London Fashion Week - the legacy

It was London Fashion Week recently. Last week, it was the Baftas and this week just gone, it was the Oscars. We are surrounded by stick thin models and waif like celebrities (I use the term loosely) wearing designer gowns and incredible creations made of silk, satin, lace and safety pins.

They tell us that a version of what is on show in London fashion week will be in the stores within six months, and that it will be ‘the thing’ to wear. However judging by some of the creations on show I will need to grow another two heads and be about seven foot tall for it to remotely fit.

It is very telling that what actually struts its way down the catwalk bears no resemblance to the beautiful gowns that most of the stars wear on the red carpet (with the exception of Tilda Swinton, who always looks like she has been dressed by Oxfam, and Helena Bonham Carter who always looks like she has gone to the fancy dress shop and just picked up what was left that no one else wanted). Most of the women at the Oscars the other night looked fabulous, as you would expect if you have all day to get ready, a personal stylist and Georgio Armani on speed dial. Angelina Jolie looked radiant in a luscious black velvet gown slit to the thigh (apparently the thigh has its own Twitter feed called “@AngiesRightLeg”, which has over 12,000 followers – who are these sad gits!?), Penelope Cruz looked suitably Latin in scarlet lace, and Nicole Kidman shimmered in Ice Queen white with a big swishy cloak.

Much as I love the gowns, I wouldn’t want to go through the disciplined exercise and months of self denial that these women put themselves through to be suitable clothes horses for them. Any ounce of fat is pored over by the magazines (“Ooo Jennifer Aniston’s got a bit of a belly, is she preggers?”) and slinky gowns like that are very unforgiving ; one canapé or glass of fizz to bloat you out and everyone will know. Nor would I want to have to wear the layers of Spanx or whatever support knickers they choose as their particular torture all night – it must be so uncomfortable and restrictive, and if there’s free food on offer, I like to have room for it.

Fashion designers have a great deal to answer for. The London Fashion week designs will, in a watered down form, find their way into Primarni, Top Shop and River Island and the great unwashed masses of teenagers will be tempted into parting with their hard earned cash for something that is usually overpriced and doesn’t suit them just because the magazines tell them it’s fashionable to wear it, or they have seen a picture of their favourite celeb wearing something similar. If we all dressed according to our body shape, colouring and what suited us, the world would look better (much as they do in France or Italy, where they never seem to look scruffy no matter how poor they are) and we would all be richer. I can’t count how many times I have fallen into the fashion trap only to throw something away a couple of months later because it looked like an old dish rag on me (or I looked like a Roly Poly!). And I despair sometimes when I walk around in some local towns at the unsuitably dressed people I see, who think they are the dogs bollocks but actually look like complete dorks.

I spend too much on clothes, but I am trying to be more selective. I am now too old to wear most of the stuff on show. I don’t intend to grow old gracefully, but I do intend to grow old unfashionably. And anyway, by now I don’t care. It’s a waste of time and money.