Fashion always outruns the victim.

So fashion week came and went. As usual, there was more ado over who wore what off the ramp than on it. The smoking area was the hub of pre and post show discussions - everything from anticipation about a new designer debut to rip offs, repeats of previously displayed collections and Bollywood showstoppers made the rounds. Embroidery techniques were analyzed. Silhouettes were clinically dissected. And boob job botches were the flavour of the day.

The Grey Goose lounge was relegated to last season so time between shows was spent sans espresso martinis in a sponsor lounge that barely gave guests enough room to parade their 'it' bags and air kiss with flamboyance.

Coming back to the shows, it didn't matter which designer you were going to see, all that mattered was where you were seated. First row meant you knew the designer, the organizers or your daughter was the showstopper. Second and third rows meant you knew of the designer, had a friend working in PR or your ensemble consisted of more than two designer labels and a large bag. Anything beyond the third row was frowned upon, even by the ushers.

Some of the shows were pure drama. Some were fun. While some were so drab, even women with fresh botox hits managed to crack a yawn.

After a show, models flit around and take pictures for the press, sip a glass of wine, smoke a cigarette, and dutifully repeat it after every show for the rest of the week. As for the guests, well, they pretty much do the same.

But fashion week is quite a learning experience. Here's what i learned: Eating small portions of food throughout the day balances off the alcohol. Carrying extra cigarettes is vital. And saying that something is 'So last season' is so last season.

I Can Style (You think?)

So I took a break from my mundane advertising routine to style a fashion show in Delhi. Three actually: Only, Jack & Jones and Vero Moda.
Big brands. Even bigger list of models. 46 in all.
Let me tell you, fittings and putting together looks for 20 guys + 26 girls = 1 not-so-well-slept me. But it was an adventure since the minute I landed to the time I got back. The pace was frenetic, which only slowed down a bit after the Delhi biryani was digested. But once evening came around, everyone was up and at it again. Cue sheets were rehearsed, clothes were slunk into, hairstyles adjusted, faces touched up, bodies bronzed and bam...it was show time!
Models walked the ramp with clockwork precision. A slew of Bollywood celebrities followed suit to catcalls and never-ending flashbulbs. While Hard Kaur, in her desi hip hop swagger, ended the show on a note that made all the hot blooded Punjabis shake their tandoori behinds.
The party continued till dawn.
My hangover lasted a lot longer.

Tick tock...tick tock...

So we all know Bombay is a city that just doesn't let you breathe. And even if it does give you a window to breathe, the smells could land up killing you anyway. The pace of the city is frantic. Everybody's on the move. Everybody's rushing to get to somewhere - their workplaces, their lunches, their plastic surgeons. Everybody's catching a bus, train or plane. And everyday there's someone falling off each one of them. No one stops for anything. Except perhaps to bribe a traffic cop for jumping a red light so they can hurriedly be on their way again. 

Work's hectic. 

There's breakfast, lunch and dinner meetings, drinks with clients, drinks with potential clients, drinks with ex-clients, even drinks with colleagues to discuss your constant drinking.

And then there's the partying. It just don't stop.

There's parties for everything - a movie launch, a movie flop, a new fairness cream, a tanning lotion, a new wine, an old wine in a new bottle, a new designer, an old designer with a new face - and the beat goes on and on. Whatever free time used to be there has been usurped by twitter, facebook, linkedin, google chat, angry birds and mafia wars.

And you're still wondering why I haven't had the time to update this blog?