This is an assignment we were given at uni to assess our grammatical skills. We were given half an hour (timed) and were told to write about or favourite fashion moment (the first time you realised you wanted to pursue a career in fashion, your favourite outfit, a celebrity whose style you admire etc) and I, of course, wrote about my recent 'encounter' with Karl Lagerfeld. I passed, in turn avoiding 'basics bootcamp'. This is what I wrote to do so...
After taking a ferry across the bay, from St Maxime to St Tropez, my best friend and I began wandering around ‘the playground of the rich and famous.’ The yachts steeped tall around us as we ventured past the harbour to the bar-lined sea front. In a town famous for elegance, eloquence and of course, star-spotting, we were eager to return to our villa with stories to impress the rest of our party. After a (rather dear) drink in an all-singing, all dancing bar (literally), we went in search for food, which appeared to be scarce in the cobbled, stereotypically French town. Some time later, we found ourselves approaching a pizza vendor. My best friend and I perched on a wall to consume our generously sized slices.
Whilst reminiscing about our day hunting for bargains (a term used lightly in these parts) around the market stalls of St Maxime, we saw a little man running past the yachts… backwards. Holding a camera the size of a small child, he was ferociously attempting to capture an important moment unknown to us. Beyond the bushes we were sitting behind, three figures appeared to be walking towards this little man, who, meanwhile, was stumbling backwards over pocket sized puppies and small confused children. Suddenly, I froze. “Harriet? What’s wrong?” my friend asked, perplexed by my neglect to finish the sentence I had started. I clutched my camera and stood up. My pizza fell (into my bag.) Karl Lagerfeld was standing two metres in front of me. He was looking around, I assume trying to find his misplaced friend. Our eyes met. At least, I can only assume that our eyes met behind those oh-so-famous sunglasses. His hands were adorned in fingerless, cream leather gloves. He wore dark jeans and a light grey blazer, a crisp pale blue and white striped shirt. My camera is no longer in my hand. My friend is no longer by my side. My mouth no longer closed.
Five minutes later my best friend returns with a side profile photograph of one of the greatest fashion designers alive. She seems excited and proud of her success. She asks who he is. I sigh as my bubble is burst and I am brought back to the reality of her basic fashion ignorance.
In the brief moment that Karl and I shared, I have never felt a longing so strong to become a successful fashion journalist, with the possibility of maybe – just maybe – meeting him one day in the professional world. My fate was sealed in that one look.