Q: "Surely only mentalists would queue overnight waiting for a shop to open?!" A: "Babe, it's Versace. And I'm British."

Trying to remind myself where  I was in the wee hours.

So over the past 24 hours I have experienced a somewhat life-altering cacophony of revelations. First and foremost, that Donatella Versace's lips do in fact require their own post code. They have their own assistant, entourage and they also own a small chiwawa called Pickles....

More relevantly, I realised that it is actually possible to rationalise sleeping rough all night on Regent Street just to get your hands on a load of Versace Swag - oh the power and the sheer GENIUS of the H&M high street/designer collaboration has proved, once again, irresistible to even the most sane of fashion fans. Its reach actually extends even further beyond the many girls and boys who have been anticipating the arrival of the first ever purse friendly Versace offering, to the somehow-savvy kids who fancied making a tidy sum buying up as many items their backpacks could handle in order to sell off their finds via Ebay hours after the collection was opened to the public and inevitably, very promptly, sold out.

Paul G: A true Gent.

For a mere 11 hour stint I managed to bag a teensy bottle of free Versace yellow diamond perfume (ermm... win...?) shake Donatella's hand and conjure up: "You look amazing.... oh god I feel like crap" to say to her before almost becoming entranced by her mammouth pout and finally elbowing her out of the way in favour of reaching the studded leather section.

I also mustn't fail to mention the wonderful, rather drunken 1am visit from my dear friend Paul which made a couple of hours fly by in a flurry of blueberry muffins, loudly shouted obscenities (Paul, not me, he's a deviant) and the hilarity of trying to explain that this had nothing to do with 'Vivace' and a jumble sale at HMV... oh Paul how I do adore you.


I understand if you are still wholly unconvinced that anyone who chooses to spend 12 hours shivering on the pavement waiting for H&M to open is not more than a few currants short of a chelsea bun. But for me there was method to the madness: even after being unfortunate enough to be photographed as 'one of those hardcore fashion obsessed crazies' at the front of many hundreds of bewildered queueing Versace fans by a hoard of well turned out (and well slept, you bastards) fashion bloggers and journos feeling like I'd decayed overnight into a female version of Blackadder's Baldrick. Not the most flattering moment to be photographed. Or filmed, thank you very much Grazia... [a few of the aforementioned life-altering realisations arise here, including 'Find way to make head less peanut/potato shaped - a fringe perhaps??' and 'For christ's sake try and sound less: whoopsie daises + daddy I want a pony!' Why has it taken me 24years to realise what my own cringe-worthy voice sounds like?! Perhapas a slap of make up wouldn't have gone amiss here either. Lesson learnt. View the vid here. but be warned: I WANT, I WANT, I WANT.....]

Anyway, to sum up the reason for all this silly behaviour: I'm a hybrid of fashion curious shopaholic who can shamelessy admit to enjoying a slice of glossy hyped up fashion 'history' and a shrewd little scally who wants to make a few bucks - because MAN ALIVE anyone with a clue knows that these dresses are going to fly like a golden pheonix on Ebay - and straight to my Paypal account, thank you very much Donatella. As my Dad so wisely put it earlier on the phone, I now have to think of myself as a drug dealer: what would happen if I just took all the drugs?! (Good question, Dad. Maybe I'd have a Versace overdose, wear the clothes day and night until I couldn't remember where Versace began and I ended? I'd ruin my relationships and my career go down the gutter as soon my garish appearance would become too much for anyone to witness.. This could honestly go on and on. I don't even have the energy to go into how hilarious my Dad's choice of analogy is)

I will most likely keep my fave items, or at least the ones which I can actually pull off, but as much as I would LOVE to have bought out the entire collection and proceed to wow at every xmas 'do' in the coming six weeks with a different Versace enemble, I'm desperate to make a buck, can't afford to be a romantic fashion obsessive in this case and dammit* I've put in the hard work of staying up all night on Regent Street so some Rich Banker's Girlfriend didn't have to. Ans that's fine. Maybe not so fine for you Mr Rich Banker, but you can afford it, so shut up. 

Bringing home the Bacon.

After all, there'll always be the opportunity to buy it back, perhaps a little tired and worn, in 18months time when the much anticipated collection ages into mere cast-offs. And then I'll treasure whatever bargains I get my mits on knowing that their spanking new predessors were my meal ticket for a couple of months - and nothing looks better than big old smug smile....

NOW, THE IMPORTANT BIT, HERE'S WHAT I PURCHASED:

Pink studded Silk Dress that Donatella herself was wearing Thursday morning....

THE jacket - it's even better in the flesh... it's velvet and so bright and colourful it could give you a seizure.

Softer than butter Leather dress with gold studs. This dress is basically THE SEX.

AMAZING dust bags free with each item. You could actually just wear one of these they're that puuurdy.

Oh and full on VELVET hangers. Yum.

(*Somewhat irrelevantly, I'd just like to add that I read The Graduate to pass many of the hours... which is perhaps where I've picked up the use of the antiquated curse word 'dammit'. Much better than the 'c' word anyway...)