Fashion month is, in theory, a glamorous carousel of shows, presentations, cocktails, and afterparties. In reality, it’s an endurance sport. You’re up before sunrise for the first show, sprinting (in questionable footwear) between appointments, surviving on canapés, and finishing the night at something dimly lit where someone insists on tequila. You are expected (no, required!) to look immaculate throughout. Effortless, even. Meanwhile, your immune system is quietly filing a formal complaint.
And then comes the inevitable: the Eurostar home from Paris. The adrenaline fades, your body clocks the betrayal, and there it is, that first scratch in your throat. The fashion flu has entered the chat. If you’re lucky, it waits until the end. If not, you’re somewhere in East London, sitting front row, trying not to cough your lungs out during a delicate runway moment. There is truly nothing more anxiety-inducing than suppressing a cough in a silent show space, eyes watering, clutching your tiny bag like it contains salvation (it doesn’t, just lip balm and Blank Street puffer cup holder).
We all try to be sensible. We say we’ll drink a litre of water before bed. We carry miniature ginger shots like they’re medicinal gold. We swap kisses for awkward air gestures paired with a firm “don’t come near me, I’m plagued.” And yet, year after year, the fashion flu persists.