THE PLANE
was noisy, and I couldn’t sleep. The guy sitting next to me was a doll and let me steal his blankets and pillows.
THE AIRPORT
is still amazing to me because of the candy it sells, so banal in Britain and so totally exotic and worthy to me. We land too late to buy anything; all the stores are closed.
MY HOTEL
is tiny and smells expensive, exactly as I remember. I adore it, but I sprint from my bedroom to the supermarket down the road, buy yogurt, buy candy (!), buy grapes. My phone rings twice- once it’s a male model I met in NY. “Come to the Gossip concert,” he says, “You can have my backstage pass.” Um. The phone rings again and it’s Diamond. “Hello, can’t talk right now, just… wanted to say hi. Okay, bye.” Um #2. I weigh Beth Ditto against sleep and pick the boring, best choice.
GARETH PUGH
is obviously the best show ever. There is a mink coat sewn to look like dead mice. There is Kylie Minogue. All of Central St. Martens has crashed the Vogue row. Anna Wintour actually laughs. I wonder what Gareth’s parents think of his career, and remember saying once that his dad worked in a factory and he ran away to start art school. “Warhol,” I peg, but I won’t let myself hold the thought.
BLOOMSBURY PARK
is where Diamond Rodgers and I finally meet (re-meet?), and it’s sort of cinematic because we’re hugging and screaming and spinning around, and everybody stares because it’s just after the Christopher Kane show so they’re all still streaming out of the venue. Of course, I love this, and him. A good moment.
LUELLA
is sick because I am in the front row (for real, it’s where my assigned seat is) and almost next to Lily Allen. This is really cool since last year I was in the last row of Luella. I haven’t slept in three days and try to avoid Kelly Osbourne on the way out, but it doesn’t work.
BOOMBOX
is like MisShapes in slow mo, in costumes, in eccentria. The vibe is so positive and the outfits so beautiful. It’s weird though, because I’m used to knowing everyone at parties and here, only Henry Holland and Agyness, and since they are stars – or at least, very starry – they don’t count.
WEARING A RODNIK SCARF IN HOXTON
I stand outside to catch my breath and a beautiful girl starts talking to me. She wears a Marc Jacobs-y hat. She works in fashion PR. She’s really cool and takes my phone number. “That was my girlfriend,” says Diamond the next morning, “and she knows exactly who you are. It’s too bad she didn’t say something.” There are no photos allowed in clubs here, which I think is why blogs might not be big in London.
TOPSHOP
is not as fun as it used to be, and everything feels like it’s gone too thin, or perhaps I’m just older and tired-er and looking to look like a Big Girl. I go to Ted Baker instead and buy a trench coat. I almost bought the Chloe one, but couldn’t stomach the price.
HOUSE OF HOLLAND
is a truly bizarre experience because it’s in an old warehouse with neon graffiti everywhere. Leigh and Jackson are models in the show; Max and Scott Meriam and Geordon and Greg hang by the photo pit to watch them go down the runway. Leigh has threatened my life if I make her laugh on the catwalk, so of course I’m wondering how best to do it. The show is so crowded, I sit on the floor.
NOKI
is my favorite show of the week, a London moment where garbage Geishas overtake the runway. The clothes are actually awful, but the goth conviction of the show is so moving that I’m sold. If I were for real, I’d say my favorites were Marios Schwab and Louise Goldin, but whatever. Imaginary girls get to have odd taste.
VENETIA SCOTT
is Marc Jacobs’ stylist and associate creative director, and she is randomly at a fashion show. I’ve met her before, with Pete Wentz Photo Boy, so I pull up next to her and ask, “Want to talk about the Marc show?” She actually does. For fifteen minutes. If anything else, this has made London worth it.
YESTERDAY
Diamond told me we were going on a boat “to sight see.” We walked down to the Thames and sat on a dock with all of these yachts. Then a tiny inflatable dinghy pulled up. “Get in,” says Diamond. We ride so fast through the water that I can still feel it in my gut. I am so sick and scared that when the ride’s finally over, I burst out laughing. We decide to go to the Tate Modern but we don’t like the exhibit this month.
BETHEL GREEN
His apartment and five bottles of wine. There is a lot I should say to him, but I can’t. Instead we play the entire Maccabees album and jump up and down on his couch. At midnight I pull on my coat and call a cab. “We broke up,” he says. “That would explain your dancing,” I answer.
TOMORROW
Paris.
[SOPHIE FIENNES - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
I like your life.
what laur said. it’s also inspiring that you made it happen.
i looked every day, you know, for a posting and was beginning to give up hope. not in the world, but in imaginary people. glad ur back.