The night before heading down the coast to our perfect, secluded paradise that is Bawley Point (where I’m now sitting in the car at the top of a hill for the sole reason that it has just enough reception to post this bloody thing), I finally unpacked the contents of my suitcase from five and a half weeks abroad on the Fashion Week circuit. I’d been putting it off, as I have been with a lot of things since I got home – university work and real work had flooded in all too quickly. I never do learn from that recurring lesson. Moving on.
While assessing whether or not particular pieces needed to be laundered, dry-cleaned, discarded after being dragged between the suitcase and hotel room floors city after city, I came to realise that I had essentially worn at least two of the same four pieces just about every other day I’d been on the road – if not more. The most spectacularly evident repeated offender was, of course, this pair of sunglasses. Ironically, while they are a beautifully made pair of sunnies, I can’t say that I find them to be the most flattering for my super-wide, square face.
And yet, they served the purpose of hiding the exhaustion lurking in dark circles under each eye,
and how glassed over my eyeballs were from too much air travel. I’d left them in my carry-on from when I’d last returned home from the States a month earlier, and hadn’t thought to pack any other pairs this time around – when your immediate destination is a snow globe, eyewear is not the first thing that comes to mind in the mad rush a few hours before your flight.
In the same vein, my terribly Australian struggle against the Northern Hemisphere’s different varieties of bitter, unforgiving cold, found equal comfort in this corrugated funnel neck top that remained under just about every insulation attempt I concocted from New York through to Paris, and this heavy duty belt that strapped everything in against the chill.
And the fourth piece? My leather drop-crotch trousers – awkwardly, I think I literally wore these every single day I was in Paris.
And it never mattered. I was seeing different people every day, and the same people every day. Different people during meetings and at showrooms, whom I’d never met, and had more topics of conversation and commerce to cover before grinding to a halt at my
attire (we never usually got there). Then, there were the same editors, photographers and PRs that I saw and said hello to at just about every show, who had likewise seen me (and hundreds of others) so many times in the past week, that every day blurred into one. So what did it matter? Nobody was waiting with bated breath to see what I’d wear next. Kim Kardashian West was of far greater such interest. I merely layered entire contents my suitcase, buckled it all down to maintain the illusion of some kind of waistline, packed in as much thermal underwear as a drop crotch would allow, and hid late nights up working behind boxy shades.
Fortunately, London was mildly warmer by the time I touched down, and The Belgraves’ staff were too surrounded by quirky art and furnishings to take notice of the off-kilter (off-shoulder) flavours I was shaking in and out of their heavy double doors day to day. Even when they did tune into sartorial goings on as I stumbled out of the elevator each day, it was more about how I had managed to lose rubber heel caps on my stilettos and clicked rather comically along their rather beautiful lobby floorboards.
But never mind that. My phone’s about to die. Out.