I think if you’ve ever been around The Strand area or gone for coffee at Somerset House around the middle of Feb, you’ll feel a warm sense of togetherness; seeing the lines of bloggers and journalists ready for that first peak at the next season’s produce. I’ve sat front row before, watching the pink tulle’d ladies walk in motion down the line, entranced in it all, whilst my friend sat next to me, wishing the whole thing would be over, quicker.

I think Fashion Week is as exciting to me as Comic Con is to comic book fans. I adore walking past Embankment station and seeing a flurry of colours, boots, and hats, all being followed by photographers trying to find out their names. Outside 180 Strand will inevitably be a line of BMWs hired to the most known influencers, to lay all over for the shot, and then a line of lesser-known ones working so hard so that for one season at least, that will be them.

The other side of Fashion Week is the jealousy. We shot outside the Church opposite 180 and had done for some time before anyone noticed us. Up came a model or influencer, unknown to myself but clearly had the self-importance to make us believe she was big. Her photographer told us to move, pack up our suitcases so that she could get the shot. We didn’t move for a while and I could hear mumbles of words I shan’t repeat, all because we were stood in a LARGE area, but on the exact spot that this person decided she wanted. That’s the problem, the entitlement. If they don’t know who you are, you’re irrelevant to them. If you’re not dressed in the most outlandish get-up, you’re irrelevant to them.

Fashion Week is a Godsend to those of us who A. can deal with the ignorance enough for our love of fashion, and B. those who really really love being in a crowd of 100 girls on the street talking about clothes and where to go for brunch. It’s an experience I would recommend to you all, but once you’ve done it, you’ll be done for life I’m sure.