Morning:
8°c
For the first time ever I was allocated a front row seat at London Fashion Week. I was hysterical with delight. Catwalk shows are like great theatre. And so often it's the audience, not the designers, who set the trends. The paparazzi flashbulbs are trained on Peaches and Daisy and Lizzie. Sometimes you wonder if anyone cares about the clothes.
It takes a degree in international relations to understand the black art of seating. If an editor accepts a second-row ticket, she's fashion roadkill. Others are subjected to the back or, worse, standing room only.
As a mere mortal, I couldn't care less. I just love the spectacle. You get suspense, sex, glamour, nudity - in 20 minutes (shorter than any West End play). Arriving late to see Osman Yousefzada's Autumn/Winter 2009 collection at the Science Museum, I was just relieved they hadn't started without me.
A PR with a clipboard checked my invite - seat 1E2. As I prepared to sprint to the back, it suddenly dawned on me. Row 1. Omigod. The Holy Grail. As I approached that most coveted of benches, I could see the goody bag of Clarins gifts, the complimentary water and fruit shakes. I Had Arrived.
But any triumph was undercut when I, ahem, tried to sit down. It was near impossible to wedge into such a tiny space. Could I get my ridiculous bags under the seat without taking out two teeny blonde fashionistas on either side?
Like Alice in Wonderland your limbs won't stop growing; you realise you are simply too large for the bench. At one point I sat back, and could feel something sharp. It turned out my ample arse was jutting onto the bony knees of the fashionista behind. Horror!
The minute the show starts, off course, you are transported. And Yousefzada understands how to dress all body types. There are skimming A-line dresses and pannelled coats. Plus he designs tunics with sculptural vents and flaps (ideal for problem arms and stomachs). All in the most exquisite monochrome colours.
Heartening to see clothes that will suit fashion sylphs and real women. Ditto the brilliant collection by John Rocha with cocoon dresses and panniered skirts and, best of all, dresses with voluptous hip pads.
But I have learned a valuable lesson about fashion stamina. It reminds me of the days when I did shoots with actresses on a women's magazine, and the stylist would suggest I sat in the front seat of the car. "How kind," I'd think, until I realised they could get 10 more fashion midgets in the back if I did.
There's a reason those poor gals starve all year round, renouncing this rose macaroon here or that delicious canapé there. When the Fashion Circus comes to town, the bench is ruthless.
