The Shorthorn - Fashion Week, Part 1

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Fashion Week, Part 1

Fashion Week, Part 1

Written by Andrea Silvers, The Shorthorn staff

Thursday, 25 February 2010 04:41 PM

Trip Breakdown

Current Date: February 23, 2010

Standing in Pop Magazine there’s a whirlwind going on around me. Most of the editorial staff just got back from New York fashion week and they’ve thrown themselves headlong into London fashion week. As soon as it’s over they will jet off to Milan and then to Paris for their respective fashion weeks. Apparently the life of a fashionista is intense, who knew?

Listening to the girls talk about the shows and come back with their goodie bags I’m more than a little jealous, turns out being an intern is not as much fun as it sounds. Isabelle, the fashion editor who I would bet money on used to be a model, comes in looking amazing though she claims to be exhausted. She instantly sets to work finalizing arrangements for Milan and talking to designers on the phone making appointments to come see their collections privately where she can get a better feel for their vision than she got at the runway show.

I’m doing my best to get my work done and stay out of the way when a miracle happens.

“Andrea, what are you working on right now?”

“Um, just putting together the Milan schedule.”

“Would you like to go see a show for me. I have way too much to do here but I want someone to go as a representative for the magazine and to tell me how the show was, is that ok?” I love that she asks that as a question. Is it ok? OF COURSE IT’S OK!

“Of course, sure, no problem.”

She rummages around on her desk and pulls out a ticket and hands it’s to me. I know it’s not really glowing but the silver edges and embossed cursive silver words make it look like it is.

“It’s at Somerset House, you know where that is?” No.

“Yes.”

“Ok, well it starts in like 20 minutes, I mean, it’s going to run late, but you should get going.” Right. I grab my coat and run out the door assuming by some force of magic that I will find the place in time.

As soon as I step outside I realize I should have grabbed my umbrella, as per usual it’s pouring in London. I run to the nearest bus stop knowing that they usually have a map posted just above the bench. Oddly enough there isn’t a stop conveniently labeled “Somerset house.” I turn to the nearest person and ask.

“You probably want the bus that goes to Aldwych, that’s where Somerset House is.” Sure it is, that sounds right. I turn back to the map and find Aldwych, it’s on bus number 9’s route, and bus number 9 doesn’t pick anywhere near here. I take off running toward Picadilly Circus thanking myself for not wearing heels today.

I get to the bus stop and the handy board that lists the next buses and when they’re going to be there tells me that the number 9 will arrive in 8 minutes. Great. Not having any clue where I am I don’t even know which way I could go to meet it somewhere on its route, or for that matter if I could get to its next stop in 8 minutes.

Once the bus arrives I take a seat near the front and hope there will be an announcement telling me when I’m at the Aldwych stop. There isn’t. Starting to freakout I bail on the bus when I realize we’re on Strand Street, because according to my ticket that’s where Somerset House is. Little do I realize I’ve gotten out 2 stops too early. During the 15 minute walk I once again thank myself for wearing sneakers.

I see the giant banners for Fashion Week before I actually see the venue. As I turn to go in the entrance it suddenly dawns on me that I’m under dressed, severely underdressed. The girls around me are in vertiginous Louboutin heels that are fashionably unmatched to their DKNY dresses. I’m wearing a pair of Nikes, dark blue jeans with frayed bottoms, and a black and grey striped turtleneck that I bought more for its warmth than style. Cobblestone streets and freezing weather make comfort far more of a factor than style, trust me.

I get in line with the other ticket holders just as they’re letting people in, Isabelle was right, they must be running late. I get to the front of the line and the lady dressed in black holding a clip board asks me where my seat is, I start rummaging through my pockets for my beautifully inscribed ticket, my coat pockets are empty. My heart begins to race.

“I think I left it on the bus.” The word bus actually makes her wince, she lowers the clipboard to look at me… and she really looks at me. She takes in the turtleneck, the jeans, and then to her total horror, the sneakers.

“Are you someone’s assistant?” She seems to brighten at that, that would give a reason for my standing here soaking wet looking to her like a street urchin. Before I stop to think I answer her.

“Um, no.”

“Please step aside.”

London 28—Andrea 2

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