Inside London Fashion Week with brand consultant Emily Powick

“London has always done more with less.”

Five years ago this month, I left Melbourne for London, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and stubbornly convinced I could build a career in fashion. Now, five years later, this September marked my ninth London Fashion Week and that optimism has (mostly) survived. I have attended under different guises, first with designer Chet Lo, then with the British Fashion Council and now as a freelance brand consultant.

Across more than 30 shows, presentations and events, this season I was buzzing around independently for the first time, a little freer, a little less stressed and without the pressure of being everything, everywhere all at once. It was less about the clothes and more about the people – running into familiar faces, meeting new ones and bonding over London’s frenetic fashion scene.

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This season belonged to the presentation rather than the catwalk. Some of my favourites, Lucila Safdie, Gui Rosa, Yaku and Joyce Bao, all chose more intimate formats which made the week feel more theatrical and less formulaic. Times are tough but London has always done more with less, and its young, unconventional talent is still what makes the week worth showing up for.

Day one

I’d love to project an image of put-togetherness, but my mornings are chaos. One thing to know about me is I’m a very sleepy girl. I set my alarm for the latest possible moment, then have five minutes to pull a look together. I hope one day to change but for now, fast and loose is my vibe, and it’s gotten me this far.

Day one started with this usual scramble. I threw on a Nicolas Ghesquière-era Balenciaga top and the ’90s 532 Levi’s I’ve had for over a decade, then headed to Joyce Bao’s debut with brushed metal, gauzy white curtains and lace prints borrowed from blue and white porcelain.

From there, I ran to Agro Studio in a brutalist music hall in Islington, where a dip-dyed tutu and thigh-high purple boots stomped down a concrete floor. Then a quick beeline to Maximilian Raynor, which was a full sensory assault: a garden courtyard, brass band, raffle, ginger beer on tap, deconstructed gingham and reworked tea dresses. I finished the fashion leg of the day at Mark Fast.

I finished at the APOC store for a private view, thankfully a five-minute walk from my flat, with friends including the very talented jewellery designer Rosie Grace Ward, who is stocked there. We were entranced by a tiny chihuahua called Kissy Bella tearing around the store. There were lethal canned tequila drinks, which I took a pass at and quickly decided were not for me.

Day two

I started the day at Kyle Ho in a crypt in Clerkenwell. It was ethereal menswear with a playful twist. The striped top I’m wearing is by Lucila Safdie, which I paired with a brown floor-length Issey Miyake skirt.

I then hopped over to a Wedgwood x JW Anderson event. I had no business being in the penthouse of that hotel but I polished off a free glass of champagne, worked the room and yeeted off. Apparently the mug is £300. From there, it was on to Masha Popova, where I met friends at a presentation channelling the faded traces of summer holidays (too real) through worn-in fabrics and washed textures.

I finished at Singing with Friends, a karaoke night hosted by the London fashion it-crowd, where I sang Madonna and The Strokes. I decided it was probably time to leave once I dropped a full pint in the middle of the karaoke room and it shattered everywhere.

Day three

I started my day at Jake’s, a store by Jake Burt that only opens on Saturdays, wearing a pink one-shoulder dress with Blossom from the Powerpuff Girls on it (snagged on Vinted for a tenner). It’s become a steadfast ritual for my friends and me to go each week, drinking coffee, trying on new styles, having a chinwag and a giggle.

My wildly talented bestie Louis Thompson, pastry chef extraordinaire and fellow Melburnian, frequently bakes for Jake’s and was in fine form, blessing us with dazzling chocolate cakes with saffron icing.

Then to Dreaming Eli, theatrical and packed into an extravagant old hospital wing. From there, on to Lucila Safdie’s presentation, which resembled a shopfront, her girls sulking on a ledge in pinafores and Nikes. The crowd outside was just as good as the collection and made for some excellent people watching.

Day four

Starting to wither, I kept it cosy in a classic Jake’s cardigan, pink and artfully moth-eaten. I started at Yaku, whose shows I’ve been going to for a few seasons now and who has gone from promising to properly assured. The set was built around a barbecue, the collection around family stories that blur further into fantasy. Nobody builds a world like he does and the room was enthralled.

Then it was off to Gui Rosa’s debut in a decadent hotel ballroom, soundtracked by the episode of Gossip Girl where Jenny and Agnes fight over their collection. It was a delightfully deranged take on high society, blonde Serena wigs, slinky camis, neon shoes and models strutting the room all at once. I stopped at the Vogue Café afterwards, where I bought an outrageously expensive sandwich and sat in the park for some much-needed time touching grass.

After that, the day blurred. I headed to Charlie Constantinou for some Cypriot tailoring, then A.V. Vattev, who swapped the runway for a moody, feverish film on loop in a dark cinema, with the clothes shown alongside it. I met Antonio, the designer, afterwards, which was a treat. I finished the day with presentations from J.L-A.L and Grete Henriette.

Once I got home, a shell of a woman, I buckled up for a few episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race, my comfort watch during stressful periods. Then I passed out after a very enriching day.

Day five

Day five arrived and I had to strap on my big girl boots, override the exhaustion and get on with it. In a bid to look like someone who had slept, I reached for a second-hand Marc Jacobs zip-up, another Vinted steal, and a secondhand grey Vivienne Westwood mini skirt.

Di Petsa was a visceral ode to motherhood with infants strapped to models, milk squirted across the floor and Leigh-Anne Pinnock closing it out. Tolu Coker took a different route to the same intimacy, staging her collection across a two-bed suite at the newly opened St. Clement hotel.

Liza Keane ended my week with the most intriguing set of the five days, models wading through muddy water in the aftermath of some unnamed disaster, the opening look trailing distressed angel wings behind it.

I went to Café Boheme in Soho with my friend, designer Ellie Misner, for a celebratory drink, then queued far too long to get into the final fashion week hurrah, an after-party hosted by Saul Nash and Ronan McKenzie.

It was Ellie’s birthday at the stroke of midnight, so we cheersed dirty martinis and spoke about our yearly birthday resolutions – stop doubting yourself was the resounding theme. A fitting close to a season that felt more social than any I’ve had. Five years ago, I didn’t know a soul in the industry. Turns out I had nothing to doubt and neither does London’s restless, ever-evolving fashion scene.

Keep up with Emily here.