Rage; Violent, uncontrollable anger.

I am not sure why but I seem to experience an unnecessary amount of rage towards my fellow commuters.
I also have obscene road rage issues... for the record.


Today was a day of endless London Transport rage.

Firstly - I was waiting (im)patiently for my train to arrive at 8.04 this morning. As usual I was the first to arrive to my section of the platform AND YET a stupidly short blonde haired lady that kept sniffing pusssssshed her way onto the train in front of me. FOR WHAT??? THERE ARE NO SEATS LOVE. We are English. We Queue....


Secondly - A couple of stops in to my journey I managed to nab one of those silly standing up butt ledge seat type things. Mwahahahaha take that short blonde lady. But when we arrived at the next stop the WHOLE WORLD piled onto my carriage and a very tall man decided to stand DIRECTLY in front of me. In fact NO..... directly ON me. He had managed to position himself so awkwardly that he had no access to a hand rail. EVERY.RUDDY.TIME the train broke or sped up he would fall into me - smacking me on the nose. Douche.


Thirdly - I ran (slash skipped) to catch my second connection... but got stuck behind an sinfully slow gentleman who CLEARLY did not understand the meaning behind the term RUSH HOUR. I tried to dodge out of his way but I was trapped. To my left - a wall, to my right - a pregnant lady. 
Finally made it up onto the platform and heard the bells going as crowds of people bombarded their way onto the train. I hopped along trying to chose a suitable door. No time. I made the decision to get a little run in there, twisted my leg in an awkward way and buckled under the pain. The doors closed in my face. I.... not so cooly... did a quick U Turn and took my phone out and pretended to text, not a care in the world, as if I hadn't just humiliated myself and missed my train due to my absurd fumbling. Smooth.


 Fourthly (pleasantly surprised that fourthly is ACTUALLY a real word) - THE LONDON OVERGROUND TRAIN  BETWEEN RICHMOND AND STRATFORD STILL HAS ITS HEATING ON. That is all.


Fifthly - When home time came I went to the station and had to wait FIFTEEN MINUTES for a tube. A standard London Transport issue, but very annoying nonetheless. 


Sixthly - My second train home was approaching the platform. I was hurriedly trying to make my way up the platform, following behind a lady that again was moving at a glacial pace. THEN. SHE STOPPED DEAD. In the middle of the platform. She quite literally caused a 3 person pile up.

Seventhly (seriously... how is that a word??) - My Final train of the day. Hurrah! Very busy SW London train and some selfish PRICK decides to lean his whole body against the central pole. As in the one that EVERYONE needs to hold onto to stop themselves from falling like dominoes. I did some excellent eyes rolling and tutting at him - I swear to god I am a middle aged grot of a woman at times.

Numbskull; A stupid or foolish person.

I am actually still in a bit of shock at my STUPIDITY this morning.

Today was the first day the public were able to book your Radio One Hackney Weekend tickets. Having registered a couple of months ago I had set an alarm in my phone to remind myself.

I came cluttering down the stairs at about 10am, armed with my Laptop, my purse, my phone and my charger(s). I rather preparedly opened up all the necessary windows onto my desktop - i.e. email confirmation, Radio One website, email with link and ticket information etc.

I grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat there waiting patiently.

11am .... GO! the race was on. Only 25,000 tickets were allocated for each day and I was on a mission.

Suddenly.... an Error message. Something to do with my I.P address. WHAT THE FRICK DOES THAT MEAN??? WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY I.P ADDRESS???? WHAT'S AN I.P ADDRESS??


After ALOT of copying and pasting and refreshing... for about an hour. I FINALLY made it through to the Holding page..... after even more refreshing I was on the 'ENTER YOUR REGISTRATION DETAILS AND SELECT DAY' page. GOD THIS WAS EXCITING, I WAS GOING TO MAKE ITTTTTTTTTTTTT!! SURELY IT WAS A HOME RUN FROM HERE.


I entered all the relevant registration details, chose my day, completely buzzing for my free tickets. And BAM. Back to the holding page. WHAT THE FUCK???? The injustice of it all.


Reluctantly, I took a look at Facebook to see if anyone else had had any luck.

DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT

In frantic urgency I decided to 'double' my chances by using the phone line as well as the website.

This list goes on for about another 2 pages on my phone.....


NOTHING


Suddenly, the website page refreshed again.... I WAS THROUGH. After 2 hours I was finally going to get my tickets. I scrolled down, all my registration info was still there. Perfect. Scrolled down a bit further to select my day.

"Saturday: SOLD OUT."
"Sunday: SOLD OUT".

Somebody hates me. 


At this point I admitted defeat and resorted to wallowing in my own self pity by checking out the ecstatic statuses that were ready to greet me on Facebook.

But it wasn't until I saw this next status from Ross that something clicked in my brain, quite literally like a light switch.........

"23rd June...23rd June..... why is that date ringing a bell? What am I doing on that day??"
"Oh god what is it??"

OH shut up.....

SO there you go.


I wasted my entire morning REFRESHING websites and listening to hideous 'hold' music and for WHAT???? 


Don't get me wrong. I am hideously excited for my Canadian adventure. Just wish I had used my BRAIN before partaking such a mind numbing task all morning.

Plebeian aka PLEB; one of the common people

My brothers and I have three gorgeous younger cousins.
....... they may have inherited the prettier end of the gene pool.... possibly.

This particular post is about this cousin .... Chris


















Just to give you some background on dear old Chris. He is going to hate me for this. 
As kids we were never allowed to feed Chris ANYTHING orange for fear of him going insane and running into a wall or something. This included orange juice, carrots and orange fruit pastels.
I know what you're thinking - "Orange fruit pastels.... sooooo what? They're crap anyway, just pickem out!!". No No. We couldn't take the risk.
Every other Sunday our Granddad would give my brothers and I a packet of fruit pastels each. However, our younger cousins always received a packet of white chocolate buttons. I always assumed this was because they were not mature to handle the multifaceted fruit pastel. Probably not the right adjective, but you have to admit it sounds ruddy good. 

Chris was a fairly crazy, annoying, hyperactive child, he used to draw on walls with felt tip, eat all his Advent Calendar in one day and continuously reak havoc wherever he went.
One example of his common behaviour - My Aunt was eight months pregnant with my youngest cousin Katie. She had decorated a lovely little nursery for Katie, with a brand new carpet, Laura Ashley wall paper and she had stripped a door ready for a good old fashioned white wash.
Having put her two freshly bathed sons to bed, my Aunt went downstairs for a well deserved sit down in front of the TV.
A little while later she goes up to check on the boys - she is confronted with two sleeping little boys in their beds.............completely SMOTHERED from head to toe in white emulsion.
Nervously my Aunt approaches and opens the door to the nursery and discovers her lovely little room is DESTROYED. White paint splashed all over the new carpet, walls, furniture and door.

My poor heavily pregnant Aunt is faced with disaster, whilst my Uncle is on night duty. She frantically calls my Granddad out in the middle of the night to help bath the boys and put them back to bed.

To this day both my Aunt and Chris maintain this whole nightmare was a gesture of love. I believe differently.


To be honest...... not much has changed since this troublesome young age.

New Years day 2012 saw a very 'Chris style' incident. My Aunt and Uncle had invited the whole family round for dinner and drinks - excellent hangover cure. 
A little while into the evening we hadn't heard a peep from Chris, so I enquired as to his whereabouts with my Uncle. (Rob was also missing, but he is far more competent than Chris so I wasn't that worried).
My Uncle (affectionately named Hunky G by us kids) replied 'I dunno, we haven't seen him since yesterday morning". OH OK... great. The little bugger still owed me £20 from the other night when I had to fork out for a taxi that he never ruddy took......

PLEB

Similar conversation with Ori in regards to the same night.......

Double Pleb.


Back to New Years day......

Now, Chris does not have a phone in England... and has not had one for about 2 years now. "Rach, it's the way forward. I only have to speak to people I choose to speak to". Pretentious git. 

Whilst Chris was home from Uni (he studies in America) he had been working in Mahiki in London. He had worked there New Years eve. And had clearly gone out after the bar had closed, gotten so COMPLETELY fucked off his face that he was either lying in a gutter somewhere or spooning one of his best mates far too hungover and dribbley to move.

I was hoping for the latter. 

As the evening went on, neither Chris or Rob materialised. I sat there cursing under my breath that I had dragged myself from my hungover of death but Chris couldn't even make it home to see us.

The next day Hunky G came round to play my Dad at squash.
"Hunky G, what was Chris' excuse when he finally turned up?"
"Well..... he actually only got in at 7am this morning. As did Rob actually. One of them decided to make a bowl of pasta, leaving a path of destruction across the kitchen. I am willing to bet it was Chris. Don't know where he has been the last two days though".

A couple of days later, my Uncle was round again.

"Hunky G, do you have the low down on Chris' disappearance at New Year yet?"
"HA HA yeah, you're not going to believe it. He had finished his shift at Mahiki, gotten so drunken he had decided to take a nap in the staff quarters and GOT LOCKED IN THE ROOM. Every member of staff had left to continue the celebrations and left Chris locked in a room, not deliberately. He had to wait there ALL night and day for the manager to turn up. Then he had another shift that evening".
STANDARD CHRIS
"OH GOOD GOD......... serves him right for not having a phone."

What a pleb.

MOT test; a compulsory annual test of older motor vehicles for safety and exhaust fumes

I had a couple of days of Annual Leave left before April so I decided to take a couple of days off last week. My chum Jem has just moved home from Edinburgh so I figured it would be a good opportunity to hang out with her.

My mum comes up to me about 2 weeks ago and says.... "By the way, your car MOT is due TODAY". OH right.... ok, thanks for the notice!!
Apparently, now that I am 'a grown up' **Shudders** it is down to me to organise this kind of thing. Luckily, it seems you get 2 weeks grace.... SO, I thought it best to discuss with my father, mother and two brothers how to approach such a thing...... in an Indian restaurant on my eldest brother's birthday.


Dad: "You have two options. 1) Book it straight into the MOT garage with the risk of it failing and YOU (note the emphasis he put on me there) pay for any repairs that have to be made. OR
 2) Book in for a service with Mick first, which would be far far cheaper "
Mick is our horribly old family mechanic that has been working on Cooper family cars quite literally since the stone age. Lovely guy, but I will forever hold a grudge against him.......

Prior to my current car I owned two BEAUTIES. At the perky young age of seventeen I was handed this monstrosity as my first car.

A black Fiat Uno with no powersteering that pretty much was a baked bean tin on wheels.
My best friend Laura ironically (of course) named him Lightning.
Sadly, this is not a picture of MY Lightning, but you get the idea.

After Lightning was (FINALLY!) declared unsafe to drive... by me...... Dad invested in a Little red Ford KA, which Laura named Ketchup. Ketchup was nippy, reliable and looked like a little bug on wheels.

Back to the point. It was time for Ketchup's MOT so my parents booked him in with Mick for a service. All looked fine and dandy, I paid for the service and then booked him in for an MOT at a garage in New Malden. 

My mother had instructed me to drop Ketchup off and go for a 'wander and a coffee in New Malden' until the garage rang. So I went to Costa (my LEAST favourite coffee shop) had a Latte and read a magazine. An hour went by.... no phone call.

LONGGGG story short.... almost TWO FUCKING HOURS later the garage called. "Hi Rachel, right I'm sorry it has taken so long, but I am afraid your car has failed its MOT". Oh ruddy hell, whyyy??? Mick told me it was fine!!

I walked back to the garage ... i had been lingering on the corner for about half an hour. The mechanic explained to me that the whole underneath was covered in rust and was slowly disintegrating... Ketchup wasn't worth saving.
I MEAN HOW THE HELL DID MICK MISS THAT???????????? - this is why i still hold a grudge. SO, I had had to pay for the service AND the MOT..... and for WHAT???? A dead car that was taken off the road.

So back to my current car and MOT predicament.
By the way - my car is an 'unamed' Corsa. Laura branded it such a sinfully dull car compared with Ketchup and Lightning that she couldn't find a suitable name.
I think we got as far as suggesting dull names such as Pam or Mary... but nothing was decided upon.

In the middle of this Indian restaurant I had caused a mass Cooper family debate. An argument had ruptured. Usually this is the doing of my 'Puppet master' brother Daniel, but this time it was most definitely me.
"Mick is still perfectly good at the smaller jobs, he always works on our cars"
"DAD he missed my entire rust infestation on Ketchup!!"
"yeah dad he can't even get under a car these days, what's the point??!! Rach just book it into the MOT garage"
"FINE...  but Rachel you have to pay for all the costs if the MOT garage finds any issues..."
"Don't come to us when they charge you £300 plus like they did Daniel"
"Dad that was a different garage, they were idiots"
"But Daaaaaaaaaad I get paid peanuts and I am paying for Vancouver to see Laura"
"Rachel... you are a grown up. Budget for these things"
"Mum.... I didn't even know the MOT was due because YOU didnt tell me"
"Mum and Dad weren't paying for our MOTs at your age"
"Shut up Andrew"
"Where is all your money anyway... you live at home!"
"I pay rent!!!!"
"Rachel! your 'rent' barely covers anything!"
"BAH! whatever... I am booking it into the garage... I cant be bothered to waste time and money on Mick!! I was just asking your opinion".
"Fine"
"Fine"
"Fine"
"Fine"

So I booked my unamed Corsa into the garage and took it over at 8.30am. No lie in for me on my day off then....
3 hours later (I had gone home this time) NOTHING. I called up the garage.

"I am very sorry Rachel, but I am afraid your car has failed"

WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN TO MEEEEEE????!!!! It is an 06 reg Corsa.... surely that is 'new' enough for it to survive an MOT. Apparently not on my watch. 


Right, I had to leave the car at the garage over night as I had plans and wasn't waiting around for my bastard Corsa to get over its hypochondria.
Before I left I specifically asked my mother whether she would be in this evening to let me into the house, as the garage had my house keys. She would be in. Fab.
I met with Jem and we had a lovely lunch and drinks in her back garden, in 20 degree heat, in the middle of March... insane!!!
I then went to meet some work friends for a girl's leaving drinks... all very nice.
As I made my journey home with 2 of the girls I thought i'd ring/ text my mum to check she was at home. NOTHING.
Shit.
Contacted my dad to see if he could pick me up from the station and therefore let me into my house. NOTHING.
double shit.
I hate being shunned.

Finally got a text from Dad saying he and Mum were on a date at the Cinema. WHATTTTTT????!!!!
"Well, when does the film finish? I have no keys and Daniel is working on night duty."
"It hasnt started yet, sorry"
"DAD!!! I have no car, no keys and will be stranded out in the street for hours"
"Go to the neighbours"
"for the next THREE or so hours???? NO! I dont even know them that well"
"well then looks like you will be outside in the cold"
"Seriously..... this is a joke"

By this point I was also running on 10% iphone battery..... nightmare.

who could help me????

ANDREW!!! yes!!
I rang my brother. NOTHING.
Seriously, why do my family not pick up their phones to me??!! probably because they know I am always after a favour.


I tried my sister in law, Andrew's wife. SHE RUDDY PICKED UP!!!!! And sent Andrew out to get me, who dropped me home. Thank god, I don't do stranded.

Friends; A person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection

At this very moment I am quite literally wallowing in my own self pity. This is not because anything particularly tragic has happened to me. No no.... it is merely because I am suffering from that old Saturday favourite of mine...... THE HANGOVER.
I had clambered into bed at 4am..... only for my disgustingly on form Bodyclock to wake me up at 7.30am. OH and a nosebleed when I sneezed too hard. SERIOUSLY there is something wrong with me. 


Right i'm not even going to lie.... i just paused writing this for a good 3 minutes to watch a Cher Lloyd video. I am a little disgusted with myself.


I've lost my trail of thought horribly....... maybe this is a lesson. NEVER. WRITE. A. POST. WHILST. HUNGOVER.

Ok, so after work yesterday my friends and I met in London to have a nice civilised dinner and drinks.
(oh god Madonna, Nicki Minaj and MIA just came on.... this post is never going to get finished..)


I met my beautiful friend Xanthe in Waterloo to continue our journey together.

I think this photo was the start of a beautiful friendship. And YES that Apple VK went ALL over me. 

We had decided to go to Covent Garden for dinner/ drinks. 

Now, you should have realised by now that I SUCK at directions. I genuinely have NO CLUE how London interconnects, or where anything is in relation to anything else. I rely on London Underground, TFL.com and my Oyster card to get me to my required destination. So ofcourse I headed off towards the tube.

"Coop! where the hell are you going?!"

"Ermmmm Covent Garden!!... should we get the Northern Line?!" - Is Covent garden even on the Northern line? I have no idea.

"Ha ha ha what?? Do you know it's literally just over the bridge??"

"What bridge? I thought it was the other side of London?"

Finally Xanth convinced me the tube was not necessary.

So we went to Porterhouse for a drink.  Elena came to join us and we headed across the road to Fire and Stone for an insanely random Pizza. They put potatoes on pizza in there. As in potato on bread. I think I was the only one to find this odd.

Had a few more drinks in there and Lauren came to join us, having been to the Hockney exhibition.... with her mum who proclaimed at the end "I'm not sure why i came to this, I can't stand David Hockney". Nonetheless, Lozzo's mum is a legend.

Lots of mocking as we walked back over the bridge to Waterloo "So Coop, you know Big Ben isn't actually the name of the tower....." Etc, etc etc etcccccccccccc

We then got a text from Xanthe's boyfriend saying he and his mates were in Clapham. Meh... we spend most of our life there why not head in that direction and ruin their... and I quote... "Pussaaaay Patrol" night!! BA HA HA HA, so bad that I actually wept with laughter.

We hopped along a few bars.... until we found out the "Pussy patrolers" had headed to The Grand (at 10pm........ ANYONE that has experienced The Grand before will know this is a fateful error).

Still determined just to have a 'civilised night' we ended up at a bar on the Northcote, just the girls having some good old banter. This ended quite quickly.
We were in fact awaiting the entry of Elena's new flame (new flame... is that the term??). A 'Guy' we had never met before - those of you that know of him will spot my little pun. Yeahhhhh even hungover I can make awful Dad style puns. 
He arrives, we all chat, make inappropriate jokes, drink lots more and make banter. He fits in quite easily. Two of his friends from work turn up - we name them Edwin and Slaphead.
We all decide that we have missed our last trains so may aswell let the drinking continue... after some toilet trips, some drinks downing and some lemon throwing we all head to The Grand.

We went up to the cloakroom and attempt to do the old "Scarf inside the arms of the cardigan, cardigan inside the coat, coat inside another coat" trick - "Ah yes, the oldest trick in the book" I hear you think sarcastically - Well, you'd be right, the cloakroom attendants were having none of that. DAMN.


Made it down to the bar and the new flame bought us all a round of Jager and vodka - good lad, I like him already.


After a lot of drinking, photos and some passionate dancing to One Direction we found ourselves pining for bed.

But now comes the decision of how to get home......
After some fumbling around outside The Grand, tediously long discussions of Sunday Brunch  and some very loud screeches of "THAT'S WHAT MAKES YOU BEAUTIFULLLLLLLLLLLL" we decide upon a Cab. Xanth literally stands in the middle of the road and flails her arms around in the hope a taxi will stop. It works. However.....
LONG STORY SHORT - HE REFUSES TO TAKE US. WHAT A TWAT.


"Guys, guys guys, the night bus to Kingston is the way forward"
"Coop, coming from YOU!!!"

After visiting various bus stops on different sides of the road we see the N87 to Kingston.... but he isn't stopping - turns out we were at the wrong stop. Xanth yet AGAIN throws herself into the road and in front of the bus. I bang on his door in a drunken rage to let us on. - I have become my own worst nightmare. 


Completely shunned and non existent to the bus driver.... we moved on.... Xanthe rolled around on the ground a bit (out of sheer exasperation i'd assume?!) ..... and another bus came that did let us on.
As we sat on perhaps THE longest bus journey of our lives we contemplated the evening and that well known end of the night sinking feeling set in - or perhaps it was the Jager working it's way up my throat?! 
We all alighted (always wanted to use that word) at Kingston and found Taxis to our plethora of home towns. I STUPIDLY chose to go to my usual taxi rank at Kingston station. This meant that I would have to walk past/through/round/under/across all the TWATS falling out of Oceana. I can't really judge, I had just spent the evening in a very similar club doing very similar twatty things.... .................I still judged. 




The End.


LET THE TOMFOOLERIES CONTINUE TONIGHT. NEXT STOP - WIMBLEDON. WATCH OUT ALL.

Fashion; A popular trend, esp. in styles of dress, ornament, or behavior

Ok so as much as I dislike your average 'Fashion Blog' that we see all too much of these days, I do in fact "work in fashion" and thus have a collected a few little fashion stories over the past couple of years.




The Intern. aka. Office Bitch
On my placement year from Uni I interned at a well known department store's Head Office, (where I now work) - in this period, I briefly stood in as a PA for our Buying Director - TERRIFYING. 
On the first day the Director had told me she was expecting a call from the then CEO of Yves Saint Laurent, Valerie Hermann. A phone call that I was instructed to answer - "right here we go then...." 
I need to note that I was seated at the PA's desk, on not my own.


The Phone rang... crap crap crap, be cool.... "Hello Buying, Rachel speaking... etc etc etc"
After some obligatory niceties i attempted to transfer the call to my Director, using the same system as ALL the other phones in the office.
But no no.... I hung up instead. I HUNG UP ON THE CEO OF YSL. I will be blacklisted by the fashion Industry for sure....shit shit shit.

A few days into being a  PA, I was growing a bit cocky - apart from the above incident it was all going very well, thank god.


The Director and had called me into her office to help her with some emailing. I noticed that one of the email addresses she was writing to was something along the lines of pdenis@......com. Suddenly, the awful 'Rachel wit' overcame me and I felt a hideous urge to make a joke. To the BUYING DIRECTOR of a top Department store I said something along the lines of....


"Wow, that dude's email is slightly dangerous, careful you don't slip up and address a Penis"


Now... yet AGAIN there was a moment I thought the fashion industry would blacklist me. But thankfully she has a sense of humour. 




The Sales advisor.
When I returned to Uni in Manchester, after my Placement year, I worked part time in one of the department stores in the same company. One of my hideously hungover Sundays in work I was fumbling around the beachwear department minding my own business when a small ginger man comes up to me.... This bloke in fact:

"Hi love, I was hoping you could help me - I have a load of Missoni bikinis on hold for my wife"


"Of course, I'll just go grab them for you".... I walked off towards the stock room. Shit. Spun back. 
"Sorry, can I take a name sir" 


He looked at me in a slightly amused way. I clearly wasn't from Manchester. - "Paul Scholes"
One step. two steps. three steps. four steps. five steps......... SHIT PAUL SCHOLES. I JUST ASKED PAUL SCHOLES HIS FUCKING NAME. WHAT A DOUCHE. 




The Buyer's Assistant
A couple of weeks ago was AW12 London Fashion Week. I went to a few different shows and exhibitions and managed to humiliate myself a few times... of course.


Christopher Raeburn show - front row of a rather personal catwalk presentation - we were all clapping once all the models had walked through and as i lifted my hands to clap my 'Christopher Raeburn AW12 brief' slipped straight off my lap and with some good speed slid across the floor. I admit this is a fairly minor mishap - but when you are sitting across from famous fashion reporters such as Suzy Menkes you feel like a right TWAT.


Markus Lupfer Exhibition - We were actually just leaving the exhibition, having grabbed our free class of champagne. Walking quite speedily to keep up with the girls I was with, whilst sipping my drink meant that I was not watching my step... consequently I ran SMACK BANG into models Cara Delevingne and Georgia Jagger. GREAT, just what I want, London socialites looking at me like I am a fumbling fool.
I then attempted to 'down' my champagne quickly before we left.... and dribbled half of it down my chin and then my dress. I don't do smooth.


Fashion East show - I was with one of my friends from work and we had arrived slightly early so decided to take advantage of the free flowing champagne.... waiters were on hand to top up instantly should your glass run low. That's what I like to see. Once the show was starting we took our still full glasses with us to our seats. 
By this point I was already feeling the affects - slight word slurring and clumbsiness. It got to the third designer in the show, James Long. I reach back behind me to set my champagne down and take a picture. 

After taking the above photo I reached my hand back behind me....without looking...and SMACKED my champagne all over the feet of the girl behind me. WHOOPS.... didn't get the kindest of looks from her quite understandably. 

Somerset House - So I was on my way to meet some colleagues inbetween shows and was walking through the quad in Somerset House (this is basically the base camp of LFW... lots of photographers, bloggers, reporters, stylists, buyers, random reality TV celebs etc everywhere) and for some UNKNOWN reason to me a photographer actually THREW his camera and stupid flashy thing into my face. I did not react well. It was SOOO unexpected and out of the blue that I literally screamed "JESUS CHRISTTTTTTTTTTTTT" in his face. I definitely noticed a good number of passers by perk up and glare at me in bemusement as my blasphemy echoed around the quad. 

Giles show - So I was sitting front row at Giles which I was pretty chuffed about, good view and free MAC products. Always a winner. 

A couple of days later I figured I'd check out the Vogue Online images of the show. In the first picture I spotted something.......

Ohhhhh this was exciting.

I quickly flicked to the next picture... and the next.... and the next... but soon discovered that clearly having not been happy with me in their front row pictures, the photographers had speedily rearranged their camera angles for ALL of the remaining catwalk looks. 

Ohhhh the disappointment.