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London was hit with a double whammy this week: In a glamorous snafu of schedules, it was both London fashion week and the BAFTA awards, which meant that the British capital was infiltrated by the world’s biggest movie stars as well as its top models. I’ll just come out and say my highlight now: Sharing an elevator with Brad and Angelina at the Edition Hotel after the BAFTA’s. I had thought of all these really creative things to say: “Brad, I’m from Missouri too.” Or, “Angelina, I used to date women too.” But instead I just pressed my floor and sucked in the famous air. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The biggest trend in New York – crappy weather – continued on the first day of #LFW. The winds in London diverted a few planes, including Anna Wintour’s, who ended up in Newcastle, and The New York Times’ Kate Lanphear, who ended up in Dublin. Somehow, I managed to land as scheduled (for once in my life, good flight kharma), and then the rest of the weekend was sunny and sweet.

My first show? My friend JW Anderson. I sat next to Amanda Harlech, who has become one of his most ardent supporters. Jonathan, the designer, and I met through mutual friends and I’ve watched with pride as he’s become a toast of London and – soon enough – Paris, when he debuts his first collection for Bally next season. LVMH invested in him last year, and this season his show was expectedly unexpected. Later that day, I caught another friend’s show, Henry Holland, who always puts a smile on my face. His shows are always silly, colorful and have a wink to them. It’s clear to see why he’s one of the London fashion scene’s most popular boys. That night was Charles Finch’s pre-BAFTA dinner, cohosted by Chanel. The perfect way to end a debut of fashion week. Again, I was sat next to Amanda, and on my other side was the impossibly beautiful Elisa Sednaoui. We gawked at Bradley Cooper, mainly, and probably drank too much.

Cara Delevingne owned the following day when she debuted her own handbag with Mulberry. It’s in three sizes, but my favorite was the largest, which turned into a backpack. Cara showed up at dinner at the Claridges wearing it. That dinner was, err, interesting, since I had to reconcile the fact that I’m finally an adult. Cara sat me next to her father, Charles, who’s as charming as ever, a seemingly family trait.

If Cara owned the day, the BAFTA’s owned the night. When we got back to the Edition Hotel, Ian Schrager’s fabulous new property on Berners Street, just off Soho, a BAFTA after party was in full swing. (This is when I not-so-accidentally ended up in the elevator with Brad & Angie.) Nupita and Oprah and a bunch of familiar faces were all there – and so was someone who captivated everyone’s attention, Michael Fassbender. My friend Jessica and I ended up fake-smoking cigarettes in a top-secret conference room on the second floor, just to watch him. That’s normal, right?

Monday at London Fashion week is a packed day. It starts with Christopher Kane, which was subversive and sweet and full of trash bags and fur coats; then to Erdem, which was polished and lacey and embroidered; Burberry was tricky for me because, well, some lady was in my seat and wouldn’t move (so I had to watch the whole thing on Instagram); and finally Tom Ford, which was expectedly glamorous. But the ensemble we’re all going to remember from tom’s show was the one that was a sequined sports jersey mini dress that paid homage to Jay-Z’s lyric that he doesn’t pop molly, he rocks Tom Ford.

London fashion week ends with the Elle Style Awards, and this year I was the date (well, one of the dates of) Lily Allen, who won for Most Stylish Recording Artist wearing a dress by Roland Mouret, who was another of her dates. She’s their March cover, after all. Which is the fourth time she was on the cover. As far as fashion ‘do’s go, this one was pretty fabulous. You can get by with so much more in London than you can in other cities. There’s an irreverence that you lets you get by with almost anything. Or so it seemed with some of the one-liners that popped out of host Nick Grimshaw’s mouth. Katy Perry was Woman of the Year. Tom Ford gave an award to David Bailey, who said that he liked the awards show because the set reminded him of the opening sequence of the Fox cartoon Family Guy. If that’s not British irreverence, I don’t know what is.

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Captions, from top: The London eye in the distance of Poppy Delevingne’s London eyes; Katy Perry, who was the Elle Woman of the Year, with her stylist Johnny Wuchek and Henry Holland; me and Joan Smalls; Roland Mouret and Lily Allen; an antiquity in Spencer House; Camilla al Fayed and her father, the Egyptian businessman Mohammed; Joan and Jourdan Dunn getting frisky at Cara Delevingne’s party; Karen Elson, Katie Grand and Luella Bartley at the Love party; Karen on the Tom Ford catwalk; Elisa Sednaoui, me and Lady Amanda Harlech at the Chanel dinner; Mark Ronson at Chanel’s dinner; Tati at the Firehouse; Laura Love, Geordon Nicol, Harley Viera Newton and Atlanta de Cadenet; Camilla and Elisa in a sandwich with Lucas and Benji; Charlotte Stockdale and her Dries van Noten dress; Fran Hickman and Caroline Sieber at the Chanel dinner; a kissing sandwich with Kelly Osborne and Cara Delevingne; Jourdan getting snuggly with Charles Delevingne, Cara’s dad; Kelly being unzipped by Joan; Hamish Bowles in the front row at JW Anderson’s show; Angel Haze; Poppy offering some glamour to a city block; David Thielebeule and Kate Lanphear at the Edition Hotel; Edie Campbell and Stefano Tonchi; Henry with Jonathan Saunders and Christopher Kane at Hoi Palloi; Elizabeth Saltzman and Jefferson Hack; Poppy and the BFC president Natalie Massenet at the Style Awards; Leigh Lezark, Daisy Lowe and Lily at the Firehouse.