The organizers of the Temperley London Spring 2011 show were almost irritatingly calm. At 4:55 they told a self-righteously punctual crowd that they would be opening the doors “a little closer to the start of the show”. The show was to start at 5. These girls were pros: beautiful, well-dressed birds whose feathers never ruffled.
The crowd they breezily managed was achingly young and hip: bright young things more likely to say, “vintage” than “Chanel” when asked what they were wearing. There were a few exceptions: “friend me on…Facebook!” said an older woman with forced glee. “I have so many friends,” she trilled. Yes, dear.