I've just spent the morning on Twitter and Bloglovin and Style and Susie Bubble and a million other sites that I dip in and out of every day, when I'm feeling a bit... twitchy... and now I'm very very tired.
And everyone everywhere is talking about fashion week, which was more enjoyable than it's ever been (4 blisters/1 stolen bag/2 spilled wines on suede/1 flash of knicker aside), and I've seen myriad marvellous things, but none as interesting as the looks sported by the queueing masses. Fashion has always been obscene, of course; it is nothing more than a giant sprawling auditorium of attention-seekers doing their best to shuffle onto the tiniest of stages, but by god it's such fun too. Getting to see the Christopher Kane show was a highlight (although I was a bit wary of the thin Gingham skirts with thigh-high splits - on the catwalk they looked rather flimsy), because the energy surrounding it was so insane. I got my call & show time muddled up (was supposed to be camped out backstage @ 11am watching the beauty magic happen), but only just made the show in time (@ 2.30pm). More fool me. The funniest moment was spotting my PR friend behind the velvet rope who ushered me into the inner echellons only to be grabbed by a frenzied fashion ed. who pretended to know her (she'd heard me say her name), in the hope that she too could be taken inside. 'I'm sorry,' I said, sincerely, 'I'm beauty, not fashion,' and the twitchy witch recoiled in horror and said, 'Eugh, I see,' before shuffling back to the front of the line in the hope of spotting a Fashion Proper PR. Jo & I giggled about that on the way in, and then I got sidetracked behind Susie Lau (of Susie Bubble) and the entire ELLE fashion team who took up almost 2 rows. No fair. And yes, there was Anna Wintour, and Donatella (looks just as odd in real life), Natalia Vodianova, who literally blew my socks off she was so darn beautiful (and 2 babies!! with the face & body of a nubile teenager!! gah!!) and big daddy Philip Green sat beside his daughter. It was London at its flashiest and despite being one of those no-bullsh*t types, even I felt a fluttering frenzy in the pit of the stomach as things began. When history's being made you can just feel it.
Anyway, I'm back on the sofa today, enamoured of my slippers and PJs, and just over the moon to get a day away from the big city.
On my way home after the end of the final day, I tallied up the 'street style' looks in my head. Purple nail polish and lips (the coolest girls wore Ribena shades); hair wrapped in ribbons (not bows) and pinned with pom-poms; imperfect fingernails (green & matt navy were a hit) and that's about it. I've never seen a season with so little eyeliner or shadow (and most women stuck with nude lips too). That's the funny thing about fashion types - they'll layer up the fur, skins, studs and rivets, and strap on the most horrifying shoes (horrifying from the point of view of the chiropodist; heavenly for anyone else), but a slick of a lip or smear of warpaint is a step too far.
As for me, I got street-snapped just twice, and both times I cringed like an amateur.
And back to bed now, with the laptop, and a week's worth of deadlines to meet.
p.s. Oh, and the title of this post comes courtesy of one of my favourite signed, but pretty much still undiscovered, bands MAUPA. You can pick up their beautiful new album here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Run-Sleep-Maupa/dp/B001G5V3CC
2 hours ago