and I don't wear any make up. The idea of smearing or smothering my skin with any kind of topical beauty application fragrance free freaks me out, I get tight chested and claustrophobic.
Note to self, try to talk to yourself less, people catch you doing it and they think you’re weird!
They'd be right wouldn't they?
Let's get that kettle on shall we?
There I go again.
Chapter three, Monday:21ndoctober2013, the middle part.
I’m bored.
My interview is at 4pm today and I’m going to the west end for some research espionage style...that's my cover story.
EC: “It’s your Mother here, you may recall my face” here we go.
TC: “Hello Mum” I mean it too, every word.
EC: “Have you heard from Henry?” My Brother is worse at calling than me, or am I just hoping?
TC: “No, he’s still on tour isn’t he?” Hoping I’m remember correctly.
EC: “Back yesterday, for a break Catharine, at least he calls me” oh dear, in trouble now. When aren't I?
Deep breaths everyone.
TC: “I’ll call him later Mum, I’m busy now.” I love her you know.
Mothers!
EC: “Of course you are, always so busy.” Walk a day in my shoes…forget that, can’t bear the idea of letting anyone wear my shoes, Yuk!
Back to this afternoon then.
RANDom is the newest hottest denim brand around today, born in California like all the best denim and metal music. Started by two brothers Daniel & James Pearce, and brought home to London.
Nobody knows who they are, few photos suddenly appear in magazines of either one of them but the rumour is these are just paid models to front the copy. Some say they don't exist and that RANDom is just a subsidiary of another strong brand, but denim-types like a story to their brands, so the mystery surrounding the brothers makes for good chat in the business, and since their jeans are almost impossible to find let alone buy, their alusivity turns people on. The vague idea that there's more to this label than smoke and mirrors, makes the brand even stronger and more sought after.
I have smuggled in a change of clothes, thank goodness for the deep trough that's my Burberry bag. My favourite jeans of course and my 'this seasons' collection over the knee Chloe boots. They roll up very small in case you're wondering.
Outside the building I wave down a black cab, tell him my destination, he checks his GPS, not even he knows where it is, practically unheard of for a black London Taxi, and he is cross at himself for the failure. But he has an idea, so he heads towards the east end of London, Hoxton is it? I can’t seem to read a map, it's like a foreign language, I can’t speak those either. I speak horse and cat, does that count? Who am I asking when I do that?
Note to self, stop talking to yourself, I get me, that's the point.
TC: “Henry, hear you’re back in town, hope all OK, let’s meet up soon.” Hopefully not an evening I have to work the next day, can’t draw with wine flu!
HC: “Sis, great to hear from you, Mum has called me, she’s worried about you, apparently you don’t eat properly.” How would she know that, or does she just mean I’m vegetarian?
TC: “And you do?????” Liquid dinners yes.
HC: “She has no idea!” Thank goodness.
TC: “She’s always worried about something” true story.
HC: “You fell of George” ouch, true story.
TC: “Not for the first time H, no biggie, I bounce” it still hurts, and I wince at the reminder.
HC: “Me too! Take care Sis, catch you at the gig Hx” can’t wait.
Later in chapter three, Monday:21ndoctober2013, another part.
I’d rather have a life story of' oh wells', than 'what if's', so I head to my meeting in a confident mood. I know my subject, better than anyone, I can’t explain why or how, that’s just the way it is. Denim found me, I wasn’t looking for a project or a theme to my work, but my intense dislike for all fakeness and fleeting moments forced my hand. Unsubstantiated claims, temporary motifs and unlikely icons left me with denim. I pitched my wagon the only 'real' thing in fashion. The honest, the old and the good, denim. Its anti-establishment aura gives it a coolness which usual fashion-types just don’t get, that’s why denim-types get left alone, it's a nasty job for a girl from the smart side of town, but I am not her, I love the honest stuff. Denim doesn’t jest or fall from