I had everything perfectly planned. A weekend filled with fabulous fashion week events, celebrating endless nights out, praising the red carpet gods, and of course, the cherry on top: shoot an amazing pair of new heels with a male model so pretty that your eyeballs will fall out or at least start rotating like a hyper bitch on techno beats the moment you look at him. Yes, that’s the thing with plans: so easy to picture and look forward to and then reality kicks in and before you know it you end up in front of the TV stuffing your face with Haribo, watching German reality soaps.
If only someone had told me the doors at fashion week close at 9pm sharp, (that’s when I’m still in the cab), that drowning frustration in Gin Tonic due to missed red carpet doesn’t help (well, OK, I should have known that), and that good moods go straight to hell if a perfectly planned shoot with eye candy (now talking shoes not my model) doesn’t work out.
Now what? Guess crashing some friends house robbing their (shoe) closet and wrecking their couch and Chardonay stach will have to do the trick. If anyone comes across my Mojo though: please return to the usual adress.
Today’s shoes are Prada