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From: fascist Category: Life Date: 10 October 2006 Time: 07:30 AM Review: Its over, here and gone in a flash, fashion is n't fun its serious, find your contacts, pr companies, fashion week friends to get you in, and get out your frocks. The point is to be wearing the right thing so the photographers snap you, not the show, the celebrities, the clothes. Push in, give up with manners leave the pregnant woman, old lady/man, cripple standing at the back - they should be overjoyed/amazed/ecstatic to be there at all. Once you find your seat keep it, stare ahead, ignore the seething mass behind you, they are nothing now even if they were your friend and got your ticket in, once you have a seat, a goody bag, a small inch of comfort your somebody, a body cramped up looking gorgeous, painful, hot, shiny, glamorous sweaty. Sweat it out till the show finally arrives. Everything is meaningless now, all the purpose is gone and you can relax, they're not looking, they're pretending to look, they're thinking of what to say afterwards. It’s a competition you see to find the best word to describe the show, its not lovely, its fantastic. The models aren't long, ugly, skinny giraffes, a mirage, an illusion, in conversation transforms them, beautiful girls, all under 14 the designer boasts. Their faces depend on how much you can pay, as does the extremity of their dieting, the length of their limbs, hair, eye brows. Dodge the security guard, even if its not that great, its good to go back stage, wonderful amazing incredible mr designer, let me touch the fabric of your coat, golden touch, make me beautiful and keep me beautiful by putting me on your mailing list, a precious list, no more Cinderella's back to boredom life.