London Fashion Week

Last Friday, I went to my first ever fashion party. I was moderately excited, until my friends started calling. ‘What shall I wear?’ One asked. ‘What’s the dress code?’ Another emailed. I crossly sent a group email. ‘I can help not at all with the dress code, so please stop asking me.’ There was blissful silence. Friday afternoon, my friend texted me. ‘I don’t care if you don’t know what you SHOULD wear, just tell me what you are GOING to wear.’ (I think my friend didn’t realise that capitals means shouting. I have noticed that a lot of people don’t know this. My Mother, for instance). ‘I don’t know why you’re fussed,’ I replied. ‘We go out all the time.’ ‘But this is different,’ My friend moaned. ‘This is a FASHION party.’ I ignored her at the time, but she was right. Fashion parties are different to normal parties. They’re much worse.

We arrived a little early, and stood in the cold waiting for the doors to open. A somewhat stretched looking older woman strode past us. ‘I do not queue,’ She said to her much younger assistant. ‘Luckily,’ I replied quickly. ‘I do. So if you could just wait behind us, that’d be great.’ People who think plastic surgery reduces one’s facial movement did not see the withering glare this woman shot me. I responded with my own, much practised look, which involves opening my eyes very widely. If you are scared of particularly gormless, shocked looking humans, you would be terrified. Otherwise, not so much.

We entered, got drinks, and chatted amongst ourselves. The party filled up. We continued to drink and talk. It was rather fun. There were lots of curiously dressed people to look at, and unbelievably fancy Belvedere vodka to drink.

(We were very much like Charlie and his Grandpa in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory). Except for one, vital difference. There was nothing to eat. Not a single, blessed thing. When we couldn’t bear it any more, we crossed the road and went to a dumpling and noodle bar, where I blissfully ate 13 dumplings and took off my heels.

‘In future,’ I said to my friends. ‘Instead of fussing about the dress code, we’re going to make dinner plans.’ ‘With that kind of attitude,’ My friend replied. ‘I doubt there’s going to be any future fashion parties for you.’ If you hate food, think queues are beneath you and like to ‘express yourself through your outfit’, you will love fashion parties. You can come and tell me about them if you like-I’ll be in that delicious dumpling bar.