Regular Fashionista


  The eighth floor of the apartment block was one, endlessly stretching room, all concrete walls and thick supporting pillars, untouched since the building had been thrown up little over a year ago. For a fashion show venue it was a place paradoxically void of any design, or maybe that was the point. Nothing mattered but the clothes, the only colour to the grey-on-grey room. I don’t know. This was my first.

  I’m handed a little pink goody bag by a smiling plastic person and I nod and accept it and try to ignore the growing feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m a player in some episode of Sex and the City and that Sarah Jessica Parker is going to strut onto the catwalk and I’m either going to wake up or have to kill myself for breathing the same air as her.

  There’s a crowd in the corner, surrounding the only table – the only piece of furniture – in the entire establishment. It’s a bummer. I came from work, literally jumped as I came from my shift and pushed into tonight’s unexpected events by my aspiring-designer-acquaintance. She has some clothes up there tonight, supposedly, a little black number she’s particularly proud of. What are friends for. Still, it’s a bummer, my legs are already verging on a liquid state and there’s not a God damn chair in the house.

  The table in the corner is manned by a flustered looking guy handing out quaint strips of barbeque chicken and popadom fragments. I guess the crowd want to start eating before the crazy-thin models strut their stuff and remind us all of how fat we are and guilt us out of our food.

  And then suddenly the music reaches a crescendo and the show starts in earnest near the back of the room, the aforementioned stick insects pouring out of an archway one after the other in various shades of spectacular. These vacant beauties waltz past me, shooting a smoulder here and there, and I can’t help but think of pretentious restaurant dishes; minimal quantity, maximum presentation. What little there is split out across the porcelain canvas of their skin, only the essentials with just a dribble of sauce perfectly haphazard in its placement. Then a slew of women walk past in see-through blouses and I think that it’s pretty cool to see boobs.


~ by Joseph Blame on March 26, 2011.

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