Goodbye London College of Fashion

London College of Fashion Graduation

One happy graduate

It started with pink and ended with pink. On Tuesday I graduated with a First Class Honours in Fashion Journalism from the London College of Fashion. I spent the day in a bright pink dress to match the pink hood and trim on my gown. A mortarboard and smile were my accessories. 

My best friend helps me with a wobbly mortarboard

Juliette came all the way from Paris for the occasion

My mum and I

Practising my smile for when I collect my degree

During the ceremony designer Oswald Boateng was presented with an honourary degree. He took to the stage and gave a speech that I will always remember: “Lots of people ask me how you get to my position. Well the dedication that you have all put into completing your degrees is the answer. Carry that with you and it will be you on this stage.”

Boateng’s words inspired me, but so did seeing my friends and peers take to the platform to collect their degrees. As I collected mine I thought back over my three years at university.

My final day at the London College of Fashion

Libby's London College of Fashion Highlights

LONDON

Studying at the London College of Fashion gave me the opportunity to move to one of the best cities in the world. Being a student in the capital was an incredible experience. The city that once daunted me is now the place that I call home.

My first room in London, Hackney 2010

Lights, camera, action

I have always wanted to be a writer, but when it came to the second year of my degree I decided to specialise in broadcast journalism. Before university I had never picked up a video camera, but I was (and still am) intrigued by the changes taking place in journalism.  With even traditional print publications developing their online content and working with moving image, I wanted to broaden my skills. I have now filmed, edited and presented a broad range of subjects (including a film about a city farm, a documentary about clothing issues faced post-mastectomy, and my final project film about unpaid internships in the fashion industry). 

 New York New York

During my second year at university I went to New York to interview David Jay, photographer behind The Scar Project. Travelling by myself and meeting such interesting people gave me a huge amount of confidence and taught me that distance isn't an insurmountable barrier.

Project P&G

One of my favourite units on my degree was an industry project, in which we did research for corporate client Procter and Gamble. Working on a ‘live’ project was a great experience. I particularly enjoyed presenting our findings to P&G at Burlington House. 

3 is the magic number

My third year at university was by far my favourite. It was also the most challenging, but working on an individual project with which I had such a strong connection (my final year was spent investigating unpaid internships in the fashion industry) drove me to produce work that I am proud of. The flexible timetable of the final year allowed me to work part time at Intern Aware, a great learning process that had me giving talks at universites and Parliament.

Third year also meant a huge amount of one on one support from staff. 

“Things do not change, we change” (said Henry Thoreau)

After three years of studying I have changed in more ways than I could have imagined before starting my degree. Although I am still interested in fashion (why people wear what they wear fascinates me), I have opened my eyes to other interests and options. I have discovered broadcast journalism, which I love. I have spoken out about the immoral use of unpaid labour and become a stronger person for it. But despite all these changes and my career shift away from fashion, I am still glad I studied at the London College of Fashion.

When I was a school student living in my hometown of Gillingham and tearing pages from Vogue, I dreamt of studying at the London College of Fashion. I am proud for following through the dream I had when I was 16, but also for shaping my experience at university in such a way to fit new dreams too.

And in the end it was probably fate that I study at the London College of Fashion. The college colour is pink. 

Libby

Reasons to vote for me in the Cosmo blog award (Best Lifestyle Blog category)

1) In the name of this blog I spent a week dressed like a raspberry.

2) In the name of this blog I went to London Fashion Week wearing red shoes, red tights, a red jacket and red lipstick.

3) It would make me so happy that I would dance around the streets like that (see photo above).

4) All I really want to do with my life is write. And perhaps bake.

5) I will bake you a cake.

http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/blogs/cosmo-blog-awards-2012/

Libby

A Year in the Life...

I am sat in my flat in London trying to pack a year into boxes and bags. The window is open and I can hear the sounds of the street I have come to think of as home. Upending bags and rifling my way through drawers, I am trying to catch my memories from this year before they run away. The smell of Columbia Road flower market, that Vietnamese restaurant in Shoreditch, the sound of pigeons jostling each other on the bridge on the way to London Fields, the American diner where I drank milkshake cocktails and found a friend, the flavours of those cupcakes in a bakery near Covent Garden, the play I watched at the Barbican, the Saturday market in a school playground.

Looking around me at piles of bags, shelves of books and a pinboard heavy with pictures and postcards, I can see traces of what has been a huge year.

I'm going to need more boxes.
My pinboard is like a map of the journeys I have been on this year. Here are some of the most memorable destinations:

The Day I had Lunch at Vogue

Before I describe my day at Vogue, I will say what you have probably already guessed: I didn't win. You would have heard by now if I had. A few weeks ago I received a letter from Alexandra Shulman that said: 'Thank you for coming to lunch at Vogue House, we all enjoyed meeting you. Although you haven't won this year's competition, as I said at lunch we had a record number of entries this year so to be a finalist is a huge achievement. Congratulations.' signed, Alexandra, Editor, Vogue.

It was as I had expected, and although I was initially disappointed I have now come to feel extremely proud to have got to the final eight, and I look back on the experience with nothing but happy memories of an incredible day.


On Friday the 8th of July at around 1:30pm, I was sat in Vogue House with a glass of champagne to my right, and the editor of Vogue to my left. We were chatting about the royal wedding and the future of the magazine industry, whilst eating pea and mint mash and smoked salmon in a room decorated with decades of Vogue covers.

It had been a long morning. I woke up at 8, excited but tired after a restless night (the thought of lunch at Vogue the next day is enough to turn you into an insomniac). Then for getting dressed.

What do you wear to Vogue House? In my case: a brand new outfit. I had been shopping with my mum the week before (a lovely if somewhat embarrassing experience. As I tried things on I could hear her the other side of the changing room door telling bemused sales assistants what my outfit was for), and found something that I loved. Above anything, I wanted to look like me. So I went for lunch at Vogue wearing a smart, nude coloured A-line dress and a bright orange jacket, worn with a bright orange and pink bag and matching shoes. I was hardly going to turn up in black, was I?

After several hours of waiting and then a busy tube journey, I arrived outside the doors of Vogue House at 12:30. An hour later I was upstairs with the judges and seven other finalists, sitting and chatting with Alexandra Shulman.

"How do you feel about the future of printed magazines?" she asked me.

I then found myself talking with Alexandra Shulman about many things I have long since felt: that printed magazines can no longer compete with the internet on providing up-to-date news or interactive material, but that shouldn't render them obselete. With the beautiful faces of generations of Vogue cover stars smiling down at me I felt even more strongly my belief that a magazine like Vogue is much more than a monthly style guide. It is a statement. When you pick Vogue off the shelf or let the glossy cover peak out from your handbag, you are saying something to the world about who you are, or, perhaps, who you want to be. For me the magic of Vogue is down to its stellar content that is on the pulse and provided by world-class contributors, but it is also the most glamorous of accessories. How do you wear your Vogue? Do you tuck it under your arm as you walk down the street, cover facing out so everyone knows which magazine you just bought? Do you roll it casually to say that you are someone who is effortless and cool when it comes to style? And when you have finished 'wearing' your copy, do you leave it on a coffee table for the benefit of your guests or use the covers to decorate your room?

Digital is brilliant. Moving image in particular gives an exciting new platform to magazines that looks set to become much more mainstream. But other than the obvious flaws of digital (do you really want to read a 1,000 word article on your iPhone? And what about having something you can hold and touch and stroke?) there is one big problem. You can't wear an app.

As we spoke, and I tried to manage talking and eating (the strategy, in the end, was to do very little of the latter), I kept wanting to pinch myself. I couldn't believe I was talking about all of this with the person who makes it happen.

Between courses the judges moved around to give them the chance to speak to as many people as possible. As well as Alexandra Shulman the judges also included many Vogue staffers, a previous finalist and Lisa Armstrong. It was surprising how relaxed the atmosphere was throughout the whole dinner. Of course I was nervous, but I found myself really enjoying myself. The food was exquisite and I was surrounded by people I admire and felt incredibly fortunate to meet.

When it was time to go I didn't want to leave Vogue behind. Luckily, for another hour at least, I didn't have to, as we were all given a guided tour of the building. I contemplated hiding in a fashion cupboard, or downstairs in the archive room where we were shown a library of fashion books and shelves and shelves of old Vogues, but in the end (and after one of the best afternoons of my life) a revolving door pushed me back out onto the street.

I stood in Hanover Square with the seven other contestants, shell-shocked. We all needed a drink, I decided, so I marched the eight of us to a nearby pub.

The other finalists were lovely, and in place of competitiveness was a real sense of comradery. When I eventually headed home I realised that although I probably hadn't won, I would be incredibly happy for whoever did. They would have thoroughly deserved it.

And besides, there's always next year... :)





Cake Day, 2011
When things are stressful and getting you down, what do you do? I make cake. And not just that, I organise my friends around the country to get baking too. Because sometimes there is just nothing quite like the smell of icing sugar and baking cupcakes.
Two Weeks in Colour

Two weeks, two colours. My two weeks spent in head to toe red and pink gave me a whole new confidence. When you no longer fear walking down Oxford Street dressed like a walking raspberry, not much seems that scary. And that is so much fun. The two weeks also taught me a lot about colour and inspired me to inject more of it into my wardrobe. Whether you like it or not, our clothes talk about us behind our backs. I just want my clothes to say nice things.
Cosmo Girl
Hard Work Pays Off
'Work Hard and Be Nice to People'. This is what I read every morning when I wake up, and the motto I try to live my life by. I am a strong believer that you get out of life what you put in, and most of the time I find that this is true. This year has been hard work, but it has been well worth it.

I recently finished my first year with a First and then spent a brilliant three weeks doing work experience on the features department at Woman and Home. As well as assisting at photo shoots and employing my masterful skills of 'coffee management' I also spent much of the time writing. And it made me so happy. Yes I do love fashion, but I have finally realised that I love writing more. So that is what I should be doing.

An interesting year, now packed up into boxes. Now onto the next...



Libby

Pink Week, Saturday

For my penultimate day in pink I am in Nottingham visiting my best friend. I think I was fairly easy to spot as I waited for her outside the station.

"You're so pink!" she said with a smile and a hug, "Pink Libby just makes people happy."

Because this week has confirmed what I always believed: pink is a happy colour. After a week of smiles and laughs it will be strange not to walk out looking like candifloss come Monday. Wearing such a bright colour every day has made me notice even more the sea of black clothes that flood the streets. As my mum said to me today, "It makes you realise what a grey old world it is." And despite the chuckles and bemused expressions I may have caused this week, looking so colourful has definitely made me wake up on the right side of the bed each morning. I'd call that the power of pink.

Libby

Pink Week, Friday

"I don't even like pink," said my sister across the table, "but I can't help but smile when I look at you."

Whilst I might be baking cupcakes or wandering through Selfridge's, you would be more likely to find my sister on the rugby pitch or up a tree. Studying zoology at Cambridge, you could even say we were polar opposites. And it is safe to say you would never find Alex dressed head to toe in pink. Yet when I met for lunch with my family in Cambridge today to celebrate her birthday, my pinkness was greeted with open arms.

Over this week I have been met by so many responses like my sister's. Some people look bemused, yet the puzzled expression is usually accompanied by a smile. It is an incredible thing that a colour, a simple pigmentation on fabric, can conjur emotions strong enough to cause a parting of the lips or a sudden splutter of laughter. A colour can cause heads to turn, and brows to crease into frowns.

Dressing so conspicuously has made me realise all the more how influential the clothes we wear can be. Just like light travels faster than sound before we even have a chance to open our mouths our clothes have spoken for us. You might say you are not interested in fashion, yet you are engaged with it every time you wake up and open your wardrobe in the morning. And people really do judge books by their covers, sometimes in the most obvious of ways. Watching people watching me has been a fascinating exercise. As I walk down the street I can see the passing eyes starting at my feet, scanning me all the way to my head and all the way back down again. It is amusing how obvious these flicking eye movements are when you look for them. You may think you are being discrete in your judgements, but trust me: you're not.

On the train coming back to London I was assessed by another rabble of school girls. Like the bus-stop girls of day 1 there were giggles tossed my way.

That has been another interesting and surprising part of this week - despite wearing a colour that shouts femininity it has been the men who have responded the most positively. Perhaps the colour of little girls reminds them of their grandchildren, because I have lost count of the amount of kind smiles I have received from elderly gents this week. I expected to read 'EEEK' on the faces of the men I passed this week, but instead I have seen smiles.

Instead it is the women that throw me the funny looks.

Only 2 days left until I leave the rosy world behind and step out in red instead for part 2 of my fashion experiment.

Libby

Pink Week, Wednesday

I'm rather getting used to looking like a raspberry.

You would think that dressing head to toe in shocking pink and having bemused glances following you like a shadow would test your confidence. But by day 3 of my Pink Challenge I feel more relaxed and confident than ever. One colour dressing takes the pressure out of fashion. I'm not doing this because I'm trying to look cool - I'm doing it because it's fun. Studying fashion journalism it would be easy to surrender to Mulberry bag and stiletto heel induced insecurities. Even for the most grounded and self-assured being surrounded by fashionistas on a daily basis can give rise to an unhealthy habit of comparisons and sartorial self-doubt.

Wearing pink this week has made me stand out like a sore thumb, but it has also transported me away from all my previous wardrobe worries. Perhaps ironically, being stared at and making people laugh with my clothes has actually lifted a burden. That burden relieved, worries are also lifted and I am free to just be me. Once you stop fearing walking down the street in head to toe pink, not a lot seems that scary - and that's when you can really have fun.

My pinkness has become a talking point for my coursemates. Today someone suggested having a 'Libby Day' where everyone wears something pink to uni. Others suggested everyone comes in dressed head to toe in different colours. When I said that perhaps next week I will have to resort to red AND black due to lack of clothing, everyone was so adamant that I should continue my experiment properly that they are bringing in things from their own wardrobes for me to borrow. My madness seems to be rubbing off. And I love it.

Libby

Pink Week, Tuesday

"Your favourite colour isn't blue by any chance?", says the bus driver with a wink as I swipe my oyster card with one hand, the other clutching my pink union jack basket. Sitting down by the window a smile and the sun spread across my face.

Day 2 of my Pink Challenge and it felt as if spring had arrived. This was helped, of course, by the fact that I was wearing a jumper emblazoned with bunny rabbits. On the bus a little girl in a pink coat looked up at me, wide-eyed and grinning; it seems I wasn't the only one who thought that bunnies plus jumper equaled wonderful.

Today I took pink to Sheperd's Bush - my uni base from Tuesday till Thursday.

Maybe it was the mild weather and sudden burst of sunshine giving winter a beating, but people in Sheperd's Bush were loving pink today.

Walking down Sheperd's Bush Road I was met by smiles peppered with the occasional, "hellooo." Admittedly, all from men. One Italian stopped me in my tracks, "You are a flower: beautiful." Creepiness swept aside, it did make me think about the gloomy prospect of returning to normality. I want to look like a flower every day.

In Tesco the man serving me was unTescoishly cheerful: "You look lovely today. What a lovely pink colour. Have a great day darling." When people are that nice to you how could you fail to have a good day?

Maybe pink puts people at ease. In the case of my Tesco experience: dressed like that I didn't exactly look like a shifty shoplifter. With associations of fairy princesses and mums in aprons, pink can create an aura of 'nice'ness (whether this niceness matches the wearer or not is another matter) that incites kindness. And, the potent colour of feminity, it also seems to stir the best manners amongst the male population.

I love how supportive my coursemates are of my pinkness. "Stand up then Libby, we want to see what you're wearing," "Your jumper is so cute," and "Hey Pinkie," headed my way as I arrived to my lecture.

When one of my friends walked in, however he looked horrified. For one terrifying moment I thought he was going to cry, or scream, or worse - both. When I asked him what was wrong he pointed to my shorts in horror, "THEY'RE BLUE!"

It looks like I will just have to dye the entire contents of my wardrobe. This pink thing seems to be sticking.

Libby

Pink Week, Monday

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?

Libby

Emma Thompson loves pink

When I arrived home from school today the first thing I saw was an envelope addressed to me propped up on the table. I immediately recognised the scratchy handwriting as my own. Did I in a moment of madness post myself a letter? "Dear Libby, go and eat some cake, you deserve it." I wouldn't put it completely past me, but it seemed unlikely. As I was thinking I suddenly remembered back to last year, when I fed a pile of envelopes into the post box, addressed to everyone from the Queen to Judi Dench. (At the time I liked to imagine the post man opening the letter box and rifling through the envelopes: Madonna, Joanna Lumley, the editor of Vogue...) Each envelope contained a questionnaire I had made to gain quotes for 'Love Pink', and a self addressed, stamped envelope. The journalists and celebrities I was writing to must lead incredibly busy lives; I wanted to make it as easy as possible for them to reply.

I was overwhelmed by how many responses I received, considering I expected only a handful. But despite the replies I did receive (which ended up in the book), there were naturally dissapointments. After all I did send out over 50 letters. (I spent about a week hand writing all the envelopes, thinking that they would be more likely to be opened if they weren't impersonally typed.)

The replies arrived in surges, some within the first few weeks, some the next few months. A year later, and this envelope caught me by surprise. Opening it up and seeing Emma Thompson's name surprised me even more. Perhaps the response is a little late, but I love the fact she still replied. To me it makes me think that she must receive a huge amount of letters but still wades through them all. Mine must have been at the bottom of the pile, but it still got opened and replied to.

Emma Thompson thinks the colour pink would smell like babies. I agree. Soft, warm and with a hint of Johnson's baby oil.

For now Emma Thompson's letter sits proudly on my dressing table, but then it shall join all my other replies in my prized folder full of 'Love Pink' things.

P.S If you can't read them clearly, the questions in the questionnaire are:

1) What is your favourite pink item you own (I like her sense of humour!)

2) What is your favourite pink flower? (Roses were a popular favourite)

3) What would the colour pink smell like?

Libby

She and Good Housekeeping

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Many magazines are marking the occasion, and as a result 'Love Pink' was chosen as She Magazine's Book of the Month, and was featured in Good Housekeeping. I was so excited to see the well known heart shaped wreath that is the front cover staring up from the glossy pages. On my way home from school last week I bought 2 copies of each of the magazines, one for my portfolio (I am applying to university at the moment to study fashion journalism) and one to keep. The friends who I walk home with looked a little confused when I asked to make a detour via the newsagents and emerged with my arms laden with magazines. When they asked why I had so many copies I told them, and I then had the unusual experience of watching a group of boys flicking eagerly through Good Housekeeping. It made my day.

Libby

A not so ordinary Wednesday

On Wednesday the 28th of April, rather than munching sleepily on my cornflakes and then setting off to school I headed for the train station. My destination wasn’t a classroom, but London and Portcullis House, where I was to meet David Cameron and the shadow cabinet who wanted to congratulate me on the launch of my book.

So not the average Wednesday; at least not for me anyway.

The extraordinary day began at the train station. We must have looked quite a sight, me, my mum, her friend and my step dad decked out in pink as we juggled overnight bags, a picnic for the train and a huge bag containing a pink teapot cake. Said cake was made for us by a lady who runs a wedding cake and catering company called The Utterly Sexy Cafe. A carrot cake in the shape of an ornate teapot balanced precariously but fabulously atop pink icing. If any cake could embody utter sexiness, this cake was it.

The journey took 2 hours, several glasses of pink champagne and plenty of time to become extremely nervous about meeting the shadow cabinet, possible future prime minister and being filmed by a BBC film crew. In an attempt to calm myself, I asked what was the worst that could happen. I could trip, accidentally knocking into David Cameron sending him flying head first into the teapot cake, whilst simultaneously grabbing onto something to support myself - that something being the cameraman, both man and camera clattering to the floor in a pile of broken lens and sprained ankle. Perhaps I should have gone to school instead.

When we arrived in London we went to the hotel where we would be staying and left our bags in the rooms. I changed into my outfit; a bright pink shift dress emblazoned with union jacks that my friend Harriet had made for me. Despite only having had two evenings to make it (I was so nervous and excited about the actual day that the stomach churning ‘what do I wear’ moment came rather at the last minute) the dress was perfect and she had even managed to stitch a gold ‘HRH’ label onto the hem (Harriet Rose Handbags, although Her Royal Highness does rather suit her too). Cardigan, corsage, and the plastic Vivienne Westwood shoes that are pictured in the book and I had no excuses. I was ready to go.

At Portcullis house we passed through security (“Stand on these footprints please Miss”, flash of camera, my rising fear as the teapot cake was pushed through the scanning machine, my mum snapping at the security guard that it was very important the cake was kept upright, him looking at us like we were crazy) and waited on the other side for David Cameron’s aides and the BBC film crew.

The film crew arrived first, camera and sound men smiling as the suited reporter approached and bombarded me with questions. Eventually several women arrived who were to take us to the shadow cabinet’s office and organise the proceedings. Up the stairs, and more questions. We were taken to a modern room that held a big round table where we laid down the cake and the knife we had been given (trying to take a cake knife through security might not have been a good idea). As the film crew set up and David Cameron’s women dashed about whilst we awaited his arrival I felt as though all eyes were on me. It was as though they were waiting for me to do something incredible, perhaps break into song. But all I could do was be me, and wait.

Suddenly the door opened and the members of the shadow cabinet filed in. I was met by handshakes and smiles before they sat down. Again, a quiet and eyes on me. The cameraman told me to move to the left, to turn this way whilst the shadow cabinet and David Cameron’s women watched on. I was suddenly struck with the feeling that no one in the room had any sympathy with the fact I was only 16. I was on my own. Although frightening, I think it was an incredibly useful experience. I may be young but that is no excuse; I have to be as confident and competent as any adult if I want to succeed. I can’t get by on sympathy.

I handed around copies of the book and started explaining what it was all about. As they flicked through they asked me questions. Whilst answering I was struck, not for the first time, by the surreal situation. All these people were here to talk to me, not someone famous or extraordinary, but me. I felt flattered and incredibly lucky, but must admit found being the centre of attention a bit awkward and embarrassing. I am proud of my book, and felt proud as they flicked through their copies, but it is one thing to have attention paid to the book and another to have all eyes looking at me.

When the door opened I didn’t realise at first what was happening. It was only when I caught the glaring eye of one of the female entourage that I shot up from my seat and met David Cameron with a handshake. For all the flapping and worried frowns of the women organising the event, he was incredibly relaxed. We sat down, and the camera started rolling.

As he asked me questions, looked through the book and congratulated me (he said his daughter would love it) I tried to ignore the camera, and hid my nerves with a smile. It is amazing what a smile can do. I had no idea what to say, but somehow with a huge beam on my face I managed to trick myself into relaxing and the words sort of fell out. At the end of the meeting the BBC reporter asked us each a few questions, and I had to look directly at the camera and respond. I had no idea how I would react being filmed; I had an awful premonition of my words freezing up and sitting there like a mute before bursting into tears. I cannot remember what I said, I cannot even really remember the questions. It was like I was suspended above my body, watching as all these people in this room stared at me and waited for me to come up with a fabulous answer. No pressure then.

When it came to it, I actually I found the pressure surprisingly exciting. Underneath my smile I felt like either crying or being sick, but my heart was racing all the same and my mouth seemed to take over.

At the end of the interview I presented David Cameron with a pink union jack tie that my friend Harriet had made (much to the ruffling of feathers and anxious clucking of the entourage) and posed for some photographs. Despite being the person I had been most nervous to meet, David Cameron was actually the only one who made me feel relaxed.

When he and the rest of the shadow cabinet had left I headed straight for my mum who had been watching on anxiously. “You were brilliant,” she said, and gave me a huge hug. I was shaking.

“We have got to leave this room NOW,” barked one of David Cameron’s women.

But after that ordeal nothing was going to stop me from hugging my mum.

Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how bad I might have looked and how high pitched my voice might have sounded) the footage never made it to the t.v, but it was a day I will never forget. And I think I certainly learnt a lot more from the experience than if I had have stayed in the classroom like any other Wednesday.

Libby