Tomorrow I will pull away from old familiar London town, and hungrily trek to the mecca of chic in search of an excitedly anticipated dose of unreality. I will settle into the protective capsule of my Eurostar carriage (somewhere I have become fond of over the past 6 months as the one place that would afford me 2 hours of luxurious napping in an otherwise oft-sleep-deprived lifestyle), and reawaken in a thrillingly escapist setting. Hailing from an antipodean land, the concept of spending a short pocket of time dipped in semi-aquatic transit, and being granted a passport into a culture so intrinsically and refreshingly different from my own is an indescribable thrill. This journey takes place during a time that is particularly highlighter-worthy on my personal calendar. The rush of the Fashion Week Quad sees my information-hungry internet habits become more frenzied than at any other time of the year, in my shameless attempts to keep up with the incessant action being played out on catwalks and sidewalk stages. From the privacy of my own apartment, I have had the ability to simulate the mad show-to-show dash, thanks to technology’s generous offerings of live streaming. Feeling that my mocked-up fashion week was lacking a certain element, I may be guilty of having slipped on my most extremely cab-to-kerb Alaïa killers while sitting on my bed on one occasion during the last week. You can’t blame a girl for injecting a little drama: pole-like though they both may be, what sort of replacement is a lamp for Anna Dello Russo as a front row companion, after all? So this week, dissatisfied with my so-near-yet-so-far experience to date (save for a lovely ticket to the Antipodium London Fashion Week Show), I am attempting to launch myself into the frenzy of the final, and arguably most-adored week of the global biannual celebration of fashion. Having experienced the Tuileries-trotting in September of last year, I am returning with a keenness that I needn’t even bother attempting to conceal. A long-time monitor of street style blogs, I witnessed the surreal like never before when I stood outside the Issey Miyake show, my kohl-swept eyes widening as I watched on while the still images of Tommy Ton and others’ lenses sprang into action before me: much like a dream in which my carefully archived computer folders packed full of their famous images might blossom with sudden life and cleverly position themselves side-by-side to form a continuous moving scene, fabricating a world that I have so often spent hours wondering about. And so, with a gravitation that I can only describe as feeling magnetic, I am returning for round two, ready to reinstate my position in the stands as enthralled, die-hard spectator. I could not be more ready to witness the battle between the rebels of the rue, outfitted in their prized weaponry of frighteningly fierce footwear, ample accessories and garments with a wow-factor designed to shock the (carefully selected) socks off their street-strutting opponents. 

Mar 4
In Search of PFW, ADR and KL…