Penelope and Jojo are both Greek, though they met when they were studying in London for MAs. Impeccably fashionable, they were, naturally, asked for a full tour of chic whenever they had visitors from home. And this, over time, with added finesse to facts and footwear, became the Fashion Walk. I capitalise deliberately: normally, when they do it, it takes eight hours. Eight hours. That proposition is so ridiculous that I laugh, openly, in their fashionable faces. I love a walk (hell, I have a dog), but I am not a huge follower of fashion. I'm not averse to clothes, I just doubt their profundity. And besides all that, if I were going to concentrate for eight hours (there is a four-hour option), I'd want a medal at the end of it, or a GCSE.
I had reckoned without the actual shops, though. During a fashion walk, a large amount of the time can be spent, if you like, looking in shops. Penelope and Jojo offer styling as part of the walk and they certainly know what's what. And don't forget, of course, that you probably quite like shops. We all do. You've probably done a four-hour fashion walk in the past year. Although it doesn't count if it was round Westfield.
They pick me up at Liverpool Street station, and we head towards Fashion Street, in east London. As we pass Spitalfields Market, Penelope fills me in. 'Do you know the history of the market?' 'No,' I say, even though I can guess: people sell stuff, landlord calls it illegal, King intervenes, asks for money, gets it, everybody happy. 'Well,' says Penelope, 'Charles V...' 'Do you mean a Spanish king?' 'No, an English one.' 'In that case, no.' (Why am I doing this? Why would I argue with this lovely woman about monarchical bloodlines?) 'Anyway,' says Penelope, 'the King said people could sell things and... There's Fashion Street! That is where our walk begins!'
