By the quality of the models I knew it was going to be a low budget show, which was a disappointment for a somewhat big brand. The models were sullen, stiff and two heads too short even by local catwalk standards; their overweight middle-aged parents tucked in the corners of the store with cameras to catch their princesses in action. They were modelling shoes and somehow the rest of what they wore – their clothes and other accessories – did not quite matter, or did they? Among the guests were trust fund kiddie bloggers who probably took two hours to get dressed and another two hours to iron their hair and put on their makeup, the tetchy fashion writers on their third glass of wine and always within reach of a deadline, and the gamine, limp-wristed stylists in their perpetual practical flats, distinguished from each other only by how ridiculously cut, ripped and flared their trousers were. As soon as the show ended and the one-night-only 20 percent storewide discount was announced, everyone dropped their civilised veneers and vapid banter, returning to their desire of espadrilles and mules and stiletto heels in the brightest hues of the season. Perhaps everyone had forgotten the scarce, rationed wine except for me. I redeemed my complimentary pair of shoes and bought myself a pair of sensible black heels at a discount only to appear to the PR girl that I was not a freeloading cheapskate so that I would be given reasonable access to more freeloading opportunities. I did not leave until I had enough glasses of wine to not mind the rush hour crowd at the train station.
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