I am writing wearing another girl's teeshirt. It is the exclusive design for the one and only European convention of an international fashion cult. Having grown up an awkward tomboy, how I stumbled into this world feels like some sort of Looking Glass Adventure. If influencers are the rockstars of this age, I might fit inside the eccentric, oversized biker jacket but I am hopelessly out of my depth. I have found that an extroverted clothing style overcomes my otherwise reticent nature, and have willfully brainwashed myself into the feverpitch mania of late-night feeding frenzies when an infamous Australian fashion company drops new collections. For someone with acalculia – a very specific type of number dyslexia – I have somehow absorbed an impeccable understanding of international exchange rates. Other than a string of disastrous relationships, I have never faced anything more terrifying than telling my metalhead schoolfriends that I had become the flyer of a cheerleading squad, and now I was going to get on a plane and meet one hundred girls – internet friends and relative strangers. Worst still, the girl I was supposed to be rooming with had cancelled. Rowan was my Thai Bo sparring partner, and she'd never hit me with quite a disorientating blow as this desertion. I have since learned to disable a knife attack underwater, even though I can't swim. Getting on that plane alone was much scarier. Every stranger on my journey to the hotel was a potential human trafficker according to the chills racing down my spine, and my knees almost buckled when two men I had never met before shouted across the hotel lobby at me: SHARKIE!!!!!!! I am indeed what is called a 'Sharkie' – a cult fashion fan named after the aforementioned feeding frenzies of release nights – and they could immediately recognise me by the galaxy leggings my shaking limbs were encased in. I soon found myself bustled to a poolside of beautiful girls in tight, shiny swimsuits designed by one of the men. I recognised most of the pieces as highly coveted, no longer sold 'museum pieces', but not a single face. To my relieved surprise, the young women descended on me with open delight as one of their own. All I could smell was chlorine, sun lotion and enthusiasm. Whisked to registration, where I at least recognised moderators of different online fangroups, I was led to previews of the brand's next release, and strangers all around me peeled off their clothes. The designer plucked at my crop-top, promising to make a version in a signature print I bravely pestered him for, and then I found myself standing giggling in my underwear with women I'd barely met as we tried on unreleased outfits like a movie-montage makeover. I became fast friends with an Australian cheerleader and another Brit, and somehow I found myself in the centre of a popular little group as we got involved in promo shoots and basked on the beach. The convention was taking place on a Spanish-speaking island where most of the tourists were German, and although my translation skills came in useful, every Sharkie spoke one common language: Black Milk Clothing. The air was full of compliments and at twilight we formed a conga-line of one hundred females down a bustling Majorca street. We got free entry to Megabar, where trees covered in fairylights proved to provide terrible lighting for selfies. I'd never seen so many people dance the Macarena, and haven't since. Seventy of us were sober enough the next day for a trip on a boat. Some of the girls were circus performers and performed acrobatic dives through fire hoops into the sea. Travelling alone had been a startling leap of my own, and as the sun set we lamented that we did not want to leave. Some of us were going to stay on the island a while longer following the convention, but the company made the atmosphere not the place. During regretful goodbyes to a crowd of new friends at the airport I felt a convention shirt plonked over my head. “The next Black Milk convention is Vegas.” I held up my phone to the other Sharkie and grinned, “Already looking at tickets.”