London Fashion Week Beckons.
So it’s here once again. The week that makes me feel fat, badly dressed and dumpy.
London Fashion Week.
Each year I promise myself I’m going to ignore it. Who cares about these alien beings beamed to earth for the fashion shows because human women simply aren’t up to it?
And why should I be interested in the ridiculous clothes they catwalk in? They don’t look comfortable or durable, there’s no way one could conceal Spanks underneath them and they are about as likely to end up on my body as George Clooney is to end up on my arm.
So I’ll just ignore it. And I’ll ignore George too while I’m at it. Sorry George but you never reply to my letters, emails, faxes or telegrams so you’ve brought this upon yourself.
This faux state of mind lasted about 20 minutes. During minute 21 my hand, independent of my weak brain, reached for the iPad and typed in www.londonfashionweek.co.uk.
Oh it’s all so pretty and wonderful. You can keep Christmas (which does actually make me fat), I’ll take London Fashion Week. Granted I have very little to do with it other than rare chances to sit on the cheap seats at a show thanks entirely to generous, and far hipper, friends.
But to be honest I am happy staring at the photographs of the beautiful people and their extraordinary clothes. Perhaps I’ll buy a new designer bag to make me feel like I’m in the gang if the credit card can take the strain, but essentially this is a ‘them’ and ‘us’ situation. Personally I am (most of the time) actually quite content in the ‘us’ camp where I can drink full fat Coca Cola and occasionally devour ribs until I need to lie down.
And if I want to feel a little bit like ‘them’ my flexible plastic friend is generally happier if I forgo the designer bag and instead book into a lovely hotel where the staff and surroundings combine to make me feel special.
You can probably guess where I find those.
Now please excuse me I must go and write a letter.