I confess, I am a religious Vogue reader. Every month, I devour it from cover to cover, letting the glossy images and beautiful, way-out-of-my-league clothes wash over me.
For an hour or so, I forget my world and adjust into a totally unrealistic vision of glamour and endless opulence.
So, when I dragged my sorry, Topshop skirt and split ends to Vogue’s Fashion Night Out in Manchester, I was hoping for a glimpse into the life every Vogue girl aspires to live.
Turns out, glimpse was the operative word. Standing outside the shimmering, glass-fronted Hugo Boss with every other faux-fur toting blogger, peering round the statue-like bouncers, trying to spot Nicky Clarke’s swishy hair.
I’ve since read blogs blasting Vogue’s exclusion of real people, reserving the action for those with flashy statement bags and bank balances to match. But, everything shone with a glint of ambition, it was a window into a world most of us only ever dream of. One of flowing champagne and untouchable couture.
However, to me, that’s what Vogue is. A sort of members only club that you aim daily to crack into. And whilst it might be nice to get an invite, I didn’t mind looking in. As long as you smuggle me a champagne cocktail.