As I write this post I am still on a total high. I’m not interested in the comedown. This feeling has to be up there with the best moments. Last night, I was able to watch my daughter walk her first catwalk in London Fashion Week. And what a show it was!
These events are something else. Set in the most exquisite and luxurious location of London’s finest, the fashion types arrive. They are different. They have an air of elegance that one craves. They have a youthful glow that I lust after. They belong. Effortlessly. The decadence is indulgent but I’m content indulging. For tonight I am part of this crowd. Part of this event. I have a reason to be there, even if my ticket is white compared to the black and silver of the other guests. My ticket might mean only standing but I’m still there. I can still experience the high.
I’ve been lucky to have been to other shows and you can read about my experience at the Moschino show here but there is nothing like watching your own daughter come up on to the catwalk and the cameras flash flash flash. Just unreal.
A rainforest was the theme of the show, set within a room of such splendour. Chandeliers dripping from the beautiful painted ceilings, the coolest of music delicately playing as the fashion crowd saunter in to take their seats. The photographers one end of the catwalk, the opening for the show the other. As I stand waiting for the spectacle to start, I receive text after text reminding me to film it. I’m panicking slightly as I worry that I don’t have enough storage. That faux pas really doesn’t need to happen right now!
The chatter stops, the lights dim and then the music, the show music, starts. I’m shaking. The catwalk is so long. Everyone is watching. And then the first girl appears. She walks the entire catwalk on her own. She owns the stage completely. Not sure I’ll be able to cope if Georgia has to do this. The pressure not to fall, not to go wrong, to own it like the others. All eyes on the model. Cameras clicking and flashing. A powerful force over the pumping music. My passion for this world is further fuelled.
The theme is animal like. The girls’ hair is big, the make-up animalistic. I’m not sure I’ll recognise Georgia. And then, oh my word, she appears on the catwalk. She’s there. My girl. She looks so different. Not my 17-year-old teen that I’m nagging to do homework, moaning at to tidy her room. She’s a model. She’s on this catwalk. She’s doing this thing and I am literally shaking. I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t whoop. I must try and calm. I’m holding my breath as she walks from end to end with a confidence of which I could only dream. The cameras flash. She doesn’t falter. All pre-show nerves gone. My daughter to me. But to everyone else she’s someone different. My emotions over this are tangled.
It’s one of the strangest feelings to see your child through different eyes but last night I did. I feel different this morning. I’m proud beyond proud. But it’s more than that and I can’t quite pinpoint it. I’m standing back and enjoying the show for now while I try to put my feelings into words … still my girl but someone else too … just saying.