Today, I am going to an auction.
It began in that strange grey-blue light before London is fully awake. The city outside my window was only just stirring: delivery vans grumbling along the street, a distant siren, the occasional clatter of a bin dragged across paving stones. Inside, my flat looked as if a small but determined storm had passed through. Garment bags and hatboxes were stacked in teetering towers. Shoes peeped out from under chairs. Every available hook and doorknob held something expensive, fragile, or both.
Getting Ready Under Pressure
I was standing in the bathroom with my hair twisted into a towel, watching my reflection oscillate somewhere between ‘eccentric heiress’ and ‘frazzled wardrobe mistress’, when the buzzer went. My temples were already throbbing with the beginnings of what I call my stress head—the one that arrives whenever clothes, logistics, and a large audience are involved. I shuffled down the hall in my slippers, towel wobbling precariously, and opened the door.
There stood Franco, my ever-reliable right-hand man, like a caffeinated angel of mercy. In one hand he held a cardboard carrier brimming with steaming Americanos. In the other, a paper bag sagging with still-warm croissants. Behind him, I could see the silhouettes of the removal crew waiting on the stairs.
“You look like the ghost of couture past,” Franco remarked, sweeping past me into the flat and depositing the coffees on the kitchen counter. The rich, bitter smell drifted through the hallway and soothed some part of my frayed nerves.
Letting Go of a Wardrobe
My front door had been wedged open with a battered old shoe—one of the few things not destined for the auction. It sat there like a tiny, stubborn sentinel as a group of burly, rather tasty young men marched in and out. Each one carried some vital piece of my fashion history: rails of gowns, stacked crates of accessories, carefully wrapped boxes that held pieces people would probably once have killed for.
Every few minutes I’d see a dress or a jacket being carried off—something I’d worn to a particular party, a scandalous premiere, or one unforgettable weekend in the South of France. My instincts flared. More than once I opened my mouth to say, “Oh no, not that one, we have to keep that one,” but Franco simply shook his head at me, firmly but kindly, his eyes saying, We’ve talked about this. I swallowed my sentimentality, clutched my coffee like a life raft, and watched them go.
By the time my hair was dry, my flat looked oddly bare. The clothes had always been more than just fabric to me. They were decades of stories, parties, affairs, arguments, reconciliations. But there was no time for nostalgia. We had an auction to run.
Arrival at Oxford Circus
And then we were off to Oxford Circus.
The drive across town was a blur of honking taxis, red buses, and the usual chaos of central London traffic. Underneath it all, I could feel a pulsing current of adrenaline. This wasn’t just any clear-out. We were about to throw open the doors to a warehouse filled with my personal hoard of designer treasures—and half of London, it seemed, was planning to come and try their luck.
The venue was a large industrial warehouse, all exposed beams and concrete floors. When we arrived, the space was already alive with activity. Crates thudded onto the ground. Rails rattled as they were wheeled in. There was a constant hum of voices, tape ripping from cardboard, and the soft whoosh of tissue paper being pulled back to reveal another shimmering dress or bejewelled jacket.
The Event Team in Action
A team of highly organised young women seemed to materialise from nowhere. Clipboards in hand, high ponytails swishing, they barked instructions at one another and ticked off inventory lists. They were apparently connected to James and his inexhaustible address book of fundraiser organisers. Wherever he’d found them, they were extraordinary—efficient, cheerful, and terrifyingly capable. They treated me like some minor member of royalty, steering me gently away from hazards, pressing schedules into my hand, and insisting I conserve my energy.
Around us, the clothes were being transformed from private possessions into objects of collective desire. Rails of couture dresses glowed under the harsh industrial lighting. Sequins sent flecks of light across the concrete like mischievous stars. Velvet jackets, feathered shrugs, satin gowns, beaded clutches—all of it contributed to a shimmering, slightly unhinged glamour.
The air was thick with it: the unmistakable scent of perfume, fresh coffee, hairspray, and that subtle, intoxicating smell of beautiful clothes—silk, leather, and wool that had lived long, luxurious lives.
Early Admirers
At one point, I spotted a young, impossibly glamorous blonde woman, all legs and lip gloss, running her hands over a limited-edition Pucci silk jacket. She was practically stroking it, eyes glazed with that dreamy, covetous look only fashion can induce.
“If you want it,” Franco drawled as he passed her, “you’ll have to bid on it, darling.”
She laughed, tossed her hair, and shot me a look that said she would fight to the death for it. I didn’t doubt it.
The Warehouse Becomes a Theatre
By ten o’clock on the dot, the warehouse had been transformed from chaos into theatre. Neat rows of chairs faced the auctioneer’s podium. Numbers had been taped to the backs of the seats. Assistants floated around with clipboards and pens like well-dressed dragonflies.
The doors swung open, and the public poured in.
The energy in the room grew with every person who stepped through the entrance. There were seasoned buyers with practised eyes and battered notebooks. Personal shoppers stood on the phone to invisible clients. Stylists murmured to one another as they scanned the rails. A smattering of curious onlookers had clearly just heard the words “designer” and “auction” and thought, Why not?
Buyers clustered along the edges of the warehouse, leaning against pillars with the casual focus of people who had done this many times before. The front rows filled quickly. I recognised faces from my favourite haunts in Kensington, Fulham, and Chelsea—people I’d bumped into at sample sales, charity galas, or in the shoe department of Harrods.
Some of them gave me little waves. Others offered a conspiratorial thumbs up, as if we were co-conspirators in some outrageous plot to redistribute my wardrobe across London. It was oddly comforting, seeing those familiar expressions of amused anticipation.
My Beautician on a Mission
Right at the front, perched on the edge of her seat, was my beautician. She looked as though she’d come armed for battle—lipstick flawless, hair immaculate, handbag clutched tightly on her lap. I knew exactly what she was here for: one of my pink fur coats she’d been pining after for years.
“If it kills me, I’m getting that coat,” she had told me once, half-joking. Judging by the steely glint in her eyes now, I believed her.
There was a crackling, electric buzz in the air, the kind that makes your skin prickle and your heartbeat quicken. Then Franco stepped up to the microphone to open proceedings.
Setting the Tone
He spoke beautifully—about the cause, why we were doing this, and the sheer amount of potential good sitting on those rails in the form of silk and sequins. The crowd quietened, leaning in. For a few moments, the clothes became more than just indulgence. They became possible.
And then, suddenly, it was my turn.
I heard my name announced, and a ripple of applause swelled into a roar. My mouth went instantly dry. Public speaking has never been my favourite sport, but there I was, being gently nudged towards the front as if onto a stage.
I stepped up. The bright lights momentarily blinded me. I looked out over a sea of expectant faces. For one brief, terrifying second, all words fled my brain. Then I thought of the charities we were supporting, the children and families who would benefit, and somehow my voice found its way out.
Saying What Matters
I said a few halting words—about letting go, about giving beautiful things a second life, about turning luxury into something genuinely useful and kind. It wasn’t polished, but it was honest. When I finished, the applause crashed over me like a wave, loud and generous. I exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes and retreated gratefully to my seat.
The auction began.
What followed was three and a half hours of glorious, chaotic madness.
Money flew around the warehouse in a dizzying blur. Bids leapt from tens to hundreds, then from hundreds to thousands, with a quick flick of a paddle or a barely perceptible nod. The auctioneer was in his element. His voice rose and fell in a hypnotic chant, coaxing a few more pounds out of each hopeful bidder.
Star Lots and Devoted Buyers
Within the first ten minutes, a pair of strappy Jimmy Choo sandals from Spring/Summer 2007 went under the hammer for a staggering £900. I watched them disappear into the arms of a delighted woman in the third row. She immediately slipped them out of the box and held them up to the light as though they were holy relics.
Everywhere I looked, things were changing hands. Delicate scraps of silk, intricate lace blouses, feathered shrugs, slinky satin dresses—pieces that had once hung quietly in my wardrobe were now coveted prizes. People snapped them up with the urgency usually reserved for must-have gadgets or festival tickets.
Fierce Fashion Competition
A group of impeccably dressed Japanese girls had arrived together, each more stylish than the last. They were locked in fierce but good-natured combat over anything Chanel or Chloé. Every time a quilted bag or tweed jacket appeared, their paddles shot up in unison, and the air around them crackled. At one point, it looked as though they might actually climb over the chairs to outbid one another. Several people nearby shifted nervously out of the way.
Thankfully, James had anticipated this kind of enthusiasm and insisted on hiring proper security for the day. The guards—tall, solid men with earpieces and unexpectedly gentle smiles—stood unobtrusively at the edges of the room, ready to intervene if passions spilled over. Their presence alone seemed enough to keep the more excitable bidders from physically wrestling over a vintage Chanel clutch.
Letting Go, Again and Again
As the hours wore on, my emotions swung wildly between giddy excitement and a strange, aching nostalgia. Each time an item I particularly loved went up—a certain gown, a favourite jacket—I felt a little tug in my chest. That feeling was always followed by a rush of pride when the hammer fell, and another tidy sum was added to the total.
By 1:30 PM, the final lot had been sold and the last echo of the auctioneer’s voice faded into the rafters. The warehouse seemed to exhale. People milled about, comparing purchases, swapping stories, and clutching their new treasures as if afraid someone might snatch them away.
Behind the scenes, the real work began. The cash tin was opened and carefully counted, the notes smoothed and stacked. Cheques were laid in neat piles. Credit card slips were gathered together and paper-clipped into satisfying little bundles. It was all very unglamorous, very practical—and yet, in its own way, more thrilling than any runway show.
An Astonishing Figure
We checked the figures not once, not twice, but three times. Each time the numbers came out the same. When the final total was read out, there was a moment of stunned silence.
£327,089.
For a second, I honestly thought someone had misplaced a decimal point.
But no, it was real. More than three hundred and twenty-seven thousand pounds raised from my designer pieces—some from my own wardrobe, some generously contributed by friends, clients, and fellow fashion magpies. There were retro gems, rare limited editions, and authentic vintage treasures that collectors would dine out on for years. Even considering the calibre of the collection, the final figure was astonishing.
I felt a strange mixture of exhaustion, disbelief, and elation. All those dresses I’d agonised over, all those shoes I’d sworn I’d never part with—they had just done something extraordinary.
Two Worthy Causes
As we packed up the paperwork and the last of the crates, I thought of St. Barnardo’s and SCOPE, the two charities at the heart of this mad, beautiful undertaking. I imagined the programmes that would be funded, the support that would be offered, the lives that might be nudged in a better direction by the money we’d raised.
Enjoy supporting St. Barnardo’s and SCOPE, I thought. Two truly worthy causes—funded, today, by silk, sequins, and the collective power of a little fashion-fuelled generosity.
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