Naked. 
That is the only way to described how I felt as I wandered through Rome without a label. Never in my life have I wished so much for my Miss Selfridge jacket to be Missoni or for my Dorothy Perkins sunglasses to be Dior.
The saying, “When in Rome…” could not be truer. When surrounded by Roman women with exquisite bags, shoes, and sunglasses, I yearned for nothing more than to make like a Roman and join the parade of designer finery that filled those cobbled streets.
On our final day, after a busy morning of site seeing, culminating in a visit to Trinita dei Monti, I found myself in the single most fabulous shopping street in all of Rome; Via Condotti. Like a child in a panetteria, I pressed my nose against the windows of Valentino, YSL, Cavalli, Celine, Gucci, the lot!
I stood, practically salivating at the sight of a chic cream and black Celine bag, while my father attempted to draw my attention to the interesting and highly practical way in which the edging stones of the pavement slotted together. Needless to say, his educational words were not met with coherent conversation. With each step we had taken along this road I had become more and more detached from reality, and ever more deeply engrossed in a fantasy world of glossy beauty and unparalleled luxury.
Soon, my desperation to partake in the designer dream had grown to unbearable levels. I found myself pondering the unthinkable; a fake.
Would it really be that awful? I wondered. Would anyone even care? After all, the fakes had already been made. If I didn’t buy one, some other tourist would. Besides, it was hardly likely that Louis Vuiton would ever be seeing any of my money anyway. He wasn’t interested in my petty cash. Even my entire summer instalment of student loan was unlikely to stretch to much along the Via Condotti. I knew this, so did the men and women who ran the fashion houses behind these stores.
No one was losing out; not really. In fact, the street seller who was lucky enough to tempt me to part with my spending money stood to gain and so did I. It would be a positive and favourable transaction.
As the afternoon wore on, more market stalls were passed, and my case for fakery built even further. From the dark and distant debris of my memory; an argument I had once read, in a book I had half read, began to surface. Based on the topic of economic development, the argument put forward by economist Ha-Joon Chang, described the way in which copying is essential to development and could even rectify social injustices.
For a short while at least, this confirmed my feelings, reassured me that a fake might actually be okay. Justifiable. Beneficial. An essential part of the tourism trade. However, somehow, I have found myself home again and much to my surprise, I am still “labeless”. There are no new goodies in my wardrobe, of either the real or fake variety.
Why exactly this is, I shall attempt to explain. Fear. More specifically, fear of the Roman guards at airport security. I had heard that they seize fake handbags from silly little tourists. Apparently, they rip, chop and tear fakes into tiny pieces before your very eyes; and all the while, a queue of fellow travellers stand behind you, passing judgement, murmuring disapprovingly about your obvious disobedience.
Fear of being the scarlet faced law breaker and experiencing acute embarrassment, from which I doubt one can ever truly recover, definitely played a major role in my decision to step away from the street sellers.
Furthermore, fakery is not the self contained bubble I assumed it to be.
It turns out that far more players than just dear Louis V and I would have been involved. As I leafed through Elle magazine in the Hotel lobby, I discovered, to my amazement, that the fashion industry is the second largest employer in the UK, after the financial sector. In the face of Global recession stealing designs and sales from so many people seemed pretty unpalatable.
My last reason is purely selfish. I love fashion too much. I do not want to pretend. Skanky plastic, dodgy designs and a small badge which reads “CUCCI” simply will not do. I want the real thing. It may take me years; but I am willing to work for it, wait for it and pay for it.