Thursday, September 23, 2010
London Fashion Week and the Girl from Provo, Utah
I was reminded yesterday that I was not in Kansas anymore.
After spending over a year here in England, and more than eight months living (at least part-time) in London, I thought I had gotten the hang of certain customs, protocols, and dress. My failed attempt to attend a runway show at London Fashion Week yesterday taught me I had much to learn about Oz.
Or perhaps I've just spent too much time in Mayfair, where I see sport coats, scarves, and worn-leather attache cases worn and used by both sexes on a daily basis. With this kind of daily fashion digest, I thought when I showed up in bandana scarf, wrap-tie Gant polo shirt, cordoroy boy-jacket, blue-and-white 70s-esque checked skinny pants, and mid-calf boots (over the skinny pants, of course), I would be recognized as "one of them" in the fashion world.
Not so much. I was promptly hailed by the security guard who, despite the many little clumps of people streaming in and out of the fashion promenade built within Somerset House's courtyard (did they use the fountain in the show?), he picked me to stop, question, and turn away. One of these was not like the others.
Apparently, though not obvious from their website, London Fashion Week is closed to the public. I was suppose to know this and also know that London Fashion Weekend (this weekend) is open to the public, but that I should have purchased my £40-100 ticket ages ago. There I would be given the opportunity to spend hundreds if not thousands of pounds more on half-priced designer clothes, shoes, and bags from last February's Autum fashion week (at least I knew that their shows were six months in advance of the season). Hmp.
I paused outside to purchase a reasonbly-priced sparkling water to people-watch a bit, and gained first-hand knowledge of how badly I stood out. For one, I was not wearing black. Too, my feet were not numb from the four-inch heals I was not wearing. And finally, I rode my bike there, not my moped.