Escapism

I went to the Bally Event on Thursday night with some friends.
Friends mostly involved in menswear.
Given the sudden closure of Arena this week it had left the atmosphere amongst us similar to what i'd imagine (this part had to be deleted due to the fact I had complaints about my lapse of PC'ness. My original metaphor was to indicate impending doom)

Fashion parties no longer seem to buzz with, 'My God can someone get a mathmatician to calculate the exact angle Daisy Lowes tits face north in that i-D shoot', to the words, 'Redundancy', and '50-25% across the board'.

Moving on, literally. I decided to remove myself from London for the time being.
Lucky me, I happen to have family in Nice where the conversation goes more along the lines of,

'Darrrrling, seriously, Mrs H number 5 is perfectly fine, I'm like Mrs T number 10 and, it's like the other ex wives are totally my best friends'

No surprise I ended up working in fashion then, all things considering.

I havn't been back to the Cote D'Azure since my first real life paid fashion job working for the fabulous 'Il Divo' in San Tropez four years ago.

Of which I shall not elaborate on for now.

Except to say the old Spanish bloke makes Jordans face paint look as clean and simplistic as a Margiela store.

Actually. Now I reminis. Seriously. You are looking after four men that would do a madame Tussauds wax work proud because of the layers of orange foundation manage to attach to their face in 40 degree heat. They insist upon the whitest of white designer shirts. Which, I sit in a small laundry room,
(again, the no windows theme is prominant in any building/abode/room a fashion assistant resides in)
with no air con from 6am until midnight. Steaming. So they can pose in an infinity pool and melt orange shit on to and bring back to me to iron and clean and then start the fun game all over again.
( This is a game of two ways. The way it runs when you are working for say, the Steriophonics is wonderful because you clean the shirt whilst it is still on the singers body by rubbing vigorously)

Otherwise all I can say is. If a garment is soaked with Yellow sweat, amber foundation and man BO and you apply steam to it in an enclosed space. The experience is similar to sticking your head in a sauna filled with rotting pig offal marinated in sulphur.

This topic perhaps, inspires to many bad memorys and invigorates feelings of great anger.
Which makes for shoddy and dull writing.

I shall call it a night.