Prologue 

A gentle tap on my shoulder brings me back to consciousness. “Ms. Adams, Ms. Adams, we’re landing; I need your mattress back.” My mind, dulled by fatigue, gradually registers that I am aboard a plane returning home.

The life of a buyer entails frequent international travel—an often-touted benefit in job advertisements. However, reaching this stage has required significant effort and resilience. Air travel during certain seasons almost inevitably leads to encounters with familiar faces, even at 38,000 feet.

On this flight, a group of buyers—including myself—returning from an extensive business trip. The collective exhaustion is palpable. 

Our journey began in Shanghai and continued through India, Taipei, and Bangladesh, with each airport arrival marked by efficient transfers and luggage filled not just with laptops, but also with essential documents. Despite the digital age, there always remains a need to carry physical files as a precaution against unforeseen circumstances.

Travel brings sensory memories unique to each location. By the end of each visit, clothing absorbs the distinct scents of the city—unless one has utilized hotel laundry services, which can ease the burden of post-trip chores. A tip for any wannabe buyer, always get this negotiated into the hotel package.

As the aircraft descends, I reflect on another successful negotiation. A mixture of pride, fatigue, anxiety, and contemplation accompanies thoughts of the future. The demanding nature of this profession is evident; it has traditionally been perceived as requiring youthful energy and stamina. This prompts consideration of longevity within such a role and whether experience compensates for physical endurance.

Now that’s the job advert extract the real feeling was that you could no longer string together a sentence without speaking in pigeon English. You had no idea what time it was, and you had flash backs of night outs and who had slept with who!

Extended periods of travel inevitably lead to deeper reflection on career progression. I recall my formative years as a trainee in Manchester in 90’s at BR Spence—this period marked by both challenges and growth, laying the foundation for a 25-year career. Encountering many bitches along the way.

The Interview

The bus was late—as usual. I escaped work at lunchtime, hoping my boss wouldn’t notice my “extended sandwich break,” all for an interview in central Manchester. Traffic was moving, which shocked me more than my own nerves or my heroic attempt to look professional. 

My post-university salary had me living the dream: one white shirt, one black skirt, and a wardrobe so limited it could be summed up on a sticky note.

Back then, spotting a job ad meant scouring the Manchester Evening News, not swiping through three hundred listings before breakfast. So, when the interview invite arrived, I assumed it was either a mistake or someone else’s lucky day. My degree was in printed textile design—a skill set designed for a studio, not a boardroom.

A year out of university and several uninvited bills later, I realised I needed a job that paid rent, not just my bus fare.

After only a minor panic at the stop, my noble chariot (the bus) finally showed up. The interview was at Weaver Street, in a Victorian building clad in art deco tiles—a time-travel experience before I even got to reception. There, Betty and Joan greeted me, offering water as if they expected me to faint. Frankly, I considered it.

Clarice, Henry Bolton’s assistant, soon swept me past glass-walled offices with the efficiency of someone who’d seen one too many lost interviewees. We crossed into the Ladieswear department via a bridge—yes, a bridge; who knew office life was so adventurous? —and suddenly, I was living my first episode of ‘Corporate Life: The Series.’

Henry Bolton’s office looked like something from a noir film: glass walls, wooden paneling, and sweeping views of Dale Street Manchester. 

Henry wasted no time launching into his company pitch while I tried to remember if “Trainee Buyer” was something you learned or just pretended to know about. Apparently, it meant teamwork, growth opportunities, and, most urgently, a salary of £12,000—enough to buy at least two more shirts.

On my way out, back through the bustling office jungle, papers flew, conversations buzzed, and I desperately hoped my skirt wasn’t tucked into anything it shouldn’t be. I returned to my furniture store manager job mulling over whether this detour might become my main career highway—or at least offer better wardrobe options.

First Day as Trainee Buyer

When I entered the office as the new person, everyone stared. James, the merchandiser, later told me I looked startled. I stood there gripping my new stationery, dressed in a black blazer, pencil skirt, and white shirt from Next determined to look sharp due to my interest in fashion. Though looking like a concierge. It wasn’t that long ago I’d left Manchester Poly, with my patched Doc Martins.

The team were led by Senior Buyer Diane. A good bunch a happy bunch, a team that I would settle with. This is the period I consider as the Golden Times. I bet you’re thinking where the bitches are of buying? They are in abundance; I can assure you. However, at this time there was very little competition, and nobody had ever heard of a fashion website. It was the early 90’s, the era of the catalogues. The closet to a computer was a calculator.

They appreciated hierarchy—Abigail from the dresses department, for example, insisted on being called a Senior Assistant. She embodied BR Brown’s preferences: organization, strict adherence to deadlines, and a knack for sharing gossip.

My desk was sat opposite a woman that could only be described as having the best talon nails ever! Heather Gaunt-Smith. She peered over her glasses at the end of her nose and looked at me with absolute disdain. ‘Well, we do things this way’…was her opening line. Heather was black and yes, she hated new trainees. She had been subjected to many before. I would just look blankly at her when she spoke about her Husband David knowing where he stood. I bet he did! Despite this being our first meeting, I instantly like her, she was direct and funny and in fact grew to be one of my favourite people along this journey.

Did I mention everything was done by hand? Sticking stickers in books that you had to add up and hoped it all balanced. Demand, number of lines, units sold. I remember being sat on the train home calculator in one hand catalogue in the other fervently trying to add it all up. These stickers arrived on trollies from the ‘computer room’ in heaps of paper to be then humanly processed to make some sort of analytical sense. 

Mail order catalogues in the North were the big hubs of the fashion industry. Large looming corporate industries that relied on people being hard off in having to pay monthly for what they had ordered through the agent. Add to the fact that BR Brown went up to size 32 was a big (pardon the pun) USP. They were working in a goldmine, cash rich business where they could do no wrong.

The offices were 5 floors of an old Victorian workhouse with nooks and crannies and stairs and stairs. Two buildings joined together with an adjoining walkway. On this particular walkway were the fax, telex and photocopier. Machines that I would end up spending half of my time at. Even though there were lifts the quickest way to the loading bay was the stairs. I think I spent my entire first year on those stairs collecting parcels from the loading bay. Manned by the security staff. A lively, good natured bunch of people who after a few visits knew my name and rang me every time a parcel arrived. The oldest lift was kept in original condition at the front of the building. An open wrought iron, manual door shutter that juddered when it rose to each level.

Nobody told me that it had a propensity to break down. Grinding to an almighty stop in-between floor. The fit model who I’d just collected from reception, a lady from accounts and myself inside. At first, we thought it would start moving again but then a distance voice shouted ‘we’ll have to winch you down. Then you’ll have to climb out in-between levels’ 

Fine I thought that shouldn’t take long. Then I heard, “but we’ll have to call out the engineer”

Where was this Engineer the other side of town? After waiting for an hour and a half we were feeling trapped and anxious that I was needed in a meeting. I heard my name over the tannoy “will Alice Adams please contact reception”. It made a change from hearing will ‘Enid from initial contact back lodge”. 

“Can Alice call reception immediately”

“Alice call”

“……. immediately ……. immediately”

Sweating I started to panic, ‘get me out of this lift now!”

Then I felt us being winched down, then a voice saying “right love you’ll have to crawl through this gap”

The gap itself no more than a letterbox. My legs went first, one shoe falling off to the ground below. Then my skirt got caught in the jagged bottom edge of the lift. “Come on love we haven’t got all day” 

There was no doubt about it I was stuck, the only way I could get out of this was to lose my dignity entirely. My skirt dragged up to my waist as I pushed myself to exit. All my knickers, good old M&S full coverage on show. Landing squarely unladylike on the floor below. 

Mortified bundling myself together, running out of the lift area, I’d completely forgot I’d left the fit model behind. Running back into the office to a roar of laughter who had asked reception to keep messaging me for a joke.

Photo samples

You grow fond of things you work with; they are no longer just inanimate objects. They can ruin or make your day. Necessities that become work colleagues. Like the wall was to Shirley Valentine, the fax machine was to me. All communication with the Far East was through this little machine in a small cupboard room. In this tiny little room, a noticeboard hung requesting tidiness when spewed paper directly fell on to the floor from the machine.

Everything was handwritten instructions, requests, each note legible for the recipient to understand. Telephoning suppliers wasn’t really an option to a lower grade. To actually speak to them was only for the BUYER. You see the hierarchy was loud and clear, everyone had their place their role.

My role was booking in Photo samples and this meant picking up the parcels. The loading bay was in the basement; buying offices were on the third floor, the sample rooms where on the sixth floor. Each floor connected by a maze of stairs and a bridge reaching between two buildings. When the lift didn’t work you knew you were in for a long painful day of just walking up and downstairs. Didn’t matter how big or small the boxes were a trainee’s life was full of heavy lifting. Reaching back to my desk the phone would often ring, and it was loading bay letting me know more parcels had arrived. There was no health and safety policy for lifting and it was irrelevant that you were a woman either. 

In the security back lodge, there was Steve, Paul and Graham. We nicknamed Graham ‘Trigger’, after Only Fools and Horses, only because every time I would ask for someone’s car keys he would look at us blankly. Diane was head of security and boy when her ID flashed up on your phone you knew something was going on. Yet she was the most wonderful individual that would do anything for anybody, while at the same time managing to put the fear of God in you. One time I was summoned to security lodge, I could feel a hot sweat all over my body, I had no idea why, but I felt hell of a guilty.

On arrival Diane said: “Do you recognise any of these items?”

Items of clothing were splayed out on the desks.

“Sorry no I don’t” I replied, feeling very curious as to what had happened.

Someone had been caught taking clothing from the offices, Den wanted to check which department they had come from. No prisoners were taken when any theft of BR Spence clothing was taken.

I quickly made my exist, happy to not be under the spotlight.

Photo samples were the necessity the shop window. Every outfit needed to be photographed to put into the book/catalogue. One of my first tasks was to request these samples from suppliers, what sizes, colours and how many. Days and Days of endless lists. Standing, waiting, talking to the Fax machine filled my days. Waiting for the transmission success notification. A ‘ping’ of confirmation, music to my ears.

Fittings for the shoot was the good part of the job, exciting, full of creative people. Walking into a studio felt like liberation from the confines of an office. All fittings were held in red bricked building based in Ardwick Green called ‘Capricorn’. 

The purpose of fittings was to make sure the garments fitted correctly on the models. There was a stylist and a seamstress along with a fitting photographer. More often than not the main photographer would not attend these days and only do the shoot. 

It was like a breath of fresh air working with these creatives. 

Now you would think buying was quite creative however it’s more about reports, figures and spreadsheets. Picked product based on strong statistical analysis of what has worked before. A slight tweak to update. I’d fallen into buying really, at that stage there was no Uni course. Unlike today where a purpose-built course at Manchester Met can set you on your merry buying career. There was no online business, and most selling was done through catalogue agencies. Mum would order for family and friends, allowing them to pay it up weekly. Fast Fashion was a not a thing and Primark didn’t exist. It was a time where anything seemed possible.

Reality of fittings days was the trainee running about with the garments while the buyer sat and watched with the Brand/Design manager. There was one huge factor that after all my sample requests I hadn’t taken into account. Nobody mentioned it to me or said I needed to do it.

The fact the models were nearly 6ft tall and the samples needed to be a little longer to fit, nobody had mentioned that.

The blood draining from my head, swishing right down to my toes. Had I had ordered samples that were long enough? That would be a big fat no. 

A Spanish Inquisition wasn’t even the half of it. A lot of sentences, grumbles turned into outright shouting “who the hell ordered samples that were too short ?!”

That would be me, with my arms full of useless samples and a red face. Lots of shouting, swearing and flaying of arms. Continued for a short space of time but what seemed to last for ages and all-in slow motion.

They say you learn by your mistakes, and it took me weeks of working overtime and doing the menial tasks to even have the buyer say my name again.

Getting my buyer ready for a Far East Trip

As a trainee buyer, you were basically the Swiss Army knife of the team—handling every task thrown your way (sometimes even catching paperwork in mid-air). Your prep work meant juggling paperwork, files, and buying briefs for each clothing item—including ratios, colour names, target prices, quantities, swatches, and spec designs. If you ever dreamed of memorising more fabric swatches than your own phone number.

The operation was orchestrated with all the precision of a military campaign right up until Departure Day. Daphne made the rounds to visit suppliers—even if it wasn’t always red carpets and champagne; one time she ended up in hospital with a nasty virus, which didn’t stop Bolton from delivering samples straight to her bedside (because nothing says ‘get well soon’ like another spreadsheet). 

Sample bags were meticulously lined up, and lever arch files stood like soldiers ready with all the handwritten paperwork. This was a time before laptops and smartphones were our constant companions; when you went on a business trip, it was as if you’d vanished into the Bermuda Triangle for weeks. The only hope of reaching you was through the hotel room fax machine—whose screeching in the middle of the night was less “urgent message” and more “accidental audition for a horror film,” thanks to colleagues blissfully ignorant of your new time zone.

The files were meticulously organised and slotted with precision into the office filing cabinet—a feat worthy of an Olympic medal in administrative sports. The key stayed safely in my pocket, which is more than I can say for my dignity as I dashed out, arms flailing, to catch my train home (and probably startled half the commuters in the process).

Next morning I was in early knowing all the files needed packing up as Daphne was leaving for her trip that evening. Reaching for the key in my pocket, it wasn’t there. Scrambling in all my pockets, nothing. Feeling queasy, the room started to rotate, all my nerve ending tingling, my mouth dry before the sheer bloody panic overtook my entire body. 

The army-grade metal cabinet was more secure than Fort Knox. Exhausted from long hours, I had absolutely no clue how to get those files; short of developing superpowers, my odds weren’t looking great

Where could I get a blowtorch, a metal cutter? Random thoughts whirring through my brain. Do I fess up and tell Daphne that she can’t have her files? The blowtorch and metal cutter preferable than the rath. 

Fortunately, Malcom from back lodge security found in the centre of the office. Completely rooted to the spot in terror. Immediately he pulled out a set of keys and hey presto, the door was opened. To this day nobody knows what happened. If I hadn’t been able to get those files out all hell would have broken loose.

I lived to fight another day.

Cut your cloth love

Mundane tasks are apparently a rite of passage in career progression; management must think character is forged by wrestling with tasks while trying to another job. During a work trip to Miami, which sounds glamorous until you realise how long travel and working time is.

My task was writing an essay on why I deserved promotion to Junior Buyer—after three years of heroic coffee runs. Offices have a weird obsession with reports; honestly, I’m convinced they’re just collecting them for a dramatic bonfire.

Naturally, the deadline was the exact day I was flying out, which meant “ample time” boiled down to snatching minutes after prepping samples for the shoot. The assignment landed on me like a falling stapler, so I had to piece it together my thoughts—even when I should’ve been dreaming about anything except spreadsheets and watching films.

Of course, the universe delivered poetic justice: I ended up writing the report on the plane, where at least nobody could interrupt me. Unsurprisingly, I found myself wedged in the middle seat—because who needs elbow room or dignity when chasing that Junior Buyer title?

The flight was packed with holidaymakers cramming their oversized luggage into overhead bins like a game of Tetris on expert mode. Wading through the sea of elbows and backpacks, I finally found my seat—wedged right in the middle of a row commandeered by three vivacious women over 50, all Miami-bound and ready for adventure. Clinging to hope (and an ounce of dignity), I pitched the idea of swapping for an aisle spot, only to have one lady politely refuse. “No can do,” she said with a smile, “unless you fancy being climbed over every half hour—I’ve got a frequent flyer card for the restroom.”

As I took my seat and unpacked my stationery, I braced myself for the daunting challenge of writing this report without a laptop—armed only with pens, paper, and the unwavering optimism of someone who had nothing to lose.

“Would you like a barely sugar love” one lady inquired. I know she was just being polite I know she was just being helpful, but I thought if I didn’t make eye contact then they would ignore me. Leave me alone to do the task in hand. 

“Travelling on your own love?”. Why does everybody have a fascination for someone who travels on their own. Many at times I have been asked this question while my boss/buyer sat in business class. While I was condemned to economy. 

“I’m going on a photo shoot “I replied without making eye contact. 

“Oh, how marvellous” The lady replied brimming with more questions. 

Where do you work 

“What do you do?”

“What are you photographing?”

Before I could respond, she unleashed a barrage of questions faster than a game show buzzer.

I leaned back, resigning myself to the fact that my work would remain unfinished—unless answering trivia counted as productivity.

After several hours of conversation (and enough coffee to keep me awake until next year), I started writing the report, cramming in every detail I thought might help. Knowing I’d have to fax it to the office right when I landed, I continued to finish it on the plane—the plan was to ignore any conversation and turbulence.

After roughly three hours of smooth cruising, turbulence hit like a plot twist. While I tried to keep typing, the woman next to me transformed from passenger to banshee, shrieking, “I hate flying!”

This time there was no crying baby—just an adult auditioning for a disaster movie. Luckily, a couple of brandies turned her panic into a pleasant nap, and I finally reclaimed enough peace to write, only occasionally ducking when she muttered mid-dream.

My buyer had flown ahead for the fittings, business class. The hierarchy of the buying class. If you were travelling by train with the buyer then you could travel 1^st class with her. However, staying in the same hotel well that was another ball game. On one trip to London to visit suppliers, there were two of us, two trainee buyers. Which meant each of us could accompany the buyer on separate days in London. This was thought of as a treat. 

The buyer stayed at The White House hotel in central London. However, us trainees were not allowed to stay in the same hotel, no. We were in a hostel type hotel on the outskirts. A room which had six beds in it and only me. It was grim, this type of treatment thought of as acceptable. The things you had to do to ‘get on’. In the evening a supplier took us out for a meal which meant a very long underground train journey to and from my hotel. Returning to my hotel alone travelling on the underground. No offer of a taxi, you see you weren’t seen as important. A bit narrowminded really as when you would be promoted it’s something you would never forget.

Eventually landing into Miami and on to the hotel, this time staying in the same hotel as the buyer. Running from the taxi and into the foyer grasping my report in my hand ready for faxing back to the office. I was ready for bed, but I knew I had to get this report through.

‘The fax machine is not working at the moment” ………. we are waiting for the engineer to come and fix it. ‘When will that be?” my voice an octave high enough to shatter glass. 

“Don’t know in the next few days”.

Do you ever have these moments in life when everything conspires against you? Well, this was one such moment. I knew I had to find a shop or something and get this report faxed out. I just remember walking around Collins avenue in a daze. I did find a store eventually that sold beachwear, gifts but more importantly a fax service. 

From a long flight, a race around the streets I was a sticky mess, shattered, shaking and not looking forward to the next day of full-on fittings.

Shoot Fittings Abroad

Not all fittings took place in the UK sometimes and I look back realising these were golden times. We travelled to the shoot location to do the fittings.

Miami springs to mind, staying in the hotel next to the Delano, as a treat we would go into the Delano for a cocktail on our per diems. In the basement or a hotel cramped room, trying to dress at least three models. I smile when I type this since the job allowed me to start travelling. Travelling properly to all the exciting places I wanted to visit. 

This was the first time I was introduced to Abercrombie & Fitch’s cargo trousers. Before the brand had entered the UK, only available in the USA. Every photographer wore a pair it was their uniform identifying their tribe. Isn’t it remarkable that by one piece of clothing can evoke so many memories.

Often while we were on photo shoots, we would visit the mall to do competition shopping. The sprawling miles of offering many stores and varied items. Usually, it would take a full day to work our way round the whole of the mall. Miami was always good for our spring summer season. Often getting the bus to the mall, enjoying the panoramic views of the ocean blue sea with the enormous ocean liners, ready to take cruisers on holiday. These bus journeys were always eventful. It wasn’t without its dangers, a man waving a gun around, at the front of the bus because he’d received the wrong change was frightening. 

One of the perks of the job was going on photography fittings. The creative teams would set up camp at one of these destinations Palma, Miami and Cape Town. Spending up to six weeks with the photography teams, selecting film to be couriered back to Manchester.

On one trip to Palma, I accompanied one of the ladieswear buyers Carol. It was a toss between the other trainee buyer or me going. I won and did feel a bit bad knowing that I was leaving her to do data entry, while I jetted off. 

I quickly forgot to feel bad when I could feel the warm sunshine as I stood on the hotel balcony. We were all squashed into a tiny hotel room, model, seamstress and junior photographer to take the ‘bible’ images of the outfits. These bibles would be given to the stylist to follow for the outfits. 

These days were very long and were highly dependent on how good the seamstress was. All the outfits needed to be fitted, made the perfect fit, ready for the shoot the next day. There were several buyers out at the same time, and it was natural for them to arrange an evening out.

Work hard and play hard, with alcohol being a prerequisite to any trip. Trips in my days were very boozy, and you were required to stay out until the early hours and still be ready bright and early for the next day’s meetings.

After a long day of fittings, all decided to go to Magaluf for the evening. Benidorm on speed, a crazy place fuelled with booze and large groups of hen and stag parties. Crazy ideas were infectious as the knitwear buyer decided to get a tattoo. Despite picking a picture to follow, the actual tattoo was more of a sludge, difficult to say what it was really. It was hilarious that someone could take a chance, a random thing to do. I couldn’t wait to tell the other trainee, didn’t think much of it, it was good to share, wasn’t it? 

There were two things that happened on my arrival back to Manchester, neither of them good.

First, as I arrived with all the extra sample bags and original layouts at the car park trying to find my car. I quickly threw everything into the boot. Now the layouts were not duplicate copies, no, these where all hand drawings with all key fitting points on notes. These layouts were the only set in existence, forming a blueprint for the actual catalogue pages. The creative department could not do their job without them. It was better for the layouts to be safe than me. 

On arriving home looking forward to tea and toast, a tradition of mine, I searched my boot for the layouts. There were nowhere to be seen. Every bit of blood from my head drained to my feet, leaving my feeling ice cold. I had left them at the airport car park on the trolley. The realisation of what I’d done sent me into a total spiral. 

You know when you can’t think straight, but you need to act. Paralysis, hot sweats, mouth dry and the bloody fear of God and Henry Bolton racing through your mind.

I eventually found the lost property number ringing it preparing to give them my first born for those layouts. There was a que, and it was the longest time ever before someone answered.

“Oh yes someone has just handed them in” THERE WAS A GOD!!

Lewis Hamilton had nothing on me driving down the M60 to pick those bloody sheets up. I wouldn’t feel right until I had them in my hands. What felt like an eternity I finally found the lost and found property office. Not the easiest of places to locate, like it didn’t want to be found. Before I could hold them in my hands, I had to give my full details: name, address, inside leg measurement. 

Halleluiah I got them back, I’m saved. Preparing to visit church every Sunday from here on, with in grateful thanks.

Smiling and feeling very pleased with myself, I didn’t know what was going to hit me the next day.

On arriving bright and early to the office next morning I was summoned to Bolton’s office. 

Walking into Bolton’s office and greeted with a “sit down’ command. I could tell, well the whole floor could tell, he wasn’t happy. 

He continued…’when on a work trip you represent the company’.

I tried to interrupt him with “well I kn’’’”

Only to be cut off with,

‘You lot were a disgrace partying and getting a tattoo in Maguluf !!”

By letting the other trainee into the glory details on our drunken night in Magaluf. It had travelled like Chinese Whispers throughout the whole company. Departments who didn’t travel always regarding buying trips as a jolly. I had just let them know, for once they were right.

I could feel my face redden and despite not being the one with a new tattoo, I was the one to take the brunt of the blame. For one simple reason, I had broken the golden rule of trips.

What happens on tour stays on tour.

Buyer ship

It’s a bit like the mother ship as rare as hens’ teeth to be given a buyer ship. They received my report from Miami, and I was giving the buyer ship over a department called Heaven Valley. Before you go and think of lands of mountainous rolling scenic views in Scotland. This was a catalogue catering for let’s say the more mature lady. I was highly delighted at being promoted I did rather want to start my career with something a little bit younger.

Cable knit cardigans and wool blend dresses didn’t fill me with fashion forward ideas. Polyester being the main fibre composition so you couldn’t stand near an open flame. It wasn’t vogue but it was a promotion. It was a buyer ship.

One my first buying trips was to Dusseldorf to meet Mr Von Baum. I know you couldn’t really make this up could you. We I flew out, Lucy my QC (Quality Control) lady Lucy to arrive at little town called Wuppertal. 

His offices were in a very prestigious building. I thought getting out of the office travelling to see a supplier (outside the UK) things couldn’t be bad after all. 

Mr VB dressed in an immaculate suit, wearing round spectacles and a beige overcoat, proudly started to present his range. Belted dresses in every conceivable shade of green. I did notice his slight limp but didn’t quite appreciate that the maze of rails was a trip hazard for him. It was like everything happened in slow motion. One minute he was standing at the side of the room, next minute he was flying. In his transition through the air, he grabbed a load of dresses off the rails. Hangers flying like bullets around the room.

I’m not entirely sure who was more surprised—me or Lucy. Dresses and hangers scattered across the parquet floor while Mr. Von Baum, entirely unruffled, picked himself up and insisted he was perfectly fine. I tried to help, apologising profusely, and Lucy was already on her hands and knees gathering up garments. Somehow, the ice had been broken; we were all laughing, albeit a little nervously. In the aftermath, I found myself surveying the rails of belted dresses with a new sense of determination. Perhaps polyester and pleats weren’t what I’d dreamed of, but there was a peculiar satisfaction in seeing an order through, in negotiating colours and quantities, in the quiet power of a handshake sealing a deal.

Those early buying trips became a crash course in resilience. From train delays and language barriers to hotel rooms that smelled persistently of boiled cabbage, there was a constant current of unpredictability. Yet for all the chaos, there were moments of camaraderie too. Lucy and I, thrown together by circumstance, would share cups of strong coffee in drafty German canteens and dissect the day’s dramas until laughter replaced fatigue. Sometimes I’d close my eyes at night and see endless racks of clothing swaying gently in the dark, punctuated by the distant click of hangers.

Still, no amount of camaraderie could disguise that I was a long way from where I’d imagined myself. I would lie awake, thinking about Happy Valley and wondering if my future would always be measured in cable knit and polyester blends. Then, as if on cue, a new opportunity would glimmer on the horizon, as unpredictable and promising as the sunrise.

Funny how the odd things stick in your head and done flying back to the UK another thing I remember is that we got chatting to a gentleman sat next to us. He inquired what we did, and I said this is Lynn my QC (Quality Control).

His reply was priceless “do you always travel with your Queens council?”

My First Far East Trip

Travelling was a perk of the job. With the job came the Far East trip. Something I had always wanted to do. A chance to buy directly from our Chinese supply base in Hong Kong. I was over the moon. The thought of luxurious travel and luxury hotels sprung to mind. 

Hailed by the mighty Bolton, into his office, the offer was I could go to Hong Kong. However, before the smile had even had chance to meet my eyes it evaporated from my face with his next words:

“You can go to Hong Kong, but it will be on a holiday package”.

I’m genuinely grateful for the chance to visit Hong Kong. Still, when your peers are gliding through the skies in Business Class and lounging at luxury hotels, it’s hard not to feel like you’ve accidentally booked the bargain bin adventure. Being told on your first solo trip that you’ll be flying economy and catching a tour bus to the hotel? Let’s just say my excitement dissipated quickly.

It was obvious this test was meant to see just how eager I was to be a buyer. Friends advised me to take things one step at a time and not to overthink, because apparently Olympic-level overanalyzing isn’t as helpful as they make it sound. Thanks to that advice, I managed to keep my cool until the day arrived to depart.

On travel day, I hopped on the train to Manchester Airport and checked in. My bags were so stuffed with files, swatches, and specifications that I had just enough room left for a single sock and maybe half a toothbrush, thanks to economy bag limits. Thinking I can always buy what I need out there, not actually realising a lot of the fashion was to fit the Asian build rather than my frame. 

Though I’d travelled before, flying alone to an unfamiliar country was intimidating. On the plane, a holidaying couple seemed surprised a buyer 

was in economy. Apparently, they thought solo travelers only existed in glossy travel magazines. They were excited for their holiday adventure to Hong Kong.

My anxiety spiked since I was more apprehension about the unknown. I couldn’t relax, a bag of nerves. It was exciting but being sent on my own was more an initiation test, trying to pass the time on the flight with subtitled Chinese movies. Comprising of romance stories, boy meets girl, they fall out, marry someone else, unrequited love, the end. With a lot of painful expressions and soft focus on the main characters. The surrealness of the movies matching the journey even more weird.

Upon arriving in Hong Kong, I quickly realised the flight path had us weaving between buildings like contestants on a reality TV obstacle course. The aircraft’s wingspan seemed to flirt dangerously close to windows where people were casually hanging their laundry. If I’d stretched out my arm, I might’ve lent a hand folding socks. This dramatic landing into the city airport happened only once during my travels there, and it’s probably for the best, my nerves needed the break! As we descended, I caught crystal-clear glimpses into the skyscraper apartments.

The walk from the aircraft to immigration was lengthy involving a train ride. I’ll be honest I did follow the crowd, otherwise at that stage I think I would still be circling the airport. Lengthy queues at immigration, security were vigorous in checking all your details. After what seemed like hours eventually making it through to the arrival hall. It did feel as unfamiliar as a penguin at a desert convention, but thankful for the English signage. thanks to the city’s colonial rule. Clueless about where to catch the bus to my hotel, and armed with neither laptop nor mobile phone, I was a digital castaway, a small dot lost off the grid, ready to vanish mysteriously into the Far East like a magician’s assistant in a disappearing act.

Spotting a picture of a bus, which somehow convinced me to head for that area of the terminal, only to discover, upon arrival, that it was a gathering spot for locals. Suddenly, I found myself in a sea of mainland Chinese visitors in Hong Kong. Loaded with large plastic bags and what looked like wrapped food packages. The chatter of Mandarin disorienting me and making me feels truly lost. This was no time to be defeatist, mymother always championed good communication (you’ve got a tongue in your head) so when I spotted an air stewardess sneakily puffing away, I found help. 

She took pity on me and helped to direct me to the tourist tour bus stand where my fellow flight passengers had already gathered. Tourists about to go on their holiday of a lifetime. Me just grateful at that stage to find the bus.

At this point I was tired and soggy but excited to see the City.  Looking out my window on the bus I sat with my head leaned up against the window and marvelled at the sights. Tops of mountains that disappeared into the clouds like ancient pictures, large suspension bridges, and towering buildings reminiscent of children’s stickle brick blocks. Whimsy skeleton bamboo scaffolding used to so support the builders, up towering buildings. They looked like they were completely defying gratify with what seemed flimsy framework. It wasn’t until much later I found out that Bamboo considered to be much safer than iron in the tropical climate. Where it could expand and retract with the humidity and heat.

The scale of these buildings was magnificent. They dominated the skyline while older smaller buildings nestled below, forming hubs of residential areas.

A metropolis, the hustle, the bustle, the smell, Kowloon. It has a certain most recognisable smell, that after a week purely by osmosis your clothes smell to. The bus weaved into the city following roads that seemed to rise to meet the buildings then fall to ground level. One stop at a time the couples were dropped off at their hotels. Every hotel seemed to have a fancy entrance. Large, bright and expensive looking. The bus pulling up each of the driveways directly to the front doors. Dropping off the excited holidaymakers. I felt completely jealous; it was a holiday for them so they could explore this wonderful place. 

After what seemed to be a lifetime, I reached the New World Renaissance located in the Tsim Sha Tsui area. An area predominantly filled with tourists and business travellers. The hotel that sat on the waterfront, looking over to Hong Kong island. Since my first visit in the 90’s, this hotel has now been fully refurbished and is now one of the best places to stay in Kowloon.

In the lobby the smell of lilies wafted through the corridors. Magnificent spacious lobbies, huge chandeliers, leading to my room, the tiniest room on the planet. No bigger than the bed and desk that filled it. Realising this was now home for two weeks.

I found later that I wasn’t the only one flying into Hong Kong from our company. All the other buyers along with Bolton, flew by Emirate’s business class and were staying at the Grand Standford. A palace which also sat on the waterfront with pile carpets and a business class lounge where they could all sit and sip champagne while having evening updates.

It was a far cry from my first experience. However summoning grit, I was determined to make the trip work for me. After dumping my bags, I went to explore. 

Kowloon

Walking from Mody road to the city centre it started to rain. Small raindrops at first, landing gently on my shoulders, followed by thick weighty droplets turning into a torrential downpour. Black rain, some of the locals call it as it completely obliterates the sky. I stood in a doorway of the Giardino shop for shelter, while watching the tidal wave of rain gush down the steps of a local Mosque. It was if someone had opened the doors like a dam and the water was to fill up the city streets. People holding limp umbrellas, defenceless against the down pour.

The streets were a maze of small shops, some touristy but mostly beauty shops selling miniature bottles of potions. Dried herb shops and food shops of packaged ribboned crabs. Custom made tailored suits signs with reams of different cloths to choose from. Bustle, noise and lights fill Kowloon, a busy industrial place frequented by businessmen and holiday makers. Irish bars sitting beside fashion shops, it was a jumble, a mish mash of crazy.

I walked and walked in my sodden flip flops taking in all the new surroundings. Despite being very westernised it still felt so alien to me but exciting. Even though I felt completely on my own it was a challenge. Being halfway cross the world does take you out of your comfort zone. 

Along the harbour view looking across to Hong Kong island, the junk boats bobbing along in Victoria Harbour dwarfed by heavy laden cargo ships. Cruise ships on their way to nestle into the Ocean centre terminal. A crystal glass lit shopping centre and hotel, where gigantic cruise ships would be parked in what seemed like a tiny car parking slot. The ships made the mall look insignificant, their black and white hulls rising to meet all the seventeen floors. 

Sat with a cocktail in hand, viewing from one of the many bars lined along the Tsim Sha Tsui tourist area. Kaleidoscope of dazzling lights shining from the commerce buildings filling the skyline. The 8pm laser show emitting laser beams synchronised with a musical score. Quite magical, certainly putting Blackpool illuminations in the shade. I’ve sat many a time marvelling at this sight. It’s one you can never tire of. 

Besides from the amazing views it was also my first experience on how the Chinese can take the English language out of context. Not quite having the correct wording or context. There was a shop that was about to open on the main road called Nathan Road. 

The name of the shop was ‘Wanko’ with a banner in the front window saying ‘coming soon’

Down to Business 

Try finding a supplier who you have never met in person before. The main tactic was a display sign with my name on it. Much easier was looking for a female that looked scared out of her whit’s. 

I must say that every supplier I met on business treated me with great respect and looked after me. Since this was my first trip, they were eager to show me the sights. The floating restaurant Aberdeen, Happy Valley horse racing. The use of British names always made me smile. Making sure I was fed by taking me to the nearest Pizza Hut or a very traditional Chinese restaurant. 

I look back on these times thinking how lovely they were. Most of them are still friends to this day. That’s the thing about being a buyer you end up having friends all over the world. That’s not to say the business wasn’t tough. Workers pay, quota, exchange rates and the price of pork, yes, I was given that excuse for increased prices. Though I often wondered if suppliers were playing battleships instead of prices just to sweat me out.

Each business day, only seeing daylight in the morning to emerge from all day meetings into the darkness of night. Night-time Hong Kong was and always is my favourite time of the day The trips to the ladies’ market to shouts of “here Missy”. Buying bad fake goods and thinking they looked all right until you got them home. Driving by taxi over to Hong Kong island, the roads levitating into the heart of the jewelled lit metropolis of commerce buildings. 

Saturday night was the most favoured night for buyers to enjoy a night out on the town. The first Saturday night in I spent in Hong Kong was when I met up with the other buyers staying in their luxurious hotel. Feeling very much like the poor relation, I met them in the bar of the Grand Stanford. Another prerequisite on being a buyer is to be able to consume large amounts of alcohol and be work ready the next day. Always made me laugh thinking that all the buyers are about 99% proof. Moto of a trip is you work hard; you play hard.

The business hotels are mainly situated in the Tsim Sha Tsui area. Rows of restaurants and bars. British themed pubs, Australian Wagamaloo steak restaurant, a slice of home. You could eat, drink, be merry and watch the amazing Hong Kong Island skyline across the water. Entertainment to cater for all your needs while away from home. One bar “Sticky Fingers” by name and by nature was the most notorious.

A known ‘knocking shop’ of escapism. Chino and blazer ex-pats watching a Thai tribute band, drinking beer and looking for a partner for the night. The kind of place where your feet stuck to the floor and the toilets (loosely termed) either didn’t have any doors or the locks were bust anyway.

So after quite a few drinks and nothing to eat. I was very much the worse for wear. With the knowing fact I had to make it back to my hotel. I was just about to hail a taxi, when another buyer said that she wouldn’t be in her own room tonight, with a wink and that I could have her room. I don’t know what it was, but I just wanted to get out of that hotel as soon as possible. I wasn’t playing the moral high ground or being judgemental. This goes on aplenty on a trip. What happens on tour stays on tour. Believe me women are just as bad as men. Now I don’t want to put down my own girls, but it just felt like if you were halfway across the world it didn’t matter. However, you always had to go back on that sober trip home and face reality. Susan the buyer in question was already in a troubled relationship and looking for escapism. No judgement but it always made me laugh how the people never thought anyone knew what they were up to, everyone knew! 

In a drunken stupor I managed to get a taxi and stumbled back to into my own hotel room. From then on is a bit of a blur really but I woke up next morning, face down on the bathroom floor. My cheek stuck to the bathroom tiles, mouth dessert dry, head banging with all my chimp beer fear thoughts. On opening one eye I tried to work out where I was and then with a horrible realisation came whooshing into my brain. I remembered that Bolton had promised us a trip up the peak. Glancing over to my Clock I realised I had just 30 minutes to get ready and meet them back at their hotel.

To say I was hungover was an underestimate. My body ached; my forehead pulsated with so much with pain, that my face looked like it was in spasm. Bolton walked ahead at a sturdy pace to the star ferry, me along with the other buyer (who didn’t stay in her room) swore blind that nothing happened. We walked a distance behind him like two petulant teenagers. There was never any mention that I was staying in a different hotel. 

A ferry trip was not what I needed on this Sunday morning, with alcohol swimming about in my body. I would have loved to have seen Hong Kong island in all its glory. Instead, I was hurling over the side of the boat being watched by an audience of Chinese and tourists alike. The hell continued with a journey on the Peak Tram climbing the mountain at a 130-degree angle. My legs shaking while I was trying to adjust my body, so I didn’t fall over. 

He had another delight in store. A trip to ‘Jimmy’s Kitchen’, his favourite restaurant in the city. As close as you can get to an English restaurant in the Far East. On arrival they greeted him by name, even though he visited on every trip, he was hard to miss in mass and voice. I would have enjoyed it if he hadn’t ordered liver and onions. 

My first trip went quickly I was eager to learn on my own, in fact most of my training has been self-taught. Nobody tells you how to be a buyer, it’s called survival mode. 

Checking out of the hotel I produced the company American Express to settle the bill. The card I was told “put anything you need on the this”.

“Sorry Miss your card is not working”. The blood rushed to my face; I could feel my hands clammy and cold. 

“There must be some mistake?”, I babbled, “Ok give me a minute to sort this out, can I use your phone?”

I had no mobile phone.

“Yes of course, we will need to add the charge to your bill”.

Grimacing I tried to pick a small part of the counter, to give myself some privacy. The long queue behind me however could hear every word. Standing in the scented lily infused tranquil foyer, I was anything but calm. I knew there was no mistake the card had not been activated for travel. Contacting the office was out of the question, with the time difference. I only had one choice, my own credit card. A very well used credit card, a very well overdrawn credit card. 

I had no option but to call my credit card company to extend my credit limit. After many attempts someone finally answered the 24-hour emergency line.

“Miss Adams I can understand your situation however you are already overdrawn with no repayment plan”

This could not be happening to me; I was halfway across the world and no money to pay for anything. I was prepared to give my first born, anything, to be able to pay my bill. After much pleading I was granted two thousand on my card, with the expectation of a speedy repayment and a higher interest rate. It wasn’t quite enough to cover the bill, yes even in lower grade hotels the stay is expensive. So, I used my groaning debit card. My bank account drained, just like me. I wanted to get home; I had no idea when I would get the money back at that time. It turned out to be a six week wait and a lot of scrimping and saving to survive the wait. I had paid for my own trip.

Feeling emotionally and financially bankrupt I waited for the coach pick up to take me to the airport. There was no business lounge instead just hours of waiting on uncomfortable seats at the departure gate. With no money to buy anything, an all-time low point, desperate to get home.

On the flight an announcement advised due to a technical fault we had to stop at Amsterdam. Being in Economy and not travelling with a family, left me unceremoniously one of the last groups to be put on a flight to the UK.

My eight hours stop off in Amsterdam was quite enough. I was pissed off, burning with injustice on of how I my own company had treated me. On my return I ferociously started applying for other jobs. This led me to get another job, well two infact. 

Getting another job

Truthfully, I didn’t want to leave BR Spence, but I’d been treated badly and it fuelled me. The humiliation of sub-standard travel and hotels made me question myself. Why put up with it? It wasn’t about learning; nobody was tutoring me. Being treated like this made me feel sub-standard and worthless. A common trait in the fashion business. It’s been a good day if you haven’t had a bollocking or a cry in the sample room. It’s hard being a starter in fashion buying. Bad pay, high expectations of working unpaid overtime because it’s dressed up as a career. The quote ‘a thousand girls would love to have your job’ rings in my ears.

Buying jobs when I was a junior buyer weren’t well known as a career. Established Buyers were very much ‘lady buyers’, a hierarchy of a position. Spending many years in the job role which made it difficult for anyone else to progress. I had nothing to lose.

After two successful interviews, at competitors, I was offered two positions, each with a £5k pay increase. Feeling like I had no choice as I started on £12k as a trainee buyer my salary had only marginally raised for my promotion to Junior buyer. 

I have to say, and this still makes me smile to this day, handing in my notice was a treat! Summoned to Bolton’s office, explaining I had been offered a job, he was astounded. Especially when I told him I had two offers. His round large face bright red and fuming, it felt good.

News had spread to the Director as I could hear Bolton pound past my desk on his way to see him. Looking angry and flustered. You saviour these moments not just because of the gratification but it throws you into a different path. You’re at a crossroads, sliding doors in a moment.

Bolton’s superior was Director James Brooke a straight-talking B•••••• He had his favourites and quickly got rid of people he didn’t like. He made Bolton’s life a misery. All I can say, it was an absolute pleasure to see Bolton virtually run past my desk as he had been summoned by Brooke. 

It wasn’t long before James’ Brooke’s PA rang, to summon me to his office. His office was in the next building along a rabbit warren of corridors. The walk of dread past all the offices, closed in with glass panels, the hum of chatter, past the fax machine: the pain of my life.

“Enter!” Walking into the wood panel office that had not seen any renovation from the 70’s. It was oppressive, dark and a bit sinister.

“I believe you’ve got two job offers !?” ….” How did that happen?”

“Well, you go for an interview first….”

“Don’t get smart with me”

I could have told him how worthless the system made me feel. The company trying to save a penny by sending me around the world on my own and in shit accommodation. I didn’t because his next statement changes my perspective.

“Will you stay for a £10k pay rise?”

The pay rise, flying business next time and never being treated like a second-class citizen made me stay. I had sold my soul.

Shopping Trips

This was and I can say with a whole heart the good part of being a buyer. Europe and America were the main destinations. 

Angela was my travelling buying buddy. When I bought the Lingerie and swimwear Angela bought nightwear. She was likeminded, good fun and both of us cutting our teeth on the progression on being buyers. 

New York was always on our list. Arriving at Newark in the freezing ice in March to the hottest times in September. We were able to shop on our own, there was a freedom to see and source what WE thought was good for the range. One bizarre arrival a boutique hotel, we were greeted with a large tank of water in reception with a man pretending to swim in it. Nothing could surprise you on these trips. Sometimes on the trips there would be a group of us from the same company. It was the only chance we had to catch up and have a good chat. 

After a very long day of shopping, when your lower back aches and you can no longer look at stuff. We were all back at the hotel to go out for dinner. There was always someone who took charge in booking the restaurants. From places seen on TV to and all-around New Yorkers favourites, we visited them. 

It was always good fun and alcohol fuelled. There was always one person who took it to the next level. Getting absolutely pissed to the point of blackout. Breakfast was always a sorry tale of sunglasses and hushed tones, hugging a coffee cup. This buyer exclaimed she hadn’t slept a wink all night. From her shopping that day she had left two bags full of purchases at one of the Manhattan stores. I could tell by the fear in her eyes and the three grand spent there was no option but to get those bags back. The thing is that she did get the bags back, while she was reckless, but she was lucky!

One trip we were in Berlin. A productive trip, it was always amusing to be excited by C&A. A store very much like Primark but for the maturer clientele. On our last day we packed up all the shopping and headed to the airport. 

Checked in, we sat in the bar, the TV screens looked like they were playing some sort of disaster movie. New York twin towers were under attack, we sat casually watching it, eating peanuts and drinking cold beer.

It was the 11^{th of} September 2001

The sickening realisation that this was no movie, this was real. Everybody stopped what they were doing, edging closer to the screens and sat bewildered watching in stony silence. Like the rest of the world disbelief.

Pre Selection meeting

Before we got anywhere near to showing the range to James Brooke, we had to go through the range with Henry Bolton first.

Time during the working week was considered out of the question. Instead, you had to arrange pre meetings on a Saturday so not to impact on HIS working week. 

This meeting required everything to be ironed/steamed, pristine. All figures presented in a full bound pack. Yet you knew that Bolton would change something affecting all the figurework and this would have to be all done again. Nothing felt streamlined or easy to produce. Work duplicated so many times. The figures were full analyses of the performance of sales. With proposals of how many lines in each category, average selling price and of course achieved margin from negotiations. In the mid-nineties there was no programme to key in and hey presto it achieved a weighted margin. Instead, a lady, a number cruncher was hired to manually work out the margin. For this she would be given line details with a predicated sales value, landed cost and proposed selling prices. She would have to do this for every department in the business, it took weeks. The accuracy though was unnerving not dissimilar to the mathematicians working out the trajectory of a space rocket. Nice prints, colours and fabrics were one thing, but you had to have an iron clad reason to propose a line for the range.

Everything was manual, no excel spreadsheets. Line details all handwritten. At this time only the Merchandisers had a PC.

At school I’d never considered myself good at maths, but the numbers felt an easy guide to buy. Then in a lot of cases what not to buy! 

Everything was ready to present, Bolton settled down at the desk all his marked-up books clasped under his arm, he gets right down to business. Then suddenly there was an almighty BANG!

We all looked at one another, something very bad must have happened to make that loud noise. Bolton brushed it off saying it was a car back firing. A bloody big car I thought. He pushed to continue the meeting.

It wasn’t until hours after the meeting we discovered that on Saturday the 15^{th of} June 1996, the IRA had bombed central Manchester. It was the biggest bomb detonated in Great Britain since the Second World War. While everyone had evacuated, we went through a fashion range.

Selection Meetings

The most anticipated, feared, meeting to show the culmination of all your hard work. Chasing photo samples, in the correct length this time, to show and present your bought range.

It’s like going to pass the bar exam every season. Samples where suppliers can interpret a specification very differently from how you intended the item to look. You think you have covered all the basis and given all the info. Then the howlers arrive. The pattern for the patchwork sweater that you have taken hours to plan out and explain, turns up and looks like a checkerboard gone wrong. Or the embroidery around the neckline of a blouse where you have given them a drawing showing half the embroidery detail at the collar. Assuming the supplier would copy the detail on the other side. Instead, the supplier follows the sketch literally and you end up with a sample with only half embroidery at the neckline. 

My team at this time comprised of two middle aged buying assistants, who were dutiful, long serving and loved a good gossip. They kept me in check. Unkindly I called them Hinge and Bracket, a comic double act from the 70’s. They knew the systems inside out and could cope with the mountainess amount of admin. Since there was only one computer that had to shared. When I say computer, I say that loosely it was a data entry computer, windows hadn’t arrived as yet.

One thing is for sure these ladies were sticklers for everything being done in a particular way. There were certain things that had to be followed for this event: 

1. The report and statistical info had to be released 24 hours prior to the meeting in paper form. A trillion copies bound, so that Senior Management could rip apart and ask you to re-issue in paper format again and bound. A simple error in the figures causing catastrophic consequences as though it was a lifesaving measure.   To have side notes ready for sarcasm and put downs to show how quit wited they are. This report leaving your heart wide open as the whole company dissect how well or shit the items you bought have done. 
2. Only certain type of coat hangers could be used. They had to be a particular shape and colour. They had to be right way round showing company logo. Failure to do so meant that you could be shot at dawn.
3. All the outfits pressed and steamed within an inch of their lives to look as credible as possible. This is where you are in the hands of your suppliers sending in amazing photo samples. Each outfit curated and hung onto wheeled white boards. Where buyer assistants would turn them around like ‘dolly dealers’ to show the next set of outfits. 
4. After the inquisition of how shit your sales figures could be. Each outfit to then be paraded by models who could magnify all the flaws in the samples for all to see. Along with a buying team are a Marketing department and creative team, yet on the day everything is down to the buyer. Regardless of the facts that the creative team struggled with the weather on the shoot or that marketing had sent out fewer books which meant predicted fewer sales. No negative figures were not allowed.

You get the idea it was a big deal, humongous, buyers had been sacked or promoted from such meetings. The main cause for concern in these meetings was the director James Brooke. Known for his Jekyll & hyde personality and very straight talking. We always thought that Just before these meetings he would be boxing like Rocky, to the song Eye of the Tiger, in his office. So that he ready to pounce on his pray…. the buyer.

Classic statements were 

“I’ll give you a shovel to dig yourself out of the shit, you’ve just got yourself into”

“Let the dog see the Rabbit, you don’t need all the other pieces of shit”

“Do I have to pay you and tell you what to do” This was rhetorical not a question.

My personal favourite was

“Someone with shit for brains could put a range together better”

Empowering statements that made you feel ever so special. This was the time before PC correctness or when you would be whizzed off to HR for misconduct. Sometimes physical harm came into play, phones or anything not fixed down thrown across the room. 

It was a War Zone, and the buyer outnumbered and battle weary.

Changes in Management Bitch #1

When everything is running smoothly, POW, there is a change in Senior management level. 

Goals are being achieved, teams are happy smiling feeling a little bit more comfortable.

Then the boss who is doing a decent job gets side moved or removed. To keep everyone on their toes. It’s important to recognise that it’s not an environment to make you feel happy and content. Even when sales were good a change a disruption was favoured just to make you feel like you constantly had to do better.

This was the day that Kate Smart arrived, like a big black oppressive cloud dressed in head-to-toe Comme des Garcons. Now I like this brand but the asymmetrical hemlines and off centred button fastenings just seemed to add to her madness. She was a friend of the newly appointed Director. James Brooke had been swiftly retired er was booted out. Mathew Blunt the new director was in.

Kate had been made redundant at Pinegrove and was given the ladieswear Senior Manager’s position at BR Spence with open arms. My current Senior Manager, who had been in position for several years, was sent to Siberia, the leaflet department. She was too expensive to be made redundant. 

This meant the path was clear for Kate’s new visions and all her P&L, KPI objectives.

This for me was the start of the bitchy side of buying. Up until then it was hard work, it could be unfair, often mad, but not vindictive. This was when the true psychos of buying started to enter my area of the buying world. 

Kate Smart was tall in stature and big in voice. Her voice could be heard booming even at the other side of the office. A dominating character who wafted around the office in black, giving the impression of a large swooping crow. Her hair was cut very short and the jewellery she wore overstated. The jangle of her large bracelets a warning sound that she was nearby. 

At this stage I was a buyer who had been working on ladieswear for ten years at BR Spence. I’d worked my way through different departments and ranges. 

Then on one day arriving at the office, I was greeted with the news I was moving to lingerie. The current lingerie buyer Louise had a nervous breakdown. On returning from a trip, she’d found her husband and her next-door neighbour in bed. The neighbour dressed in the lingerie given to her by Louise. What’s the chance of that really?

She could not go on the imminent buying trip, the doctors had prescribed her anti-depressants, and she was not able to go.

This was Kate’s first change. Straightway I was told to look after the 10 million lingerie department. My trainee buyer Hannah would cover my ladieswear department with my help. So, I had two departments to look after and one of which I knew absolutely nothing about.

My introduction was being given a bag full of cut up bra bits. Then to be told to prepare for the buying trip in two weeks’ time. 

I began to realise this Manager wasn’t really going to bring anything new to the table. She was just there to manage. Trying to recall any redeeming factors I’m at a loss. Medling into areas that didn’t need fixing and belittling the teams. When she was given another area to look after we breathed a sign of relief thinking she would be pre-occupied. Less focus on us, we were right to a degree. She began to bully. Small things at first, it was her element of control. 

What makes a bitch? Can certain female bosses be difficult to work for? Ageless repetitive questions I know. Some women prefer to work for men, finding them less two faced, less power mad, less bitchy. Don’t get me wrong every Company has them and in the fashion industry there was a high percentage. Almost like a certain percentage of bitch level had to be met: the bitch barometer.

Kate relished power, using her position to undermine others. In hindsight, she thought her actions were acceptable. Still, I had a job to do and needed to make sense of all the bra bits.

Travels with Bitch #1

I happily settled into the lingerie department. When I say Happy it’s all relative. The endless hours, the same pay, little benefits and the ‘Just be grateful you’re in fashion’ attitude. Understanding the bits of bras and the scaffolding engineering of how boobs are suspended, I began my appreciation for what would be my position for the next ten years. 

For the first six years I enjoyed growing the range, working with celebrities on ranges. Including Zandra Rhodes who I met at her London office. She was fantastically bonkers, with an Alice in Wonderland tea party meeting desk. Spent the entire meeting telling one of her juniors to find an allen key and fix her trouser zip which had just broke.

One show ‘How to Look Good Naked’ with Gok Wan. Yes, we were the ones who kitted out the ladies in their undies. Encountered all sorts of temperaments and one particular woman who did not want to bear her stomach to the world, exclaimed she would only wear a bodysuit. Which meant running around Manchester Arndale centre at closing time trying to find one before the show next day.

My concentration was on my work, even though I had a one-year-old child. The child who will not be mentioned in the workplace. It was the 90’s, no buyer at this time had children. It was rarer than finding Unicorn’s poo. Being a buyer and having a child was incomprehensible. You had to give your entire world to your career. How could you possibly do both. I never mentioned about having a very young child in the office. 

The strange thing was that Kate had a son called Troy. Lulling everyone into thinking she was a normal human being. The fact that someone had procreated lulled everyone into a false sense that she was a reasonable person. We all felt sorry for her partner.

Lingerie buying trips, discussing work till late hours in the business lounge. We could all see other buying teams relaxing as we yet again ordered room service while we worked. The truth was she was a very controlling individual to all. She was hating any of her team outclassing her. Needing to be the one that seemed to have all the ideas. 

One such memorable buying trip involved one worldwide disaster. An ash cloud had entered European airspace on the 14^{th of} April 2010. The most disruptive ash cloud, which led to major airspace closure in Europe, lasting roughly six days.

Volcanic Ash

The Icelandic Eyjafjallajökull volcano did not consider that as a buying team we had just landed at Helsinki-Vantaa airport to transfer onwards to Hong Kong. Kate, myself and quality control team members Lucy and Ruby were totally unaware of the carnage just about to happen.

News bulletins started to appear on the TV screens and cancellation notices flashed up in red on the arrivals and departures boards. There was absolute chaos, nobody knew what to do, it was unprecedented. Thousands of travellers now stranded and not sure where to go.

Kate thought it was a personal vendetta against her, how dare mother nature does this to her! She was in a panic; it was very amusing. 

“Alice, Alice you need to sort this out. We need to tell suppliers, we need to find somewhere to stay, we need to get our bags…….”

This list was endless, I kind of zoned out. To be honest there wasn’t much we could do than contact Clarice, Henry Bolton’s PA and international travel booker. To see if she could sort out some accommodation.

Hours went by as I struggled to get hold of Clarice. We weren’t the only team travelling and Clarice was trying to help us all. We needed to use our own initiative and find a place to stay. Helpdesks were inundated and taxi ranks looked like the whole of Helsinki was fleeing the airport. So armed with my blackberry I tried to find a place to stay. The first step was to take the number 61 bus for a short ride to Tikkurila, in search of a hotel. 

“A bus, a fucking bus!” … Kate shouted, the suggestion ridiculous to her “Where’s a limo ?!”

She was ridiculous in her Diva demands. There was no choice unless she wanted to bed down at the airport. Watching the distain on Kate’s face while she boarded the bus, was straight out of a comic book. Trying to find a seat while she tried not to touch anything with her long witchy fingers was one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Laughing on the inside mind, not showing any signs of emotion, fear of being struck by venom. Fortunately, it was a short ride to the hotels. The first one we tried Flamingo Spa Helsinki was fully booked, shame it looked so peaceful and luxurious. Everyone else had got there first. While we dithered to Kate’s theatrics at the airport. 

The hotel we did manage to book into Sokos Hotel Flamingo was an Icelandic theme park. Joined together with Jumbo shopping centre and Flamingo entertainment complex. Would have been great if we were there to visit the water park and bowling alley in the height of summer not in April. It was not fit for our purpose.

We had just reached our rooms, when the blackberry started to buzz…” we need a conference room, we need Wi Fi, we need to Skype !!’ Barrage of requests ringing in my ears.

I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up.

The reception desk was accustomed to requests for extra towels, booking an evening meal or replacing a lost key, not for a War Room. Kate thumping on the desk was not conducive to reaching a positive resolution. The hotel staff hated her, pretending not to understand what she was saying. In frustration she stormed off into the meeting room we had booked. It was already starting to look like an IT service room, cables and laptops filling the desk space. Files strewn around the floor filled with swatches and buying briefs.

We all kept our eyes on our laptops trying to not make eye contact with Kate. The madness of her behaviour interfering with what we were trying to do, in very odd surroundings.

This was the first time suppliers had met Kate. Well, when I say met, seeing her on screen as a figure, over my shoulder. Interrupting and bellowing demands, it was not a great start. I always found I had to be mediator, the one in the middle apologising for her behaviour. This ordeal lasted eight days and most supplier discussions had taken place. At that point I could have easily gone home, resolving any outstanding negotiations on my return. 

Every day I checked the news on the volcanic activity, thinking could this be the day I escaped? It felt like one of those movies where you are stranded. Every path leading you right back to the beginning. We were altogether 24/7 and the strain after the third day was beginning to show. Due to the time difference it meant we had to start conference calls around 3.00am. We were all feeling jet lagged without the travel. I wished I had been stronger at the time and demanding we went home as soon as we could. 

Kate wanted to go to Hong Kong.