London - Brewer Street in Soho, outside the old NCP carpark, now ‘re-purposed’ as an achingly hip urban ‘space’ and epicentre of this year’s London Fashion Week.
It’s nine o’clock on a chilly Saturday morning. A very serious Germanic looking woman in a light grey double-breasted jacket and cigarette pants pauses in the street to be photographed by an enthusiastic Chinese photographer.
Across the road, a dishevelled young man approaches, wearing what appears to be a distressed duvet. Vintage Westwood, perhaps? Sadly not. On closer inspection, the man turns out to be homeless. He shuffles off, pausing to watch a black limo glide past him, the elfin features of a model barely visible through the blacked out windows.
I am early, dressed in my own ramshackle approximation of fashion. Marks & Spencer mac and hat (it looks like rain), favourite Zara trousers, Topshop boots, blouse from a nice little shop in Somerset. The bag is cheeky: a fake Stella McCartney I bought in Turkey last Easter.
And why not. After all, fashion doesn’t show any respect for women like me. It’s an age since I’ve felt any affinity with the catwalks; why would today be any different?
Like many women in their late 40s, I feel fashion has turned its back on me, rejected me as neither rich enough nor thin enough nor, frankly, cool enough to be part of the designer vision.
This is not a party I’m normally invited to, both figuratively and literally. Despite many entreaties, I’ve only been allowed access to a handful of shows.
I quickly realise I could have turned up in a ballgown and felt under-dressed. As the crowd outside the carpark begins to swell (today’s first show, Jasper Conran, starts at 10am), bloggers and assorted fashionistas materialise in a variety of outfits. Vertiginous heels negotiate along the uneven, cigarette-strewn pavement, tassels sway as their owners sashay into view.
A beautiful dark-haired girl in a brown suede mini-skirt with a tan sails on to the pavement in front of me and parks her bike up against a lamp post. She locks her bike, tosses her blow-dry to one side, answers her phone in an Italian accent and hoists her bag out of the basket. Off she goes, laughing and chatting away, her red soles flashing as she disappears into the throng.
A few minutes now until the doors open, and as the bloggers and minor fashionistas wait impatiently in line, the VIPs begin to arrive. Another limo pulls up and two identically dressed blonde children alight, followed closely by their mother (a top fashion editor, by the looks of it) and her husband, camel (cashmere?) coat slung casually across his shoulders. A pure, un-ironic Devil-Wears-Prada moment.
That said, the atmosphere on my side of the barriers is surprisingly relaxed, dare I say friendly. I had expected a certain froideur, a degree of haughtiness at least.
In we go, and the first fly in the ointment reveals itself: carparks are designed for wheels, not heels. But the crowd gamely negotiates the gradient until we emerge into a bright white arena, stacked seats on either side, a green glass runway shimmering in the sunshine streaming through the skylights.
There seems to be no obvious hierarchy, so I take a seat in the front row. The bank of photographers adjust their lenses, an ethereal soundtrack starts up and the first model glides on to the catwalk.
She’s wearing a very practical pair of gold sandals and a relaxed green and white striped ensemble. Her hair is loose and flowing, her make-up golden - and she looks a picture of health. As the show progresses, the designs get more complex. Long sleeves (sleeves!), floaty, elegant shapes, exquisite dresses, a forest of shimmering, shifting greens, a garden in summer.
Conran clearly loves his countryside, and this is a gorgeous sartorial tribute to the shady glades and wet lawns of England. It feels effortlessly confident, striking but not strident, just the right balance between originality and wearability.
Out on the street again, I grab a taxi to take me to Spitalfields for the Julien Macdonald show. Macdonald is renowned for his theatrical shows, and this is clearly going to be no exception. As I emerge from the cab, a member of the cast of Made In Chelsea in a tight lace number practically runs me over.
Minders and PRs jostle with the ever-patient event organisers (a thoroughly efficient and polite bunch) and scruffy paparazzi.
I slip into the second row at the end of the catwalk. From here I have a spectacular view of what was once London’s busiest meat market, now home to shops and restaurants. Above us, the elegant turquoise and cobalt ceiling arches, the original clock dangling from the ceiling like a giant Victorian pocket watch.
If Conran was a quiet reflection of a show, this is a celebrity riot. Thick and fast they come, dolled up to the nines, dressed in the designer’s own creations for the front row.
There is competition to see who can wear the most eye-catching outfit: the rapper Professor Green and his wife, Millie Mackintosh, stunning in white, rather sweetly holding hands. That pretty Xtra-Factor presenter Rochelle Humes who used to be in S Club 8 and is still in The Saturdays. Ronan Keating and Strictly Come Dancing’s Kristina Rihanoff.
The clothes are completely impractical, of course - but at the same time rather beautiful. They’re costumes, really, designed to get the wearer noticed - and to show off Macdonald’s undeniable skills. Endless beads and shimmer, beautifully cut, fluid shapes.
The models are thin, though, and they sport a feverish look, their limbs oiled, their hair styled so that it looks wet. One of them has arms so bony I can see the droplets of oil glistening on the hairs as she turns at the top of the catwalk. There’s something vampiric about their waxy complexions and their unsmiling expressions - until the spell is broken by a snapped heel. The model carries on gamely, listing like a ship about to hit the rocks until eventually . . . over she goes. She giggles, grabs hold of one of her male colleagues (who looks like he’s wearing a giant pair of fishnet tights) and the hall erupts in cheers as she totters off, clinging to him like a drowning woman.
I feel a pang of sympathy: suddenly they’re not models anymore, just young kids playing at dressing up.
Even here, though, there are shapes and ideas that would translate well into most wardrobes. An open skirt worn over a pair of cigarette pants; a well-tailored jacket; a figure-enhancing dress. The detailing is remarkable - some of the dresses display positively Herculean levels of workmanship.
Post-show, it’s gridlock, a snarling mess of limos, delivery vans and taxis. Somehow, I make my way back to Soho - just in time for my second to last show, Sibling.
Little bit odd, this one, although afterwards I discover that they used to be a trio and only recently became a duo after one of them - Jo Bates - suddenly died.
Not sure that can explain the amount of bare nipples, some of them in serious danger of chafing against an overlay of PVC, or the excessive use of pom-poms and minuscule crochet bikinis - but then it’s clearly not aimed at anyone over the age of 25. Put it this way: Miley Cyrus will love it.
With an hour to kill before my last ticket - the Scottish designer Holly Fulton - I take a controversial decision to have an early lunch.
It now becomes clear that the choice of Soho as a venue, while not ideal in terms of traffic flow, is actually extremely practical in terms of food. There are endless cafes to choose from, each one buzzing with bizarrely dressed fashionistas. The atmosphere is upbeat, fun - and very friendly. And my food is delicious.
The Fulton show is a revelation. Once again, I steal into the front row, expecting eviction at any moment. Instead, I am treated to a ringside seat for the most fantastic selection of outfits one could ever hope to see - all of them designed for actual women as opposed to pop stars and B-list celebrities.
These are clever clothes for intelligent women. As if to underline this, the models all wear geeky spectacles - and one of them even strolls past with a book under her arm. Bright, Boden-esque colours, clashing patterns, handy little jackets, good lengths, ease of movement. The models look comfortable and stylish, a uniquely desirable combination for someone like me.
Any one of these pieces would sit well within an existing wardrobe, adding just that little bit of designer flare to a workaday outfit. For the first time in ages I feel excited about fashion. Who knows, I might even go shopping.
Sarah Vine, Daily Mail