Vintage blazer and watch | Finders Keepers dress
I skipped fashion week to visit my Grandma on the Sunshine Coast. She has cancer. Her 83-year-old torso is caught in the crossfire between evil cells and sympathetic doctors.
Perhaps the older you get, the more apparent it is that everybody's dying. We're all on our way to death. We think we're living, but we're breathing to death.
Grandma remembers everything, I realise as we go through her photo albums. She points at a group photo of her 21st birthday party.
"He's dead, she's dead, she's dead, he has Alzheimer's now. He was a brilliant pianist."
Three people are still alive. I'm standing next to one of them.
I had my 21st last month. I wonder who will die first. I wonder what it will be like when my granddaughter points at photos with relentless curiosity.
Grandma was a professional singer when she was in her twenties. Her house was always filled with flowers that men would give her after the shows. She was beautiful in her theatre costumes. I don't know whether to say it because I don't want to imply that she isn't beautiful any more. I settle with the term graceful, because you don't lose that with age.
And that is why I don't have any fashion week posts.