Look at what that pleb’s wearing! It’s scandalous!

So, along with SA’s assorted shlebs, I made my way to Fashion Week on Saturday – yes, I too was indirectly associated with the shlebs as I got a free ticket to the Holmes ramp exhibition from a friend of a friend who works for a modeling agency supplying the models for the show in question.

I arrived a little early on Saturday afternoon, and while waiting outside the exhibition hall for my friends, I perched myself on a marble counter and marveled at the fashionistas that passed by. See, I was dressed as a golf ho for a party later that night – mini skirt, white takkies, green collared t-shirt (with holes at the back through which my red bra straps were exposed, in true golf ho fashion), a red Srixon peak cap, and my own brilliant design item, a silver-hoop-and-leather-woven belt through which I’d forced a number of golf tee’s (I coerced every designer I spoke to, to look at this creation in awe and admit I was a fashion force to be reckoned with. No surprises, my Inbox was not flooded on Monday morning with requests for orders or even job offers). Apart from my company, who were dressed in chic, understated clothes whose purpose was not entirely to say “look at me! I have the entire latest Versace collection on my body right now!”, the larger portion of Fashion Week attendees that day were there more to show off their wardrobes than to see the latest creations of SA’s most celebrated designers.

Some memorable sightings:

Jacques van der Watt (of Black Coffee fame) mincing across the entrance hall, nose in the air, eyes scouring the hordes of common folk (very surreptitiously, of course) for a worthy fashion companion

An old chick with cropped red hair wearing a crown, three-quarter length tights, mini skirt and shiny silver stilettos

A man (probably a who’s-who, but I couldn’t put a name to the face) dressed as Jean-Paul Gaultier (corset with nothing underneath)

Half the audience in the Holmes fashion show (in a dark room with no lights other than on the makeshift ramp) wearing big sunglasses during the show. Because looking with unshaded eyes is just so uncool.

Me telling (rather loudly and animatedly, in a “I’ve drunk too much Moët way”) Themba Mngomezulu (designer of Darkie) and his amused friends that “I’m really black on the inside. No, really!” I bought a fabulous jersey with the word “Darkie” on it and a pic of an Afro comb, as well as a t-shirt for me proclaiming “I was discovered on the dusty streets of Soweto” and one for the Gilb saying “Previously Advantaged”.

Everyone drinking from mini-Moët bottles. Apparently, drinking straight from the bottle is too pleb for us discerning fashionable peeps. But providing glasses is not an option – too passé, you understand. It’s far more trendy to drink from the bottles with a little plastic funnel thing stuck in the opening – not unlike the broken bulb necks crack addicts will use to feed their addictions. Ouch – was that a little close to home in this environment?

And in other news, it was a weekend of pick-ups. The Gilb spends one weekend away from me in Secunda, and I clearly smell like fresh meat to the rest of the market. Peas and I um, “graunched” (Gilb was cool with that, bless him), which led to a hot blonde bisexual woman trying to pick me up on Friday (yes! It’s been so long since the last time that happened). Darkie man made a mild attempt while I was waiting for everyone to arrive at Fashion Week, then two guys at the Tennis pro’s and golf ho’s party tried to pick me up too – bastards, they weren’t even offering me money, expecting free ho services is soooo cheap. What’s interesting is that both the chick and one of the guys used the same sneaky tactic – bringing up a boyfriend I had not mentioned (as in, so why isn’t your boyfriend here tonight?), a subtle way to confirm that there was one. I’ll remember that one for a future occasion if I ever have the need to be on the prowl again.