Famous Friends and Fashionistas

We had an absolute blast last night at the Scottish Fashion Awards. I really expected a sleek performance, and — since it was a Fashion Awards show — some crazy off-the-wall wardrobe choices. Instead, everyone seemed to be wearing Top Shop.

I left work a few minutes early to do a bit of shopping and get ready. Since I live in Dundee, affordable original clothing really isn’t available, so I had to do the Monsoon, Top Shop, Zara sort of shopping trip. (So, I guess I was like everyone else by wearing High Street.) I ended up mixing and matching. I found this great flowy emerald green ball gown and paired it with a cream bodice and a shear cream flowy top over it. I did my hair up, and Posh wove little green leaves and daisies through it. We talked Fife into wearing his kilt, and CoolTrous was in a sleek pin-stripped suit. Posh went gunny-sack chic with layers of linen in earthy jewel tones, and a scruffy burnt orange with gold thread wrapped into her hair. We were red carpet ready.

We got a couple of packs of G&T in a tin, piled into Fife’s busted up car and buzzed over to Glasgow. The programme was supposed to start at 6:45, but we pulled up at 6:45 and legged it — Fife’s kilt flapping in the wind revealing this true Scottish nature. Walking down the red carpet there were a few photographers making me feel terribly glamorous.

Once inside, it was obvious that we were on time despite being late, because everyone was milling about the bar and no one seemed in too much of a hurry to go into the theatre. We got our drinks and within minutes Posh saw people she knew. There were hugs and double kisses, and handing out of business cards. Yup, business cards. Posh is serious about being an art rep. She’s already registered her company and gotten her cards printed out. She was schmoozing and networking like an old pro — okay, a weird posh arty pro, but I guess that’s what it takes in that industry. She was telling everyone to come see her for representation.

Then someone came up to us and asked if they could take our picture, they knew Posh’s name. I thought, wow, she’s already making a reputation for herself, but when the photographer was finished he asked about her father and if he was working on any projects. Posh waved her hand away and said, ‘I have no idea’, then started talking about being an art rep.

I completely forgot she’s got a famous dad. Weird.

Then, someone recognised Fife. They’re a big fan of his work, read all his books, blah, blah, blah. It’s totally weird to think that my boyfriend and my neighbour are kind of famous. If the public knew what they were really like, they’d be disappointed. She’s absolutely mental and thinks living in a one-bedroom in the West End of Dundee and ‘borrowing’ her neighbour’s wine is artistic slumming it. And Fife, well, Fife’s Fife. There’s absolutely nothing celebrity about him.

So, as I said earlier, I really thought the place would be crazy with fashion, and it wasn’t. Which is good I guess, as maybe this means that high fashion is becoming something people can wear, and not like art or something. Or maybe people are getting bored with the weird art-fashion-crazy-non-wearables on the catwalk, or maybe no one really gives a shit any longer and we all just go to Top Shop. I don’t know.

The ceremony was good, and it was so cool that Karen Gillan won Style Icon of the Year. I texted HP straight away. He says that I look like a smaller version of her, but I think it’s just our gingi-ness. Plus, HP is a massive Dr Who fan so I think he just likes the idea that he slept with someone who looks like a former Dr Who girl. Although, he should be careful telling people that, because they may think that I look like the other red-headed Dr Who-ess, Catherine Tate.

Afterwards we went over to the post-show party, where Posh knew like everyone there. We drank like fiends (except for poor Fife who agreed to drive), and I pretended to know about fashion. One thing about working in publishing, you learn how to blag yourself out of a situation. We couldn’t stay too late because both CoolTrous and I had to work the next day, but if it were left up to Posh we would have been in Glasgow until the sun came up.

On the way home, we talked about them moving to London. Posh has got a flat in Kensington, so they’re going to live there for a while and run her business out of there. CoolTrous is going to live with her and work with her as her legal council and business consultant. Heaven help him is all I have to say about that.

I asked Posh if she finds it weird people asking about her Dad and all. She said, ‘No, I’m used to it.’ Then she said, ‘You met my father didn’t you?’

I said yes, and that he was really nice and seemed quite pleased I didn’t let her die on my doorstep.

‘You see. This is an example of you being bitchy’, said Posh. ‘I don’t need to be reminded of my little “accident”.’

I rolled my eyes, but she didn’t notice.

CoolTrous asked Fife how his book was going, and he went on about his new non-historic fiction book. Posh asked me about work and I said things were slow, but still quite busy. CoolTrous, off the cuff, said that I should call Posh’s dad because he could make a movie out of one of the client’s books. To which Posh said, ‘No. Don’t call dad. He can’t do much. I mean, he can say if he wants to be on a project or not, but you should call my mum, she’s the one with the real power.’

‘I thought your parents were divorced?’ I questioned.

‘They are,’ she said. ‘But mum’s a producer and right now she only buys novels for script ideas. It’s the “it” thing.’

‘But we don’t have any books that have been rewritten into scripts,’ I said.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. She buys the rights and gets someone to turn it into a script,’ Posh said. Then she went on to talk about how her mum usually hires one writer to adapt the novel into a screenplay and then another two or three to fix it. She has her favourite ‘script doctors’. In fact, according to Posh, most screenwriters know their work will get rewritten anyway, and they will sometimes refuse a project unless they know a specific script doctor will rewrite it later. Posh said that there’s usually fewer writers on a project when it’s a UK film, in the US it will go through like half a dozen writers before the film is finished shooting. Crazy.

Then Fife piped-up and asked why Posh hadn’t offered him a book-to-film deal through her mother, to which her response was, ‘Because you didn’t save my life.’

I guess she can remind herself about the ‘accident’ then.

We got home and Posh and CoolTrous came around for a bottle before bed, and while we barely finished the bottle, the talking continued until well past when the sun came up. I think I got about two hours of sleep and I’ve been knackered all day in the office. Loraine’s still a bit on edge and I’m not sure how to act around her. I went out and got a sandwich for lunch and brought it back to my desk, because I felt like I should be doing something at all times, and didn’t feel comfortable leaving for lunch. Not that Loraine would begrudge me a lunch break, but I’m feeling quite nervous around her at the moment.

The Olympic Torch is coming to Dundee tonight, so I texted Fife earlier in the day to suggest that he get the boys and we watch the relay. But he had already planned on taking them to St Andrews tomorrow morning. He asked if I wanted to come with tomorrow, but the St Andrews race starts at 6am (which means that in order to get to the kid’s house, get the kids and get them back over to St Andrews in time, Fife’s got to leave Dundee at 4am), so I’ve declined. I asked if he wanted to come to watch the torch pass through Dundee as well, but he said ‘no’ because he wants it to be a special thing with the kids. Plus, he’s off to bed early tonight since he’s up at stupid o’clock tomorrow morning.

I’d been texting HP all day and mentioned the relay. Since he’s got the car, he’s coming over to Dundee to watch the relay with me. He’s supposed to meet me in the office shortly, so I’m just killing time until he gets here. I really should be doing some work, but I can’t be bothered. Maybe I’ll read a bit from the slush pile until HarryPotter gets here.

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