Josh Carroll

“I’m not sure about this Josh.” It had started to rain. I was getting tired of waiting now, but the music was floating across and laughter filled the air with a merry white noise. This was the place to be tonight. This week had been my first real taste of the London fashion scene and I wasn’t about to pass up one of the best parties of fashion week.

“She gave us her ticket. She wanted us to go. We should grab this opportunity by the neck and enjoy it.” Raphael, who I had only met today, was nervous on getting in on someone else’s name. But every time I offered him the opportunity to walk away he couldn’t quite do it. He wanted in.

The walk down the drive was epic. A good three hundred meters. That’s a long driveway. It was the wrong day to break in a new pair of shoes. We stopped at another check point. The queue was stationary. A guy behind us was muttering to his friend.

“If we all rush them at the same time, they won’t be able to stop us all. Be worth a go at least!” I turned and grinned at him. His friend, laughed at him, “Stop trying to start a Riot!”

He was a banker, named Max. He was probably one of the most down to earth people there. His friend was Sofia, a writer for Harper’s Bazaar, Russia. She was also firmly rooted to the earth. They were nice people. It wasn’t difficult to figure out. They both had easy relaxed smiles and laughed often. Max had a goofy Michael Jackson impression.

Somehow, in the chaos of Fashion Week, I had ended up with just the right crowd.

The barmen inside were crazy. They were dancing and just throwing alcohol into their Margaritas. I could only tell they were meant to be  Margaritas by the salted rim. In reality, they were more like a mess of alcohol. I wrinkled my nose as I finished the first one, popping the empty glass down quickly and starting on the second.

Delphic were murdering the scene. In a good way. Their blend between rock and electronics was fresh. I even danced. Raphael was loving it. We’d lost the banker and the writer for a while. We just enjoyed the party. Neither of us took ourselves too seriously and we had to find somewhere to sit down after a while, doubling over with laughter.

People danced, alcohol flowed. In the corners of the rooms were these huge, sparkly panthers. They were almost as tall as me. Golden roses hung over them. In the other room, Mulberry sashes were being handed out and photos snapped. Raphael wrinkled his nose at the idea of having his picture taken and I wasn’t enamoured by the idea either. I knew it was for Vogue Italia, but I just wasn’t tempted.

At some point, we found Max and Sofia again. Max was waxing about how he wasn’t attracted to any of the women here. I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “I like big boobs. Big nails. Big eyelashes and lots of makeup, you know? Like her, over there. She’s rather tasty.”

Raphael and I exchanged a look. Sofia squinted for a moment, then laughed. “Max… I wouldn’t get too enamoured with her.” He looked confused for a moment. “She’s a he.”

We didn’t tease him for too long about this. “She” was a rather famous crossdresser. She was skinny, tall and somehow wore her own body like a woman. She was outrageous and attention seeking.

Sofia and Raphael danced. I snapped a couple of photos on my Yashica and was told off. Not allowed to do the hired gun’s job.

The night was a blur of purple and blue lighting, people and conversation. Alcohol was just a fuel for louder laughter, more outrageous conversation.

“Is that a Vivienne Westwood tee?” someone asks me. I smile a lopsided smile. I consider it a bit of a trademark nowadays. It’s a recent thing.

“I couldn’t get the jacket I wanted, but I couldn’t leave the store empty handed.” I tell her. I tell her that her glasses are cool. We all end up talking our way through our outfits. I gasp as I realise that the coloured silk scarf Max is wearing is Mary Katrantzou, the well balanced colours exploding in the beautiful print that is her trademark. Sofia grins as she tells us she’s wearing all Primark. We all chuckle appreciatively.

As the night draws to a close, and my tired feet decide that it is finally time to go home (Raph mentions something about a “beer coat” and I remind him that coats don’t cover feet), I feel like I’ve finally had my first real experience of London Fashion Week. Catwalk shows, all packed to the brim with careful tailoring and imagination, and a real after party. It’s not much. I wouldn’t say that “I have arrived. But it’s a start.