When someone says to me "London Fashion Week" three things go through my head. The first is the visceral thought of the pain of over a hundred show requests. The second is the dread of how sparse my wardrobe is and how the h-e-double-hockey-sticks am I going to create five different outfits without looking like an absolute plebe. The third thing is something I can't describe, but it makes me feel fairly giddy and nauseous at the same time. Go figure. Fashion week is a figurative pain in my rear end. Early mornings, late nights, inflated egos, seeing that person you can't tolerate, having serious outfit envy - it all adds up to me saying "I hate fashion week" over and over until my assistant has decided she's sick of me. And yet (and mayb..