Belle and rebel

So a couple of weeks ago i had an adventure.
I went up to London to see my friend Poli, whom i love and who is moving to Nottingham, along with my best friend Kelsea. This means i shall have to occasionally venture into the midlands and that makes me sad. Before she left, in a bid to postpone that inevitable journey, some quality London time was suggested, and so we met up.

If you read this blog with any regularity, or even if you just look at the pictures, you might notice i have a minor obsession with a certain fabulous french blogger named Garance Dore. If you read her blog you will no doubt know that for London fashion week GAP asked her to design a range of ridiculously limited edition t-shirts for them, in conjunction with an exhibition of her drawings and photographs and anything else she wanted to put up. If you've seen me in the past month you will have seen me wearing one of these shirts. I love it.


I went to the exhibition on the first day it opened, looked around with Poli, and bought one of the shirts. Its the first time i've been on the ball enough to snap up anything limited edition, and i was very pleased with myself. The only bad thing was that both Poli and i forgot our cameras.


I went back up 2 weeks later because Scott Schuman, The Sartorialist himself was in town to do a book signing, and i had to see him in the flesh. Since Garance is his girlfriend i thought she might be there too, and if truth be told i was more excited about meeting her, she has one of those blogs that when you read it you immediately feel that you two would be great friends.


So i'm strolling down Carnaby Street, after spending ages picking out my outfit, and i walk straight past Scott, flanked by his assistant Tracy and gorgeous Garance. He looks like a mobster from an old film, short and stocky in a perfectly tailored suit, with a girl on each arm. I immediately text everyone i know. I go in to Liberty, where the book signing is going to be later, and they have no books for sale yet, so i head back to the GAP, armed with my camera this time, and begin snapping away at the exhibit.


Suddenly i turn around and who should be there but Garance herself, looking radiant and approachable at the same time, a glass of champagne in one hand and killer heels on her feet. I mustered all my courage and said hello. We talked for a little while about blogs and fashion and what i study at uni and films and how Scott might be directing one (you heard that here first, he hasn't even said it on his blog yet!) and got on just as well as i assumed we would. She offered me some champagne and asked me to stay around for a drink while she did some interviews. Of course i accepted.

Next thing i know, the doors of the shop have been closed and there's a bouncer with a guestlist checking people's ID's. I have stumbled into the midst of a genuine London Fashion Week party, rubbing shoulders with he editor of french Elle and being complimented on my hair accessory by a writer for i-D. I turn around and there is Scott, the Sartorialist, right next to me, looking slightly shy and in deep conversation. I don't have the balls to say hello to him, he's far too cool, but i watch him for a while and even snap a dreadful picture, just to prove to you that he really was there.

I stick around, drinking Bellinis and pretending to be a reviewer for a magazine so cool and underground that none of these old world fashion moguls will have heard of it. I work for Cheekbone, delivered by ninjas every half hour because that's how fast our trends change. And i people watch. I wish i had better pictures, because the people were amazing. Unnaturally beautiful, so stylish you immediately feel like a bag lady, and yet so friendly. I want one of these parties every day!

The room was crowded, and at one point i got punched in the arm. I turned to see who it was and there was Scott, again, looking very apologetic and asking if i was ok. I mumbled something unintelligible and grinned, and he turned back to his conversation. Verbal communication with the Satrorialist. Now when i die i'll go to fashion heaven!

Then he ran off to go to the press opening on his signing, and i decided that i should probably eat something, so i left, saying goodbye and thank you to Garance, who gave me a hug and told me good luck with my films, and exited back into the real world. I ate something and then went to go to the book signing, and this is where disaster struck. I had decided to wear heels, and after being on my feet all day and walking all across London (because it's too pretty to take the tube) I was beginning to regret that decision. My feet were aching. I went into liberty and immediately faced the longest queue I'd ever seen. I took my shoes off and settled in for a long wait.




About 5 minutes later a security guard came up to us and asked if we had books already and that if we didn't we should go buy one somewhere else because they had sold out. It was 7:05 and the books had gone on sale at 7. I put my shoes on and headed up to Oxford street to buy one from borders. Borders had shut down. I dragged my aching feet down Regent street, but there were no bookshops. My numbed toes went all the way through Soho and were bleeping by the time i got to Shaftsbury avenue, only to find out that they had sold out too. There were no sartorialist books in London and the tip of my toe had dislocated.
I decided to give up. I had met Garance, been punched by Scott, gone to a fashion week party and drunk slightly too much champagne, and my feet were hurting so much a considered walking across London barefoot. I snuggled up in a chair in Starbucks and read vogue, and felt very fashionable indeed.