This felt very London. As in, not entirely about clothes, although there were clothes, obviously, as there tend to have to be at these things, but more about the show itself. The experience. It was in your face. So in your face, in fact, that I actually go slapped in the face by an errant strap as the models hoofed past. Quel horreur! Well, they do say you have to suffer for fashion and all that.
And this was fashion with a capital F – the sort of clothing that prompts such questions as: do I have the will and skill to pull off a dress made entirely of credit cards? A denim corset? Probably not, no. But there was plenty to like here – teeny tops in Hawaiian print, boxer-style shorts, ruffly jersey. It ended with a bride. And what did that bride wear? A dressing gown. Tres practical.
Photographs by Jason Lloyd Evans
