I know Christmas is long gone now, but I kind of feel like I have been blobbing around like a, well a large pale blob in fashion-neutral numbers for months now. There has been barely a sniff of a dressing up occasion for months and, much as I love a good PR breakfast meeting, January is hardly the month to break out the new season’s looks at 9am.
It doesn’t help my sense of dressing up deprivation that I didn’t have any major Christmas parties this year – not really my thing, and Christmas Day round our way is more likely to be spent prone in a cashmere onesie lobbing Quality Street in the direction of our gobs, than swanning around in a party frock, prodding canapes.
At New Year I was in Marrakech, and lil’sis & I spent a frankly delightful evening in our nighties & cardies eating takeaway pizza & prawn cocktails in bed in our riad in the Medina, reading Georgette Heyer (me), and the QuidCo site (her) congratulating ourselves on not bowing to NYE must-spend-a-fortune-going-out pressure.
Montreal was too bloody cold for the whipping out of the hawt fashion looks and, whilst I made a cursory effort in Munich, giving my Tibi leather-lapelled tux & most S&M-ish Nicholas Kirkwoods an outing for the Chairman’s Dinner, a digital conference, attended by a roughly 4:1 male:female ratio is hardly the place to break out SS12’s pastels.
So, and this really is a career-time first, I am actually looking forward to fashion week season in a delightfully perverse way. Normally I’m not thrilled at the prospect of having to pull together umpteen all-different looks, truss myself up and prance around in stilt heels for days on end, (I am truly fashion-lazy), but this season I am positively looking forward to it. Thoroughly bored of wearing mid-heel ankle boots, swathes of cashmere, bobble hats, and subtle make up, I want fashion, fashion people (especially Alex Fury in Mary Katrantzou) and all round general fashion-ness. Yes, I did make that word up. And who’s asking?