This Is What Goes On Backstage At London Fashion Week

So you know what it's like to grace the FROW thanks to fashion writer Georgia Murray, but working behind the scenes as a beauty editor is very different. On backstage duty, you're ushered in through a secret entrance and shooed out before the show begins. Somewhere in between arriving and being ejected by security, you're expected to have chatted to the makeup artists and hairstylists to garner the inspiration behind the finished hair and makeup looks, noted down all the products used and taken some non-blurry pictures for the 'gram. Sure, there's sometimes swanky cars, free food, makeovers and major fangirl moments (as well as industry legends, the designers and their celebrity friends hang out backstage, too) but it's not all glitz and glam. Here's everything I did, saw and ate on day three of London Fashion Week SS19.

After just four hours' sleep, I wake up thinking about skipping makeup, save for a quick brow brush... but who am I kidding? I end up applying a full face of foundation, bright red lipstick, bronze eyeshadow and lashings of Bar of Gold Highlighter, £49, gifted to me by Charlotte Tilbury who did the makeup for Temperley London yesterday – I'm a beauty ed, after all. I throw on my trusty boiler suit and Vans (flats, always flats) but don't notice the stain on the leg until later; ah, well. I know it's stupid o'clock, but backstage access opens well in advance in order to prep the models, and this morning, I'm off to Victoria Beckham (eeee!). Thanks to Foreo, who are prepping the skin for makeup, I don't have to walk to the station in the dark. Instead, I slip into a cushty car, which whizzes me all the way from east London to the venue, Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, in Mayfair.

I meet the PR and a few beauty editor friends outside, and half of us are given wristbands to enter the venue, which is seriously swanky – can I live here? Halfway up the marble stairs, I bump into the legendary Pat McGrath but there's no time to waste and she shoos me up to get the models ready. Contrary to Pat's signature style, the makeup is minimal, save for some bronzer, highlighter and gloss on the lids. The backstage area is absolutely rammed and all the journalists feel awkward, standing in the way of the professional hairstylists and makeup artists. One pro comments that we're a nuisance but the lovely Marian Newman, manicurist and CND brand ambassador, sticks up for us. We're doing our job, too! It looks like the models have already raided the free food table, so I settle on a packet of pineapple chips (gross) and take a few pictures of the half-finished look before being ushered out. The rest of the group are still outside and managed to spot VB herself walking in. I'm a bit gutted.

I need to wake up, so I walk 30 minutes to Preen By Thornton Bregazzi at Lindley Hall in Pimlico to meet the girls at ghd, who are on hair with the legend that is hairstylist Eugene Souleiman. I catch the start of his hair presentation, which is actually for the stylists, but there's no harm in crashing. Being 5ft nothing, it's difficult to see much, and it goes on for half an hour – my feet are killing me already. This place is even smaller than the last, and on my way out I get crushed by a line of models on the stairs, knock a bottle of nail varnish out of a manicurist's hand and drop my coffee.

Unlike the FROW, backstage life isn't very glitzy, but it's where the creativity happens. I spy makeup artist Val Garland, fangirl for a few seconds, compose myself and take my show notes. The freckled look she created was inspired by Gypsy girls in the sun and she rather cleverly used a sponge to speckle pigment onto the girls' faces for a ruddy, believable finish. She shows me her mood board and I finally get all I need. This morning's looks are really pared back, so I scroll through my camera roll and recap on yesterday's. For Gareth Pugh, Val Garland and Syd Hayes covered this model's head in plasters (below). Weird, but actually pretty cool.

My next show – Ashish - is at 5.30 at the BFC on The Strand so I debate going home, but choose to head back in the direction of the office (I can't face the Central Line there and back) and grab breakfast at Ozone on Old Street, instead. I remember I accidentally skipped my porridge so as not to be late, so I compensate and order the Big Brekkie with all the extras, a latte and a juice – I need my energy. I never usually go to restaurants, cafés or bars on my own because it makes me feel a bit awkward, but I suck it up and remember that if I'm confident enough to get in actual Pat McGrath's way while she's doing makeup, I can eat breakfast by myself. I update my London Fashion Week SS19 beauty gallery with the looks from Preen and Victoria Beckham and do a little Instagram stalking. The thing about heading backstage is that you're at the shows before the fashion pack arrives, so you miss all the amazing outfits.

I've done all the work I can until Ashish and I've got a whole five hours to kill, but I'm so thankful because yesterday, I attended eight shows back to back, from 7am to 7pm, and couldn't feel my legs (or remember my own name) when I got home. Luckily, a journo pal of mine had a car and her driver (shoutout to Karl for getting us there and back safely) let me tag along for a few shows. Despite the traffic, aching limbs and most probably severe dehydration, I didn't miss a single one.

I head back into the office to catch Georgia working on her show report. We haven't seen each other at all, because when I leave a show backstage, she arrives to watch it, so it's nice to catch up on gossip from Alexa Chung's party the night before.

At 3pm, I decide to head over to The Strand to see if I can get in early. Thanks to LFW, I've got a pass that gives me access to the BFC VIP area, so I can people-watch (probably my favourite thing about fashion week after meeting all the legendary makeup artists and hairstylists IRL), and raid the fridge. Yep, I'm hungry again. By the time I get there, there's no food left, so I make a Pret dash next door, and you guessed it, there's no food there, either. I settle on a gingerbread man and text my brother and ask him to buy something green on his way home from work because all I've eaten is beige food.

Outside the BFC, I dodge the photographers taking pictures of a few influencers (my jumpsuit is super tatty, stained and my Vans just as awful) but no one really cares what you wear backstage and comfort is key. No other journalists are here yet, but I feel quite savvy to have arrived early. At Halpern yesterday, the MAC team, headed up by Isamaya Ffrench, were so speedy with makeup, I pretty much missed it all and had to hassle a model for a quick picture as she lined up to head out onto the catwalk. Obviously, I got told off by security.

I make my way into the backstage area and it's the size of a shoebox. A security guard has a go at me for not wearing my wristband properly but his tone is unnecessarily rude, so I snap back – everyone's stressed out. Makeup artists and hairstylists are losing their shit at journalists and photographers for getting in the way but I plonk myself in the corner and wait for an hour and a half for the finished look – I know it involves lots of colour, so I'm not going anywhere until I get a picture. My reluctance to leave means I miss the call time for my next show, Peter Pilotto, but another journalist and I promise to swap notes post-show. This is actually really rare because it feels like all press are out for themselves at fashion week, which I hate. Technically, we're all in this together...

I finally make my way out of there and head home. It's Sunday night, so the Tube is pretty empty. I treat myself to a cab home instead of walking – my feet probably wouldn't be able to get me very far anyway, they're shredded.

I have a shower, change into pyjamas and slip into bed but I want to write up all my show notes and update my gallery, because no one has yet reported on Victoria Beckham, Preen or Ashish, arguably today's biggest shows, and I'd like to get in there first. I close my eyes for a few moments and open them to a message from another journalist telling me how brilliant R29's social coverage on each show has been, and this gives me a second wind to write. I've been MIA to my family and friends for four days and get a funny text from my best friend asking where the hell I've got to, then another completely spoiling Bodyguard. FFS.

I set my alarm for 6am the following morning for the Roksanda show but I don't get to sleep 'til around 1am because I can't stop thinking about a pair of white trainers I saw a girl wearing outside one of the shows. I need them now. I should have asked her where she got them from, but I was so tired, I couldn't even speak, so I end up googling shoes for ages, catching up on news for tomorrow's meeting, which I'll miss but want to be prepared for anyway, before falling asleep with my laptop on the pillow next to me.