Sitting at the Charles Anastase show, we felt like London Fashion Week had really started.
It was a sweaty, hot, mad mess in what looked like someone’s really large flat. The PR’s screamed: “Is Suzy coming?”, “Yes!”, “No, I’ve just rung her driver!”, “Get Tim Blanks!”, “Is he downstairs?”, “Yes! Yank him up the stairs!” while Pixie Geldof held court in the front row with Diane Pernet and Daisy Lowe crashed half way through.
The collection was part punk, part wearable. We’d rock the plaid jackets and striped skirts anywhere, though we probably wouldn’t tie our arms down with rope; the oversized pink cardigan was striking, though no hand chains, please; the shoes were unreal though we’d need them 3″ shorter and minus the smeared mud.
Shirts came printed with “Dementia,” “Don’t Kiss,” and “Malia Obama” and the models wore the goth red lip that was everywhere in New York.
Very excited chatter led the way downstairs.