Last fashion week I disgruntledly nursed the bruises I got from people pushing in the line outside the Dazed and Confused party with bad vodka in a plastic cup. I realized quite how short I am, even in heels, at this particular party. And, horror of all horrors, I was forced to make strained conversation with my doppelganger, M.I.A. while my friend Karen searched for a camera to take photo of us, two English Sri Lankans with the same face, together side by side at last.
This year I was a bit luckier. Lucky because the VMA awards were they same night as the Another Magazine party and so M.I.A. was probably at those instead. Lucky also because we turned up at just the right time and were not some of the seemingly hundreds of RSVP-ers that didn't get in. Good timing on both parts.
I don't normally like this kind of thing, but I had a blast. Unlike the ludicrous Milk Studios last year, the party was at The Box this year. In itself The Box is a club worth going to because of the space itself. An old theater whose chandeliers actually make sense contextually, well-chosen wallpaper and intimate coves dotted around to sit in. It works because you feel like you are at the Folies Bergere of yesteryear, and not on Chrystie Street. Get these elements wrong and you look like something out of a Lucky shoot, which thankkfully The Box avoids. On top of that there was cabaret, burlesque and side show. And a horned, tattooed, bare-chested Master of Ceremonies. Who can argue with that?