London Fashion Week might seduce outsiders, but in reality, it’s a high-stakes, bladder-busting endurance test. Schedules are relentless, shows run late, and without a car? Well, good luck sprinting between venues without risking a UTI. Enter Ouno—London’s premier chauffeur service, as smooth as slipping into a freshly pressed tuxedo—saving Team i-D from logistical doom. Not a show missed, not a deadline blown. Bonus: our driver, Petar—a legend—greeted me daily with my exact coffee order (skinny flat white, obviously) and is now a fan of fellow Bulgarian Kiko Kostadinov.
As for the collections? London never plays by one rulebook, but this season had an overarching attitude: Brands were “growing up.” A euphemism for making things more commercial? No shade, everyone’s got rent to pay. But while the air was thick with greys and sharp wool suiting, there were still flashes of rebellion.
Dilara Findikoglu opened her show with Lara Stone in a corseted masterpiece, followed by a parade of gothic sirens in distressed, twisted, deconstructed separates—real bosom-clutching stuff. SRVC transformed the 43rd floor of the BT Tower into a show venue for the very first time, where Ricky Wesley Harriott delivered his sharpest take yet on power dressing with confidence and sensuality.
Simone Rocha threw it back to her schoolgirl emo days with fringed rugby tops, saccharine-but-sinister dresses, and plush bunny stoles swinging from shoulders. “I wanted to look at teenage stereotypes—good girls, bad girls, rugby boys,” she said. Jawara Alleyne, another designer entering his “grown-up” era, still kept his beloved punk-meets-pirate DNA intact, blending couture-inspired gowns with spliced polo tops and baggy jeans. “Womenswear lets me be the designer I was as a kid, lost in a couture-like dream world,” he mused.
At the Savoy’s Beaumont Bar, Conner Ives gave us a salon-style soirée of cocktail dresses and sequined tees—along with his Protect the Dolls T-shirt, which rightly broke the internet. The collection felt very old-school New York. SS Daley, originally slated for Paris men’s in January, refined his codes with a hint of—dare I say it—JW’s Loewe-esque gallerina vibes. Overheard in the FROW? Glossy editors whispering about him being up for Burberry. The duffle coat and micro shorts did raise an eyebrow.
Erdem’s collection, inspired by and in collaboration with Scottish artist Kaye Donachie, leaned into moody, dreamlike elegance, though with more muted cocktail-appropriate silhouettes than past seasons. Meanwhile, DenzilPatrick clashed Edwardian England with club-kid energy (a cherry-red knit cardi is already on my wishlist). Harris Reed delivered his usual sculptural theatrics—though a bit more finesse might have sharpened the edges. At least he secured Michele Lamy in the FROW. Chet Lo gave us a refined take on his aesthetic, but the sex appeal? MIA. Maybe the palette was to blame. Di Petsa’s signature wet-look dresses were as hypnotic as ever, but the show felt like it was chasing too many viral moments at once. A lot going on, but hey—it was still gorgeous.
Richard Quinn did what he does best—delivering dreamy, ultra-romantic gowns in a setting that felt straight out of a Dickensian fever dream. Artificial snow blanketed the ground, while a glowing bubble iteration descended from the sky. Princess-worthy bridal options were in no short supply—one of which on legendary muse Penelope Tree—and the VICs in the front row were completely entranced. My key takeaway? To quote Aretha Franklin, “Great gowns, beautiful gowns.”
A highlight—if a slightly unexpected one—was Paolo Carzana at The Holy Tavern pub in Clerkenwell, where his ethereal, beautifully constructed collection reminded us why we fell for him in the first place. Earthy hues of pistachio, peach, and lavender melted into sculptural yet pillow-soft tailoring, though we could’ve done with a few more looks. Post-show, the designer was in tears—an endearing sight. Even the bartender had the final word: “Loved it.”
Debuts made waves, too. Daniel W. Fletcher, fresh from Fiorucci (he left last summer), shared his first collection for Chinese-backed Mithridate—his signatures unmistakably intact. Pauline Dujancourt delivered mohair-wrapped, cobwebby poetry. Grete Henriette wove magic into form-fitting crochet and intricate draping for London’s coolest girls.
Fashion East’s class of 2025—Cameron Williams and Jebi Labembika of Nuba, Olympia Schiele of Louther, and Olly Shinder (his fourth season)—each brought something distinct, though minimalism (for the most part) was a commonality. The same mood (but with more colour) carried through Central Saint Martins’ graduate collections, with L’Oréal Prize winners Petra Fagerstrom and William Palmer cementing themselves as ones to watch (Palmer’s pieces? Add2cart).
Non-traditional formats proved powerful. Talia Byre’s intimate salon-style showing at Incubator Gallery was easily her most resonant. Completedworks enlisted Debi Mazar to perform as the host of a live shopping show in front of an audience—and it was sensational. Stefan Cooke and Jake Burt’s return from hiatus was all about the details—unveiled via a stunning lookbook and a chic, low-key gathering featuring a giant cherry and almond cake (courtesy of house muse and Spring’s star baker Louis Thompson), beers, and a chance to shop the new collection. A dream, minus the damage to my bank account. “The show is really about the image,” said Cooke. “But we wanted people to see the craftsmanship up close.”
Hats off to the digital-first designers—Derrick, Feben, Geordie Campbell, Oscar Ouyang, Johanna Parv, Karoline Vitto, Masha Popova, and Sól Hansdóttir—who reminded us that a runway isn’t always essential. Let’s actually take the time to watch their lookbooks and films—and find ways to support them. Special mention to Aletta, the fresh-faced label from design duo Freddy Coomes and Matt Empringham, already dressing the likes of Emma Corrin and Sienna Miller.
Closing the season with a bang, Burberry’s show at Tate Britain was the blockbuster event everyone expected. Daniel Lee delivered quiet confidence over flashy reinvention—rich outerwear, masterful textures (some echoing his Bottega Veneta stint), and an enviable A-list cast, including Naomi Campbell and White Lotus’ Jason Isaacs. Oh, and a knight in shining armour in attendance. Rumours about his exit? Not my business.
Another season wrapped, another lesson learned: London Fashion Week may be evolving, but its defiant spirit? Unshakable. Just remember to pee when you get the chance.
