Everything was to be packed ready for shipping by 4pm on D Day. So of course we began the mammoth task of editing looks, folding clothes, constructing customs-friendly packing lists, and labelling suitcases at approximately 3.50pm that very day. Standard.
The clock ticked by, the post room called to badger us every ten minutes, and we grew increasingly panicked. What had been a (relatively) organised mess had turned, quite simply, into couture chaos. As it grew increasingly unlikely that the shipping man would have hung around waiting for our battered suitcases to emerge, we managed to squash the final few pieces in and with a satisfying "zppppp" sealed our final case. We emerged, sweating, into the post-room with knickers, sports bras and accessories lying abandoned in our wake and exchanged looks of disbelief. We had done it!
Of course, the worst is far from over. And as I bury myself deep in piles of returns, I find myself thinking longingly of past days sat at my desk manically chasing PRs for unset samples. Oh, to be the chase-er and not the chase-ee! That's all I have time for now, I'm off to be a cupboard gremlin!
