I witnessed my first catwalk show this morning. Bracing myself as I identified the imposing building next to Waterloo Bridge as, in fact, the famed Somerset House, I entered the building of steep drops and angular frocks. Lost in a reception area that encapsulated the notion of a ‘dreamscape airport’, I clutched onto my single invitation for London Fashion Week. An invitation that bore another’s name. If anybody asked, my drab and randomly adorned clothes were all fron Mary Le Bon, a refined and fictional couture boutique owner in Paris. I invented this fashion moniker on the Bakerloo line. 

I felt like an interloper, sleuthing in a world of fashion. My jurisdiction is simply effusive editorial and unwarranted opinions on arts, culture and jarring social interactions. Every attendent appeared to be preoccupied in a chatter accesorised with squealing excitement and elated sense of flashing forward fashion-related premonitions. 

“My editor is actually styling this show”

No kudos earned, nor deserved. In actuality, it became akin to waiting to view an actor friend’s play or accordion recital.

I was deluded under the misapprehension that all fashion shows would run at the precise time stated on stolen invitations and seats were allocated with apartheid haste. 

“You fool”, the friend I shared these misguided assertions with blurted out as we queued to see Corrie Nielsen at BFC show house. As we scrambled inside over a plastic floor protecter any seats taken were ours. Apart from the bustle and disorder, everything else I divined about the hanger-like space was more or less correct. 

One one end of the room a large, uncordoned doorway emitted a white glow, directly opposite the swarm of photographers huddled like droplets of oils in water. The lights dimming down, as in the theatre, ordered an instant hush. The music began – an out of snyc mix of bagpipes and techno drum-patterns. Models stomped, bounced and bobbed down the runway to present their attire before a crowd with a mosaic film of lenses. Notes were scribbled down ubiquitously, leaving me non-plussed. Two areas I know I do not have the description powers to write about are food…and fashion. 

Soon the girls faded and the clothes levitated in a conveyer belt sequence; it is actually remarkable how the model is second to the clothes, they are needless and pivotal simultaneously. The show was enthralling and the clothes obviously the work of expert craftsmanship.

And most importantly, it was brief. 


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