fashion and everything it represents, I’m going to give it to you straight: this column is not for you. This column is an appreciation of fashion in extremis; of the type of clothes that billow down chests as if they’ve been carved from clean marble, that froth and flounce like they’ve been torn from between the pages of a Grimms’ fairy tale, that glitter like a disco ball in a teenager’s bedroom.
Yes, it’s red carpet dressing I speak of, and it’s back, baby. With last week’s miserably boring Bafta awards safely behind us (please don’t @ me; I appreciate the struggles of the arts during a pandemic, but you’d think people might check their wifi before appearing on national television, and what was with the canned laughter?) we can now move.