I don’t live in Notting Hill nor do I frequent the front row of London, Paris and Milan’s fashion shows; that’s where Anna, SamCam, and Twitter’s Jane reside. Nor have I swapped the bright lights for Nappy Valley, and there’s not a Giles, Miles or Penelope in my circles.
My front row is football class, law lectures and my car, going from one children’s party to the next; bliss.
But I confess, my heart does sink with every one of Jane’s tweets. She doesn’t seem to do mundane. Milan today, London tomorrow, New York another day, it’s all terribly dull for this Editor in Chief. It’s a sharp reminder that I’m not there. I, one of her followers, do like the updates though, living life on the edge one tweet at a time.
I may be closer to Rotten Row than Saville Row, but that doesn’t mean fashion is any more irrelevant to me. I know I’ll be wearing the castoffs and copycats of Milan’s catwalks with a little twist and a lot of last season and the season before that added in.
I flick the pages of You and Grazia and work out ways to emulate the chic and sophisticated, and all the while I fantasise that I’m there and not here. Or I’m going somewhere. Imagination is priceless and thankfully I have this and hope in abundance. But if truth be told, I wouldn’t swap you a Gucci or a Prada for my life, though if it was a Dior I’d be pushed and for a Chanel I’d throw in a chubby child.