LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which I realise what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan...

I am outside the Burberry show, held inside a marquee in Victoria Park in Hackney*, for the brand's autumn/winter 2024 collection. Disillusioned already as I have just come from a screening of the new John Galliano film. 

Not one of the talking heads was at his trial. I was there, in the very room where Marie Antoinette was sentenced to the guillotine. Which pretty much sums up fashion. Zero loyalty.

I am shivering in my thin clothes. My lace Prada skirt does nothing to stop the wind howling around my nether regions. My Louboutins hurt. No one has taken my street style photo to post on Instagram. 

Oh no, hang on, someone has just taken a photo of my shoes. 'Oh my god!' shrills a young woman who I find out is an American fashion student. 'Vintage Loub shoe boots!' They are not vintage. I have owned them since new. They are, like me, merely old.

I arrived early, as always, and made friends – or so I thought! – with the burly bouncer. I was made to queue. As the night ticked on, various non-award-winning fashion editors were tipped out of Ubers to teeter in unheeded. 

They didn't even glance my way. Finally, two young women emerged wielding iPads. I staggered towards them, Dick Emery-fashion, the grass having become mud. (You can read Anna Wintour's mind: 'Hackney? Really?')

'Hi! I emailed in December. I'm a huge Burberry fan. I'm a bit early.'

'What publication do you work for?'

I know I look a bit different with shorter hair, but still. 'The Daily Mail and YOU magazine.'

The young woman pretends to scroll, then says, 'You are not on the list. Can you please stand aside?'

I tell her I have made a 500-mile trip, plus hotel**, to be here. So far, I have only made it into Roksanda, where I had to stand at the back. Trying to get into Fashion Week is like attempting to book a holiday cottage in Cornwall in mid-August. 'You can stream the show if you visit our website. Please step aside.'

I am officially fashion roadkill. There are hundreds of nobodies here. I think of former face of Burberry Stella Tennant, who took her own life. I start to cry, and because I'm so tired my knees buckle. I don't want to create a scene, but I'm grieving for my old life as a glossy mag editor: the cars, the ever-present PA to smooth my path as though I were a player in a curling match. The front row seat. The business Amex card.

My ex gay best friend*** warned that this would happen when I told him I was leaving the London Evening Standard to join the Mail – the invitations would dry up. Why does this NFI situation happen? It's because the Mail's writers are beholden to no one: not advertisers, not commission from sales. We aren't sycophants. We're mindful of readers' hard-earned money. But oh my god, I want to belong!

I start to realise what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan. One day, you're the biggest stars on the planet. Everyone is thrilled by your presence, deferential.

The next, Michael Bublé ignores you. Did you see that clip on social media? Yikes! Well, that was me 24 hours earlier, in the fashion pen for the Baftas. Not one star was brought over to me, not even Cuba Gooding Jr (he was ushered towards me one year in place of Kate Winslet, who refuses to speak to me; all

I could think to ask was, 'How long did it take you to get ready?').

I am largely sympathetic to Harry in print, as I too am estranged from a sibling. We grew up together, we fought, we shared a house (in Brixton, next door to David, with whom I fell instantly in love). Harry flew to see his father in an attempt to heal wounds.

On Monday night, rejected by my all-consuming super-busy career, reduced to being less than a nobody, told to step aside, I make a decision.

I am going to drive to Somerset to attempt to reconcile with my sister, who I've not heard from since October 2017. She is, after all, the only one I have left…

*I once had sex in Vicky Park.

**Not on expenses.

***I still miss him. We used to howl with laughter at the ridiculousness of the fashion world, notably at a Puff Daddy party by the Thames.

Jones moans...What Liz loathes this week

• The frequent texts from my GP saying I qualify for a flu/shingles/Covid jab. Do they not know I've had a face-lift?
• Hotels. Why the dolly-sized products? And why are checking out times creeping earlier and earlier? Where I'm staying, it's 10am!
• Why do taxi drivers still (I'm 65) tilt their rear view mirror to see my legs? Why?

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and stalk her @lizjonesgoddess