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I'm writing to you in yesterday's make up, slumped and surrounded by ice-cream wrappers. It very much looks like like I'm nursing heart-break and I guess I am. When the opportunity to freelance for GFW came about I didn't think much of it. We joked that it would probably be a few proud mums pouring jugs of squash in a community hall, talking about their 'baby's first collection.' I was unemployed, broke and bloody bored (and still am, for the most part) and it was a writing job that looked interesting. Now, ready to sing All By Myself into an empty bottle of wine, I'm gutted it's over. What went down at #GFW2015 was completely unexpected and completely brilliant.
I didn't really sleep too much or ever properly wake up and I guess I accidentally dieted on fake chocolate bars and tiny salads. My brain is still trying to think of new ways to say 'collection' or 'designer' without sounding repetitive. Everything aches and I can't really function or articulate or look at a sentence without wondering if I've actually spelt the words right or put them in the right order or whether I should just delete it altogether. I'm exhausted -but I loved it. I loved every frantic and fabulous moment.
Right now, I'm finding it rather difficult to make sense, so I'll leave you with this rambling introduction and an entirely vague promise that I'll post more about it all. My notepad is filled with scribbles from all the shows and interviews I managed to attend so I think I can offer up a unique perspective of the fashion outsider, inside. Maybe. Probably not. But I'll write it anyway.
Have a picture of the media team, more than a little tired and drunk. Come back soon, because I said so.
Woooooo! Proud editor xxxxxx Can't wait to read all about it.
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