In a newly published book, Fashion Victim: the catty catalogue of stylish casualties from A-Z (written by one of the industry’s most respected figures, the multitasking fashion heavyweight, Michael Roberts), there’s a poem that sums up the fashion world’s weight hysteria quite nicely:

I am a famous fashion ed.

My branché style is très drop dead.

I’m awfully thin but could be thinner.

All this year I’m skipping dinner.

Karl has made me something new.

The problem? Size. It’s minus two!

It’s a minefield out there

London Fashion Week in September is the biggest draw for journalists in one of the biggest areas of journalism. NUJ freelance EMMA HOLMQVIST records a long day in the life of a fashion writer, working behind the glittering façade.

 

6am

CONTRARY to general consensus, fashion folks do occasionally get out of bed before midday. It’s Tuesday morning, the third day of London Fashion Week’s spring/summer 2009 edition and the day after the collapse of Lehman Brothers, an incident that makes the day ahead of me lose some of its lustre. Nevertheless, fashion journalism is a job like any other and I’m up early to put the finishing touches to an article. This is my 13th consecutive season covering London Fashion Week, a fact that makes me feel a trifle old, although, I remind myself, there are two seasons a year.

7am

PETIT déjeuner is a couple of croissants and a large coffee. Croissants? Do fashion people eat carbs? No they don’t, unless they are, like me, pyjama wearing home workers prone to raid cupboards and fridges for whatever’s there, be it a leftover brownie or a mere Ryvita crumb. Generally, though, carbs are considered more lethal than class A drugs – after all, squeezing into Alaia’s notoriously small sample sizes calls for drastic dietary measures.

7.45am

GOBBLING down the last piece of croissant I start to ponder quite a significant issue for a fashion worker: what to wear? The London dress code is fairly relaxed: wearing a rotating selection of hard-to-come-by Lanvin and Balenciaga pre-collection samples is not the only way of cutting a dash.

Predictably, though, the colour of choice is black, favoured not just for its slimming properties but also for its convenient ability to offer the wearer concealment. Should you, god forbid, discover that you’ve been issued a standing ticket and have to jostle with the Saint Martins School of Art students at the back of the show space, then invisibility is a blessing.

You should avoid looks that are too trendy. Obvious trends, like the current season’s fashion blockbuster number one, lace, are for uninitiated fashion victims only. Needless to say, looking too passé is equally disastrous, unless the clobber in question is more than four years old, in which case it can be labelled “vintage”.

Yes it’s a minefield out there and the sartorial stresses and strains experienced by fashion professionals can’t be denied.

Before pulling an ensemble from my eclectic wardrobe, I stop to think what’s on the agenda. Apart from a full day of shows to attend, I have booked in a meeting with a high fashion jeweller on Bond Street, and if my energy levels aren’t faltering by the end of the day I’ll also have a few parties scheduled in.

Bearing these diverse events in mind, I opt for a rather neutral affair, consisting of a Vanessa Bruno dress with subtle ruffles, worn under a coat with bracelet cut sleeves. To complete the look I zip myself into a pair of towering vintage boots. London Fashion Week, here I come, again!

9.15am

THE FIRST show of the day is Adidas by Stella McCartney. To show the sportswear collection in its right element, the catwalk has been replaced with a gym-like space, where top athletes such as the runner Allyson Felix and the cycling hotshot Victoria Pendleton, do their thing – not at full speed, thankfully – clad in Stella’s latest gear for the sports giant. The spring/summer 2009 collection is signified by muted colours and carefully considered detailing like mesh inserts – elements that have come to signify Stella’s take on alluring workout apparel. Thanks to this talented Beatle offspring, the days of grubby sweatpants are over.

10.30am

SINCE FREELANCES with their multiple commissions are rarely afforded the luxury of focusing on one event at a time, I have to skip a couple of shows to nip off to the showroom on Bond Street to select a couple of necklaces to be featured on the glossy pages of an international jewellery magazine.

Entering the glittering establishment, a whiff of Diptyque scented candle tickles my nostrils before an otherworldly creature appears at my side. This is Desirée Bonbon, the luxury company’s glamorous PR representative, dripping with jewels, her well coiffed, blonde hairdo adorned with a fluffy, white mink fur bonnet. Considering Mrs Bonbon’s exquisite appearance, I quietly congratulate myself that I didn’t sling on that deconstructed T-shirt dress signed Martin Margiela but stuck with the classic Vanessa Bruno number.

It turns out my fortunate choice even matches the milky pastels of the Ladurée macaroons that lie arranged in perfect symmetry on a silver platter. To divert my attention from the sweet temptations, which sadly serve a decorative purpose only, Mrs Bonbon signals to the assistants to start bringing in the real goodies. “Aren’t they just yummy,” she purrs and fixes her green eyes on a selection of baubles featuring rare, coloured diamonds. Each one is worth as much as Desirée Bonbon’s Chelsea townhouse, I’m told.

12.30pm

AQUASCUTUM’S show is one of the most anticipated events of the week, and the international fashion elite is out in force, along with celebs such as Ronnie Woods’s fashion-friendly wife and daughter.

The show is a symphony in blue, with the occasional shot of stark white. Shapes are easy on the eye but incorporate enough detail to keep the look interesting. Verdict: British classics at their best -- which might also describe the stellar front row, scattered with the cream of the magazine editors such as Vogue’s Alexandra Shulman and Harpers Bazaar’s Lucy Yeomans.

2pm

I DECIDE to pop backstage at Eley Kishimoto. A typical creative chaos prevails behind the scenes and Mark Eley and Wakako Kishimoto, the husband/wife team behind the cult label, are overseeing the final preparations by makeup artists and stylists.

In true Eley Kishimoto style, the collection that hits the runway is a colourful affair dominated by the prints that the duo made their name with. In keeping with the theme “Little Devils”, as in naughty little girls, the cuts are naïve and cutesy yet simplistic enough for grown women to wear. In short, the presentation delivers what we have come to expect from one of London’s strongest labels.

4.30pm

WITH Scottish wunderkind Christopher Kane’s surreal gorilla dresses lingering on my mind, I leave his show and find myself sitting in a garage-like space where the quirky London label, Antoni&Alison, has gone all tropical on us. After an old school singing act performed by a moustachioed gentleman, models wearing fruity concoctions emerge onto the stage.

Leaving the venue, I notice how heavy the goody bag is. What might be lurking inside? The weight of it is promising, but peeking inside I find, in keeping with to the tropical theme of Antoni&Alison’s collection, a coconut.

Here’s how to handle goody bags: don’t give them as much as a glance as you take your seat. On Planet Fashion, excitedly rifling through your shiny bag makes you look like a geeky novice. It would be like being caught scoffing a multi pack of Mr Kipling Strawberry French Fancies in the staff toilets at Vogue.

Invariably the goody bag content is predictable anyway. Typically they’re filled with cosmetics, notebooks and sometimes mini boxes of Godiva chocolates or little bottles of spirits. As for the coconut I’m wondering what to do with it -- well it sure is an imaginative gift. Who needs another lipstick anyway?

6.15pm

STEPPING out of the show tent at the Natural History Museum after viewing Amanda Wakeley’s slick spring/summer presentation, the fashion brigade, with their vertiginous platform heels clattering against the pavement, hurry to the designated London Fashion Week vehicles that whisk us from one show to the next. This time we’re on our way to Baker Street, where the hip knitwear talent, Louise Goldin, is due to show her highly anticipated summer wares.

9.15pm

THE LAST show on the main schedule, Giles, is over and I contemplate whether to call it a day or drag myself across town to a party that’s being thrown by Swarovski in honour of their ten seasons working in collaboration with Giles.

I decide not to be a bore, and steer my step towards New Oxford Street and the Old Sorting Office (half the fun of fashion parties and shows is to discover the curious venues they’re held at). Inside the vast party space I discover that Giles Deacon himself is behind the deck, cheered on by the usual fashion party crowd made out of “It” girls, models and skinny boys wearing Peter Jensen trousers.

1am

I AM HOME, feet aching and head abuzz with fashionisms and a whirlwind of different cuts and colours cluttering my head. Now I sit down to work. I have to write up 18 shows for an international fashion title by lunchtime tomorrow, What will make my fingers leap across the keyboard like bees on fire? The promise of a treat, I decide. Would a pair of Roger Vivier killer heels do the trick? Or that rather delicious 3.1 Phillip Lim frock I spotted at Harvey Nichols the other day? Well no. Bring on Mr Kipling and his Strawberry French Fancies. In the darkness of the night no one will see me eat them.