Fashfest night three has drawn to a close,
and instead of the exhilarating high and desire to relive the collections that nights
one and two left me with; I find myself despondent, and frankly a little
pissed.
Let me make this blatantly clear before I
go on—this has nothing to do with the wonderful Fashfest team who have put
their all into every night and element of the event and who have, for what it's
worth, blown my mind.
No. The anger I am feeling tonight is
directed firmly at my fellow audience members. Specifically, this is aimed at
four men seated across the catwalk from me, who went ahead and ruined my
perfect streak of meeting interesting, lovely people seated in the front row,
with a catty and raucous attempt at living up to every 'bitchy-gay-fashion-guy'
stereotype ever penned in the most basic of sitcoms.
