious designs on the catwalk.
The effort and the panic that went into finding just my one "number" for Saturday's event was rather painful and I definitely won't be applying for a visa to this odd world anytime soon.
I went to work on the Monday, I so proud of myself for securing these rare and sought after tickets to fashion week and shared details of the show with my colleagues. I was secretly pleased thinking - thank God I did not have a whole week of shows to attend as my wardrobe would not cope and I didn't think I had one more fabulous outfit in me. On walking back to my desk much to my mixed emotions of sheer horror and delight there it was....another shiny and beautiful golden ticket.....
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