London Fashion Week when it is good, very very good, can be a frothy fun-filled counterpoint, between the business with a capital B of New York Fashion Week, and uber octane glamore of Milan. Several seasons ago when LFW was banished to the far corners of Battersea Park, it felt so shabby, so shambolic, so sorry for itself, with most shows looking little better than a pantomime at a village fete. This week though, LFW has been very very good, with inspiring sun-kissed prints at Jonathan Saunders, wonderfully draped and reconstructed scarf dresses and silhouettes at Michael Van Der Ham, film noir Hitchcock heroines at Marios Schwab.
There were hints of a world where women were ladies and travelled in style with sharp hats, elegant dresses: the world of my favourite screen goddess-lined films: from sharp brimmed hats and Jaeger, to sexy bikins at Holly Fulton.
It was almost as though LFW as a coherent collective had created the luxe looks for a woman who, harking back to the time when travel was elegant, when Hollywood stars waved in style from the stairs of a Pan Am aeroplane. Some were evocative of a 1970s louche glamour and most importantly all would be top of most women’s wardrobe wearbility wishlist.