A while back I said I want to be the kind of woman who wears Bottega Veneta when she grows up. For now, I wish I was the kind of girl who wears Giles Deacon.

Yes, I know, few people actually wear Giles, but those who do are really fucking lucky - the man is a genius. Which must be why the security was prison-tight. At the door:

“Hack. Jefferson Hack.”

“I’m sorry sir. What did you say your surname was?”

And then I heard this:

“I’m his sister! I don’t need an invite!”

“Everyone needs an invitation, ma’am.”

“But I’m Giles’ sister!! Look, here’s our Mum!”

Once in, I stood atop a platform in the darkened, ridiculously small, overly packed, green-tinted venue to try and take better pictures (I’m working on it, I swear) and watched one of the best collections I’ve ever seen walk down a runway.

Fresh, stellar, amazing doesn’t begin to describe it. The clothes - chunky knit ball skirts with corseted tops, violently studded and spiked shift dresses, massively jeweled t-shirts, stiff strapless dresses in gold silk and grey wool - were unreal. The energy was through the roof, and though I’ll admit the furry hot dog outfit kind of threw me for a loop, everything from the Stephen Jones hats atop the models’ heads to the slouchy platform boots on their feet was perfect.

I know I’m gushing. But really, it was brilliant.