Wardrobe Malfunction at The Ivy

Here’s a little tip for you: don’t go to an incredibly swanky drinks reception at The Ivy wearing a very tight, very old jumpsuit, especially if there are hints of it ripping apart, Incredible Hulk-style, at the mere twitch of an eyebrow.

While I’m here, have this for free as well – if you’re stupid enough to get yourself in to this unholy clothing mess, for the love of punk take some safety pins with you.

As you may have already guessed, like the road safety hedgehog stepping out under the wheels of a ten tonne truck, I failed to take my own advice.

There I was, ready to rub shoulder pads with the great and the good at an exhibition opening in The Ivy’s private room, when the fastening on my zip decided to make like superman and fly through the air like a speeding bullet (no animals, children, foodstuffs or toilet roll were harmed in the making of this wardrobe malfunction).

My friend Sonya had been trying to shoe-horn me in to the outfit in question, after a quick loo stop to try and salvage some sort of face out of the mess on my head. Sadly, for her, she was the broad that broke my panelled back.

I stood, braless, helpless and mildly hysterical in the toilets for a good five minutes before the knocking on the door brought me back to the living nightmare I had just fallen in to.

I’m sure we’ve all had those dreams; where we’re standing in the middle of our A-level geography exam, only to look down and discover that the only thing between us and total nudity is a ball of string and a tattered Latvian flag. Well, let me tell you, it feels much worse in real waking life.

And so it was that I ended up sipping champagne in a pair of sagging gym leggings, no bra and a glow in the dark London Bridge T-shirt, while the beautiful people of London circled me like a feather-pecked pigeon.

Thank you Universe. Thank you fashion.

Image by justinwdavis courtesy of Flickr