Getting dressed in the morning can often prove a nightmare. Sleepy indecision and an expanse of clothes can mean a one-way ticket to late-for-lecture-ville.
This morning's decision making process was short and sweet, as most of my wardrobe was off-limits. If it wasn't pink, it wouldn't do. And so, a pair of pink knickers, a pink bra, some pink tights, a pink stripey top, a pink spotty dress, a pink jumper, some pink shoes, a pink watch, two pink bags and a pink umbrella later, I was heading off to LCF.
Day 1 of my Pink Week Challenge:
I must admit that it was with a little trepidation that I ventured out of my flat. Was Hackney ready for my pink presence? And perhaps more importantly, was I? Had this experiment been a bad idea? Stepping out of my door I felt a sudden yearning for the comfort of a crowd. But there would be no melting into the crowd for me today.
The nerves soon disappeared, however - and all it took was looking down. A pink polka dot skirt was swishing around my knees, beneath which strode a pair of raspberry legs. Surrounded by my favourite colour, how could I fail to smile?
At the bus stop a gaggle of school girls spotted me and snickered. They looked me up and down in a way only teenage girls can do, sending me back a few years and threatening to bring back an all too familiar nausea. I decided not to let it bother me or dampen my spirits. They were, after all, wearing purple school uniform.
Smile still in tact, I arrived at the London College of Fashion, dressed head to toe in eye-popping pink.
Sitting down in my lecture I was met by smiles. "You look angelic," was one comment. "You make me think of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," was another. Two people asked to take my photograph. At lunch people started chatting about different colours, and suggested different things I should do after the next two weeks.
Of course, not everyone was so accepting of the walking, talking, candifloss me. "What the hell?" drifted towards me down a library aisle. Leaving my lecture I heard a loud, "Wow," and not a good kind. Not that I minded. I had caught my reflection in windows enough times to be fully aware of how crazy I looked.
Maybe I looked crazy, but I loved it.
Day 1 of being pink has felt liberating. I love LCF, but as one of the world's most famous fashion colleges it would be naive to think that sartorial choices aren't taken seriously here. Like a shadow you can't shake off there is always that niggling thought that you might be being judged. Dressing head to toe in pink I have fully accepted that I will be judged. But knowing where I stand is actually a massive relief. That worry off my shoulders I was free to just enjoy looking like a dolly mixture, and smile.
Walking down Oxford Street some people looked me up and down. But I could tell that most people were stopping themselves from staring, nonchalantly pretending that they saw someone this pink every day. One old man on the bus home wasn't so painfully, Britishly subtle. He stared. Then he looked away. Then he stared again. Out of the corner of my eye this flitting dance continued for 15 minutes until I got off the bus. I arrived home laughing. Surely that is a good way to end the first day of a very pink week?