Fashion Week, one of the most glamorous, exciting, sensational events in the calendar, a week to wear your finery, see the finest clothes, and revel in all things fine. Or so they would have you believe…
Over the years as a lowly dresser with a press pass, I’ve seen a few shockers. I’ve been told to rip certain designers clothes to get the badly organised change done in time, seen stylists cut and catch girls skin trying to jam them into clothes that surely wouldn’t fit children, and held the most slender of girls hands while they tell me how they need to lose weight. Some of the shit you see is scary, some just plain funny. Good ol’ Hillary Alexander, who seems to run EVERYWHERE dashing up the catwalk right after the models to grab a word with the designer before she flits of to the next show always gets a giggle; a dear friend, in our very first season, accidently tripping up Bruno Basso and nearly sending him flying into a rail of his own clothes; putting a skirt on upside-down at Louise Goldin. But despite the inevitable drama and probable exploitation, I still love every second, and this season is turning out to be no different, with fuck ups and trip ups all round.
An elegant suite at Claridges. A beautifully immaculate collection. Cups of tea in fine china (see fashion food).
It was never going to work. First of all, Fizz, a 10-month-old French bulldog, developed a fear of doors and refused to go onto the runway at all. So Armani was brought in, a rather stouter and wheezy 4yr old, though he still had a lovely temperament and did the walk no problems. Then on the way out of the second successful show, another pooch had decided it actually quite liked it there, and wanted to claim Claridges’ doormat as its own territory… which the majority of us then proceeded to step in. As my mother always says, never work with children or animals.