When I told friends I was going to the Baftas, I was predictably met with, 'that's so glamorous' and 'I'm so jealous.' Once upon a time I would have thought the same. The reality, when you're not up for an award, because you're a journalist hitting the red carpet only to get rained on and tweet from the sidelines about what everyone else is wearing, is very different. There's no burly security guard to stand behind you with an umbrella, there's no adoring looks and no promise of a glass of champagne once you get inside. Just an uncertain number of hours standing around in the cold in four inch heels and a boss who greets you on arrival at the tube station with 'you're going to be f**king freezing, do you want to buy a scarf on the way?' Sigh.
I didn't get to grope Andrew Garfield, I didn't get to gush to Colin Firth, but I did get to perv on Harry Potter actors young enough to be my kid brothers and find out what knickers Tracey Emin was wearing (not actually part of the plan), so it wasn't all bad. Plus I got to wear a dress I haven't had the chance to wear in a few years, if you'll excuse this grainy iphone shot taken at the after party in the toilets of the Grosvenor House. Classy.
Vintage fishtail gown from Little Red, antique glass earrings stolen from my sister,
1950s white metal clutch
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