Well, we went back for more (Brook REALLY liked that tetrapack water). The passport office’s baffling queue system meant I was too late to get into Katrina Tuttle’s show (sorry Brook!), but we watched it on the screen outside. Lots of pretty frocks covered in pleats and flowers, worn by models who could not walk in their four-inch heels. LGFW gets the young, cheap models, I guess. Fresh and girly and I wouldn’t cry if one appeared in my closet next spring (er, the dresses, I mean, not the models).
Then we went to eat noodles in Liberty Village to fortify ourselves for the crowds at Pink Tartan. Yikes, man. While we waiting in the huddle (to call it a line would be so misleading), elbows at the ready, Brook rhymed of a half a dozen ways to improve upon LG (ugh) Fashion Week. She should send Robin Kay an application letter on Monday morning. From our spot in the huddle we spotted Ben Mulroney air-kissing a bunch of people and we eavesdropped on a gaggle of fashion students with just-so hair and in-your-face-trendy glasses. Then, when the ropes parted to let in the masses, we shoved and elbowed and excuse-me’d (this IS Canada, after all) our way into the showroom and nabbed a couple of seats.
Pink Tartan clearly shelled out for models who could handle the absurd footwear, and the show was better for it. Lots of trenchcoats and blazers with visible epaulets, a few vaguely nautical pieces (Ralph Lauren-lite), and plenty of sequins. Fun and shiny and crowd-pleasing – no wonder proud hubby Joe Mimran is beaming from the front row.
And then we’re outta there. We wave to the PETA seal and Brook needs change for the bus, so we pop into the Starbucks, which leads to the quote of the evening. Noting the group of skinny, decked-out girls clustered in the corner, I jokingly ask the barista if Fashion Week is his favourite week ever. “Not so much working here, but visually I can’t complain,” he says. “And I suppose if I wasn’t working here, I couldn’t very well sit around like a creep.”
