An unfashionable old fool.

It’s Fashion Week here in Sydney, where once again the beautiful people come together to strut about, air kiss, fight for front row seating and consume no calories. It is where designers continue to try to do strange things in order to be considered edgy, relevant and cool. You can be on fleek, on brand, on pointe but never, ever on time.

I once went to Fashion Week and let me tell you, I have never felt like such a solid, rotund, hairy midget in my life. Although some of the Fash Pack are notorious for starving themselves, some of them are just born that way. Fucking genetics hey? What a crock of shit. I was completely invisible in a sea of long-legged beauties, some only 16 years old, as they were painted and strapped into outfits that would make a sailor blush. (I had nabbed me a backstage pass… oh the things I saw!) I did see, however a great display of sandwiches and wraps that were sitting there being ignored. I felt bad for the caterers so I ate a few. Such a thoughtful gal I am.

I saw designers have huge fucking hissy fits just moments before sailing down the runway to rapturous applause as they put their hands together and bowed at the audience like they were some sort of messiah. Of course, this whole scenario was delightful to me, and as far as I could be from my regular interaction with “fashion” which was to be balling socks on the couch in front of the news. But with each passing year, I continue to follow the shenanigans of fashion week with both a feeling of wonder and just the smallest amount of eye rolling…


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Look how unhappy this model is? Standing there in a HOT YOGA STUDIO which is a space heated to 40 degrees and pumped full of humidity. And people pay to do it. But not in swathes of heavy silk I suspect. And then there is this, which leaves my horrified yet pleased that I do not “follow” fashion. The thought of going san bra is just not an option for me.

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Right, you three young ladies, I am glad that you can sit there and dream of September when you can show off your backs, but won’t someone think of the rest of us? And while I am at it, where is the diversity and cross-section of the general population at these events? Where are the plain, the over-weight, the over-tired forty something chicks wearing their Katie’s Ultimate Fits? Where are the punters that haven’t washed their hair in 6 days. Where are the folk that think dropping $1200 on a t-shirt is akin to having a partial lobotomy? I’ll tell you where they are…

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Right here.

But I do get it. Hot young things wearing gorgeous clothes is considered to be inspirational. Spending $5000 to get onto a waitlist for a fucking handbag seems logical. It will make you cool, but will it make you happy?

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Maybe, or then again maybe not.

Do you think we chicks get more invisible as we get older in some circles?

Is it relevant that a 16 year old is trying to sell you “inspiration”?

Or are you wise to this all and don’t really give a fuck?