Sunday, 13 March 2016

Ready For Rehab

For those of you who think that fashion weeks are one long LOL, you are heavily mistaken. It's like running a marathon when you are the furthest thing from a natural athlete...

Fashion Month Morning Routine: 
Tears roll down my cheeks as I hit the snooze button for the fourth time, drag my tired ass out of bed, shower, brush teeth whilst checking emails and subsequently filling myself with fear, wash face.

Find black jeans amidst the floordrobe, pull out dirty socks from the foot holes, search for black roll neck that has least number of stains on it, douse in perfume for good measure. Flatten down the frizz in my hair, put Justin Beiber on to remind me of happier times, apply three layers of foundation so I appear slightly human, shout down to Cat that I will be 5 minutes when I definitely know I will be 15. Take 3 minutes to decide whether to apply mascara now or on the train, take 5 minutes to find matching socks, take 4 minutes to pick what colour lipstick to wear with my all black outfit so everyone in the office doesn't think I'm a complete hobo. Run down the stairs (this is mainly for a hurried effect) and proceed to take a further 6 minutes to decide what trainers to wear, round up all my shit for the day, deliberate over an umbrella and do the classic girl panic of 'where is my phone?!' And, ready.

Fashion Month Commute: 
Try and keep pace with Cat and she storms up the hill to the train station as I follow behind, shouting, 'Wait for me! My legs don't work! Can we get a Starbucks?!' Make it to the station whereby another host of decisions must be made - Cat wants to get the fast train because rightly so she wants to be at work on time. But the fast train means no seat, no bar to hold on to and a likelihood of me falling into a much smarter looking man. Obviously I want to go on the slow train: you get a seat, you can have a snooze, I can try and wipe at least 30 emails from my inbox or scroll Instagram until my thumbs start to twitch and roll into work 2 minutes before start time. Winner.

It's a coin toss - either I endure the severe lack of personal space, or I throw a strop and make Cat get on the slow train with me. The latter is much more likely.

Fashion Month AM Work Routine:
The pace of the morning continues with the same 'I'm about to lose my mind' vibes. It's a blur of spreadsheets, emails, call-ins, hiding in the cupboard to avoid our Production Editor. My fingers typing so fast to blast through the storm of emails that the £30 manicure I just paid for is chipped. The first deep breath of the day...

Fashion Month PM Work Routine:
Before I know it it's 3pm and I have not even looked out the window let alone allowed fresh air into my lungs since I have got into the office. I step outside and call Geeta, inevitably the following conversation ensues:

Billie: 'Mum, I'm hungry.'
Geeta: 'Why haven't you made any lunch? Aren't you prepping your meals? I thought you were doing Lean in 15? I bet Cat has made her lunch. Go and get something healthy.'
Billie: 'I WANT CARBS! Say it's ok! I'm tired, I don't like fashion weeks, I have no life, I need to go to Waitrose and buy chicken but it's at least a 7 minute walk. Can you come and visit me? Can you come and cook for me? Can you buy me some chicken? Can you buy me a present? I've been thinking about my birthday, have you seen those Burberry backpacks?... Is dad there?!'

It's safe to say delirium has hit. After a 10 minute conversation of promising Geeta I will get my life in order after fashion weeks have been and gone, I don't have the capacity to think about what to have for lunch and head back to the office for my 6th packet of popchips for the day, because it's basically air, right?!

The next 6 hours are a combination of the following: organising show tickets, organising cars, building an online gallery, scheduling in my social media posts, researching an online article, the second hefty scroll of Instagram for the day, staring at a screen trying to think of ideas for my June copy, panicking that I have nothing to wear for London fashion week and more importantly the ELLE Style Awards, deciding what I want for dinner, debating whether to hit up the cupcake stash that someone has sent in, chasing tickets for fashion weeks and answering a million questions that I definitely don't know the answer to. This is about how successfully I do all of the above...

Fashion Month Home Time: 
By 9pm Kirsty and I call it quits, I call Baz to tell him what a hideous day I have had and I know he will tell me to get an uber home, that's all the go ahead I need....and request. Cheese on toast beckons and then to bed. An episode of Suits reminds me that I could have been a lawyer and what am I doing in this crazy fashion world. I dwell over life as a wannabe Rachel Zayne, ignoring the fact I was horrible at law and Rachel Zayne's waist is the same size as my arm. Deep sigh. Look at my alarm and have small weep that it's been weeks since I've had my full (and very necessary for optimum functioning) eight hours:

And so this routine continues for 6 weeks. Do you know how many missed episodes of Suits that is? How many hours of Netflix have been brutally ripped away from me? How many bunches of coriander I have seen wilt in my fridge? And how many avocados I have sacrificed to the smush gods? Too many to count.

BUT we did it, we made it through. We created the most colour coordinated schedule that was occasionally followed. All editors were returned safe, sound and mildly sane to London, no one missed Chanel, I made it to nearly all my London shows, I got far too drunk every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. I interviewed Alber Elbaz at the ELLE Style Awards and took the best selfie of my life, got hideously drunk, ended up in Raffles, entered McDonalds into my uber destination and felt zero regrets. But most of all I got to wear Giles and felt like a mother fucking princess.

But now, time for Netflix, sleep and back to regularly washing my hair.

Until next season I will cherish my sanity.

Fatty BB xx

1 comment:

  1. I am just waiting for the first novel or magazine for real girls edited by brilliant Billie x