Thursday, March 30, 2006


Sometimes an idea takes hold almost without me noticing. The first trickle...A few weeks ago when I was struck down with a cold I watched the episode of Sex and the City (series 6) called
'A woman's right to shoes'. In this episode Carrie is subjected to attending yet another baby party for which she must bring a gift. We see a montage of Carrie on many occasions choosing gifts from wedding and baby shower lists, looking fabulous each time of course.

Then when she turns up at the latest baby party (with enormous gift) she is asked to take off her shoes, or rather Manolo's. As if this isn't bad enough they get stolen by another guest. The hostess 'mommy' is unconcerned by this and refuses to give her the $485 to cover the cost of her shoes, shaming her for being extravagant and not having 'a real life'. Carrie then calculates that with the cost of attending this woman's hen party, wedding, buying a wedding gift and baby showers she has spent over $2000 on her. And that if she were to stay unmarried without children she would get absolutely nada in return. And as Carrie says 'birthdays don't count, everyone has those.' (I'm not complaining, as I just turned 30 and received oodles of lovely presents. But after 30, er if I stay single there's nothing left to celebrate? This can't be.)

So, our heroine Carrie starts a registry at Manolo Blahnik with one item on it - the shoes, and informs the bitch that she is marrying herself. HA!

This episode really struck a chord with me, I'm sure I'd seen it before but right now the inference that seems to be everywhere is that I should be settled (hmm, funny how the word settle can be used in place of compromise) down by now, or desperately trying to be.

So the second trickle...yesterday R and I were having a conversation over tea and tartelettes at Maison Bertaux about wedding lists. We were discussing how nice it would be if everyone could have a list anyway without having to do all the marriage/baby bit. Just for being well, you. For all those things that you'd never buy for yourself. Are you really ever going to treat yourself to a silver dinner service? Or does not getting married mean you must pay for your freedom by using mismatching ikea/flea market cutlery forever? I admit it's a small price to pay for not spending your life in an unhappy marriage with a complete freak. But wouldn't it be great? It would have to have a catchy name but I can't think of one.
Carrie came up with 'congratulations you didn't marry the wrong guy!' So far I have 'well done for getting this far without relying on anyone' or 'hooray you spared us from another double buggy clogging up the pavements'. They don't exactly trip off the tongue do they? I feel some drunken brainstorming is needed.

The third trickle...later on, after my conversation with R, I was reading Relookage after Julia commented here. There is a 'Lust-Haves' section on her blog and it looks like people (although she is not actually asking for people to buy her things) are granting her wishes.
Well done, girl!

I am now off to enquire about having Lola baptised. Of course there'll have to be a party. The list will be here.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006


Madame was at least 103 years old. Seriously. When I first spotted her in the 1st arr' (where else?) she was alone (except for 'Fifi') and downing a large beer in a chichi bar at 3pm on a Thursday afternoon. I stalked her in an Inspector Clouseau fashion, hiding behind pillars and creeping exagerratedly until I could get close enough to photograph her.

Sunday, March 26, 2006


There I was pre-Paris, concocting a lovely post involving the distinction between how I walk in London; I plod, I trudge, I march at quite a pace, sidestepping dawdlers. And how I walk in Paris; I meander, I stroll, I amble. I was all set to tell you the word 'flaneur' is one of my favourites and how it sums up perfectly my experience of being in Paris.

It was all coming together nicely. Unfortunately I hadn't anticipated 'THE RAIN'.

It's not so easy to stroll in the kind of torrential downpour that an umbrella provides little or no protection against. The kind that makes you want to stay in bed or drink copious amounts of alcohol, preferably at the same time. I have never seen it rain like that in Paris and God knows how many times I've been there. When the rain continues solidly for 3 days the only thing to do is sprint bedraggled, to yet another cafe, which you will begin to refer to as 'smoke filled hell holes' (thank you Geoff Dyer). Shopping - the obvious indoor activity is out, due to the necessity of walking from shop to shop. Department stores are out due to my hatred of Galeries Lafayette and Printemps, and roadblocks around Le Bon Marche because of the demonstrations. Museums, galleries and other tourist spots are out because all the damp kagoule clad tourists are there.

In case I haven't already made this clear - I love Paris. On a sunny day I can think of nowhere else in the world I'd rather be. The dry parts of my trip were wonderful, and I'll mention those when I've finished moaning about the weather. I will regale you with tales of my speedy tour of Paris with friend, the Marc Jacobs store, the snooty anorexic French women in the Vanessa Bruno store who stared at my flabby knees when I tried on a skirt and how the gorgeous, sexy, super hot waiter at Le Verre Luisant made me go all doolally.

I am British, I know shitty weather. I spend summers looking at the grey skies waiting for the one nice day when we will all complain that it's too hot. The funny thing is, for all my moping in cafes surrounded by furiously chain smoking Serge Gainsbourg wannabes, when I got back today I kind of felt nostalgic for Paris already.

When I went to pay for my petrol I very nearly looked the attendant directly in the eye and said 'Bonjour!' cheerily. But then quickly recovering myself I engaged with him in the English manner, by keeping my eyes averted and saying nothing.

Guess what, it's raining here too, but this is no surprise. I'm so happy to see my little Loly who greeted me with her 'I really missed you' miaow which sounds uncannily like 'Maaammmaaa!' She slept on my pillow while I was gone and she has been following me around all day, nuzzling my legs and generally being cute so that I will never ever leave her again.

Monday, March 20, 2006


I should probably just re-name this blog the APC Comptoir des Cotonniers Isabel Marant Marc Jacobs Rutzou Vanessa Bruno Crealine cleanser blog. It could be like one of those ebay listings where a pair of cheapo knackered shoes are listed as 'Sienna Kate Chanel Dior Louis Vuitton.'

Such is my allegiance to my favourite brands, I do tend to mention them on a fairly regular basis. I am trying to widen my circle, but as has been pointed out to me many times, I have very particular taste. I am also extremely loyal. I realised the other day that my APC love affair began 14 years ago. 14! Although I can wear many of my 'archive' APC pieces (except the jeans which look like they belong to a gangly 9 year old) that have not dated at all, I find myself with the same excited feeling about visiting the store(s) in Paris this week.

It is rare for me to find something new that I like. When I do, I get truly obsessed. It's the same with beauty products. I plan to haul 10 bottles of Crealine cleanser home from Paris. If you'd been through half the shit I have with my skin over the years, you too would stockpile the one thing that calmed it. Wouldn't you?

So, suspicious of putting anything on my skin that I have not thoroughly researched - by myself without any sales chit chat, I was slightly wary of putting my face in the hands of the Benefit make up counter girl. I was only there because my friend was buying something. It was the end of a busy day, I was tired - nay emotional, my face was grey, my eyes were bloodshot. She said 'let me put some make up on you' and for some reason I agreed to what I would usually perceive as torture: Sitting on a high slippery stool, under the glare of artificial light, having a stranger a few centimetres from my pores, rubbing wax and oils that I'll probably have an allergic reaction to in to my skin whilst hard selling me the entire range. By lying. Like: 'It actually resurfaces your entire skin within 3 weeks madam, it's the green tea extract you see.'

But no hard sell, just rather relaxing patting and blending of assorted light reflecting, colour correcting fairy dust and magical potions until amazingly my red eye was gone. In place of my sluggish complexion was a glowy, natural healthy looking me. I honestly felt better which is strange. I wonder if I would have felt any different had I not looked in the mirror. My friend kept asking just what exactly they had used on me. But was it the products or the application? The contents of my bathroom cabinet would not look out of place spread out on the make up table backstage at a fashion show, but I have never been able to achieve the effect my new best friend/personal make up artist/soon to be kidnapee did.


There were flowers, friends, cards, presents, Frank, family, food, Champagne, cocktails, and the sun even came out for the 10 minute walk from Cecconi’s to Claridges.

It’s all a bit of a blur. I think I spoke to everyone and I have pictures to prove it all actually happened. But having almost all my nearest and dearest together in one place was quite overwhelming. In the best way. Who knew they'd all get on so well most of them not having met before. Either that or everyone I know has social skills far superior to mine!

AND I got to wear my silk Rutzou dress, (Claridges kindly lined the walls of their bar with silk in exactly the same teal colour) although I don’t think Suzanne Rutzou envisaged her dress accessorised with two pairs of wool tights, a chunky cardigan, full length winter coat, scarf and gloves.

It was all rather civilised, I did not get drunk, nor did anyone else as far as I know. Although at 11 quid a drink at Claridges, it’s not the best place to go on a bender. But hey, you're only thirty once.

I am in full control of the cold. I have allowed it to rear its ugly head after suppressing the bugger during my birthday celebrations. I have spoken with it, and allowed it as much space as it likes, today and tomorrow. But I have made clear that Wednesday morning is eviction day because I am getting on that damn Eurostar. I feel fairly confident my plan will work. At present I am wearing a woolly hat around the house for the cold's benefit. I am feeding and lavishing it with hot toddies, early nights and Sex & the City dvd-athons. If all this fails to force it out I have a trump card up my sleeve: Chicken noodle soup from the Vietnamese place down the road. Never fails.

Friday, March 17, 2006


Today is the last day of my twenties. I’m not really sad to see them go, in fact I embrace thirty. Nice round number. It feels like something, where twenty nine felt a bit nothing-y. In fact if I’m totally honest most of my twenties have felt a bit nothing-y, apart from the enforced major life changes and heartbreak. Boo hoo.

I feel I may have to refer to my twenties as ‘the bleak years’ or ‘the limbo years’.
I’m intending that my thirties will be ‘the amazing years.’

Today I say ‘be-gone dastardly sniffles! I cannot entertain you and your throat infecting shivery ways right now. I am birthday girl, and you can’t stop me from wearing the extremely spring-like silk Rutzou dress tomorrow even if it's still snowing.’

Today, I also have much excitement, as Michel Thomas would say at the end of his 8 CD French beginners course, where he has spoken French thus far. Leading you to worry that in fact, he has just taught you to speak French the way he speaks English.

Anyway, much excitement I have. The reasons for this are threefold.

1. This evening my uncle is taking me to the London Palladium to see ‘Sinatra!’ Apparently there are big screens with unseen footage of Frank, by all accounts it’s a Franktravaganza. But it is extra special because he – my mother’s brother - took my mother to see Frank Sinatra at the Palladium for her thirtieth birthday. And that makes it a bit touching and lovely in a way that I can’t really articulate.

2. Tomorrow it’s. my. birthday. There will be brunch at Cecconi’s.
Birthday girl will try not to drink too much bubbly before noon.
The rest of the days’ plans are freestyle. There may be a little drinkie at Claridges bar, then who knows? There is mention of a party we are invited to, but lightweight over here knows that a nap will be appealing by the evening. I know I will end up at Selfridges at some point. Since it is practically my second home I could maybe go for a little snooze in the bed department.

3. Next week I am going to Paris to cat sit the lovely Loris.
C is joining me for the first day and a half.
C is the perfect travel companion.
We like the same things - by which I mean shops. We have much excitement of the Vanessa Bruno, the APC, the Christian Louboutin, the perfume, the beauty products.

Right now I am frantically ebaying sunglasses and bags so that when I go to Paris I can buy more sunglasses and bags. Why on earth I ever bought those enormous Chanel sunglasses in the first place is beyond me. They are only advisable if you are
A: Catherine Deneuve or B: Madonna.

Thursday, March 16, 2006


From Hint magazine classifieds:
Help wanted: Fashion Director at Macy's
'Creative individual that has the ability to work/look outside the box without losing sight of the box.'


Milla and Carmen on how to wear their Jovovich - Hawk line:
'Remember that everyone teeters royally in high heels.'
source: Net-a-Porter

Impossibly beautiful supemodel and new face of Lancome Hypnose perfume Daria Werbowy interviewed in the
Canadian National Post:
'I don't drink water. I'm a bit of a coffee-slash-alcohol kind of gal.'

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


Before Duckie I had a ‘normal’ car, a metallic grey V.W Polo. It was nice, in a Teutonic utilitarian kind of way, except people would insist on driving into it at high speed. But it was just a car.
Duckie is not just a car.

Lying on the osteopath's couch, my sensible thinking went like this: if I have a car that’s a bit more conspicuous, then half blind/possibly drunk black cab drivers are more likely to give me a wide berth, instead of ramming me at a speed of 40mph on an otherwise empty 3 lane road.

In the 3 years I’ve had Duckie I’ve got used to the admiring glances my shiny, happy baby blue car receives. People wave, other drivers always let us cut in with a smile, (except the occasional soulless BMW type who will go out of their way to avoid letting anyone in - but we don’t care about them.)

The white and chrome interior, white leather seats and big round chrome dials make it so light and bright to be in, even if it’s pouring with rain and miserable outside. It’s like entering another world, one where people stop what they’re doing to gawp and point with delighted smiles fixed on their faces, or you get a smile and thumbs up from someone crossing the road in front of you.

I think it has something to do with the way the radiator grill and round chrome rimmed headlights (with chrome eyelids!) kind of look like a cute smiling face. The sleek retro shape that reminds people of a time when people wore driving gloves and strangers said good morning to each other in the street.

Duckie is quite a conversation starter. The men she attracts are generally those who are old enough to believe they remember my car from the 1950s. At the petrol pump when I hear exclamations of, ‘they don’t make ‘em like that anymore do they?’ I agree whilst waiting for the engine size and fuel consumption questions I know are coming. I have the answers down pat, I have no idea what I’m talking about but I deliver my lines with conviction.

She likes to whip her top off in the summer and bask in the fresh air?

When I overhear people guessing wrongly that it’s a 1956 something or other I don’t have the heart to tell them that it’s only 15 years old and is a Japanese car designers idea of a future classic, a one off run of 20,000 made and sold by raffle in Japan. I feel that Jeremy Clarkson would describe it as something like ‘a perfect hybrid of past and future with its’ classic curves on the outside, CD player, air con, power steering and turbo engine on the inside.’

There is the Figaro drivers’ etiquette of course. A subtle wave or smile is all that’s required when you pass another, but I’ve noticed lately that some newer converts are not aware of this unspoken rule. There seems to be a new breed who do the nose in the air, pretend I haven’t seen you drive by snubbing. As if they’ve been caught wearing the same dress as you at a party, they then leave you to pretend you were just reaching for a stretch or to run your hand through your hair.

I have been tailed so many times, to which I am usually oblivious (bad mirror usage) until I reach my destination, when another car pulls up next to me to say they’ve been following me for an hour so they could ask what it is and where they can get one.

The best thing about my little car, apart from, um everything is that it’s impossible to be depressed when driving. Purring along driving Duckie and watching peoples’ reaction to her is like an instant antidepressant. It is impossible to be grumpy when everyone reacts in such a positive way.

This must be what it’s like to be really beautiful, I think, as we drive through the centre of Greenwich on a crowded afternoon to admiring looks and smiles all round.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006


How easy it was to forget, when one is living in a country where men increasingly address you as 'mate' and you're more likely to get a door slammed on you than held open.

What am I going on about? International Women's Day was on March 8th. Apparently in many countries it's a national holiday.

Ah, the mimosa...I feel an Italy nostalgia attack coming on...

There was mimosa everywhere that day, the symbol of I.W.D.

I have a very strong memory of guys on Vespas with the step through platform covered in mimosa, and those funny little 1960's vans you only see in Italy (or in the old Pink Panther films) with branches of it spilling out of the back. Men all over the city were carrying armfuls of the stuff and handing it out to girls and old ladies alike often accompanied by 'Congratulations!' Congratulations and yes, acknowledgement. For being a woman. What? It blew my mind and of course I'd never heard of it before. Because in the U.K, not a whisper, not a mention of it. 99% of the population don't even know such a day exists.

I'm not going to wax lyrical about chivalry or gallantry being extinct, packed away in a tatty Globetrotter suitcase along with Cary Grant, Gregory Peck and Frank Sinatra. Nor am I going to bang on about unequal pay. Or even the fact that I have lost count of the number of times I've helped another diminutive woman with a large suitcase up a flight of stairs on the underground, after watching dozens of men barge past her tutting at the obstruction she's causing. If it contained Cary, Gregory and Frank no wonder it was so heavy.

But really, how is it that actors like Hugh Grant can make a living out of portraying the archetypal English love interest? Where is this awkwardly charming, well educated, honest, honourable female appreciating chap? For that matter what happened to high tea, eh? And pocket watches?
Well chaps, seeing as you don't care about celebrating us we will celebrate ourselves. We will belatedly toast ourselves with mimosa's of the liquid variety. And God help the person behind the bar if it's a man.

***N.B the barman didn't know how to make a mimosa. I believe it is the simple addition of fruit juice to Champagne? But because he, the one who is paid to make cocktails didn't know, we found ourselves having trust issues. So, cursing his incompetence, and indeed the incompetence and untrustworthiness of men in general - because that's the kind of mood we were in today, we ordered margaritas instead. And they were good.

Monday, March 13, 2006


This is the technical department speaking. We understand that our decision to not allow anonymous comments anymore has displeased you. We know this because, er we have only had ONE comment (thank you Wendy) since we changed the setting. SO, in a new spirit of co-operation we invite you to comment away anonymous ones, because we love comments SO much. But if you know me in real life please at least put a name at the end of your comment so I don't have to guess who it's from.

Thank you kindly

Lola is Beauty technical wizardry dept x

Thursday, March 09, 2006


All that keeps me going during this gloomy week that refuses to turn into spring is the thought of Paris Paris Paris! Although I feel a pang of guilt each time I look at Loly's little face, so contented as she lies purring by my side, I am still super excited about going to Paris. Again.

Can I really keep hopping on the Eurostar like this or am I going to have to make a life changing decision at some point? Unfortunately Lola's usual babysitter is unavailable so it falls to her absolutely favourite adored uncle Olive to feed her while I'm away. This is the only man she has ever had any time for, even purring and rolling over in a most unladylike manner when he comes to visit. Uncle Olive claims he is allergic to her, but only since she bit him that ONE time. So he 'can't' touch her, he claims. No one to nuzzle, oh dear, but it's only for a few days.

There are a few places I must go to. One is La Nouvelle Eve, a 1950's cabaret in Pigalle, which was featured in World of Interiors this month and looks

I will also be checking out the new Marc Jacobs store, and how convenient - it's located a stone's throw from the Didier Ludot vintage store which I raved about on this blog before. Of course I will have a look, just looking mind (I wont be buying anything at Didier Ludot because I am not Reese Witherspoon who bought her 1955 Christian Dior Oscars gown there) and then I'll amble around in the Jardin du Palais Royal where M.J who just happens to be there walking his dog will no doubt sit down on a bench next to me and strike up a conversation. Something along the lines of 'oh my God, you remind me of Sofia. But somehow even chicer! Would you consider being my muse? I'll name a bag after you, Louis Vuitton will pay you a ridiculous amount for inspiring me and bringing me the odd fabric swatch or book. Come with me immediately and take your pick of both the spring summer and autumn winter collections.' 'Sorry I'll have to get back to you,' I'll reply. 'I'm in the middle of an adoption process and I don't want to mess things up with Carine.'

And you're awake.
Things like that do not happen to me.

I actually saw Marc Jacobs walking down the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore years ago, when he first got the LV job. Did I rush up to him and introduce myself? Congratulate him for being the fashion equivalent of George Clooney? (i.e beloved by all, can do no wrong) Did I perhaps try and wangle some kind of assistant job by showing him in the space of five minutes how creative and brilliant I am? Of course not. He did give me a kind of funny look though. Probably because I gave him a 'gasp - oh my God there's Marc Jacobs, do something quick!' look.

I would never, ever ask anyone for their autograph. I once stood next to Ewan McGregor for a full 20 minutes in the arrivals hall of an Italian airport. I was the only person who recognised him since at that time Italy only knew him from Trainspotting. (As in 'hai visto Trayyynnnneespottiiiiyyng?) At the airport he had long hair and was about 15 pounds heavier but obviously still you know, hooottt.
I was too shy to say a thing so just stood next to him like a lemon all that time. I also didn't want to draw attention to him. Wasn't that considerate of me? When my friends found out they actually went on a search of the city for him. Not me. Too shy. Too reserved. Too British. And also the reason why I am the worlds' worst networker. I just can't do the claw your way to the top social climbing thing.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006


I think I saw Kate Moss yesterday. She was wearing the beige trench she had on when she came back to the UK to help the police with their enquiries over the other cocaine scandal; black jeans and black patent ballet shoes. She had a huge black quilted Chanel tote slung over her shoulder and she seemed to be on her own as she crossed over Oxford Street. Kind of an unlikely thing to do. Which made me think, maybe she was just a hologram?

Oh, it brings back memories, watching the McQueen show footage. In my student days I was one of those minions you see in the background of the backstage video worrying about the safest place to keep the fragile antler headdress, struggling to get the shoes, the headdress, and the heavy intricately constructed dress that only goes over the head on the model who towers above me. Without ruining the hair and make up and out on the catwalk in five seconds. I would repeat this four or five times.

I know I wrote a backstage report one season, but never published it anywhere for fear of being labelled a spy. If I can find it I'll post it. I remember that particular show involved a backstage fire, lots of terse snapping by hairdressers - sorry, hair stylists and models eating actual food.

Then there was the other memorable show in the Nicholas Hawksmoor (alleged satanist) deconsecrated church where McQueen's two dogs were incredibly distressed, would not stop howling - as if there were dark and evil forces present, and had to be taken home.

The first McQueen show I ever assisted at, which must have been only his second I think, had the most amazing raw energy - everybody anticipating what this new 'east end genius' would do. The most I remember is that it was sponsored by some kind of vodka, so everyone was pissed, the male models had to shave any unruly hair poking out of their bumsters, I got shouted at by the man himself and the model I dressed was on the front page of every paper the next day. I was eighteen and so proud.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006


Today I was thinking how since everything I like and would wish to consume is French for some reason, there is no need to be tempted to buy anything for the next couple of weeks. Because I will be going to Paris. Woo hoo! (all thanks to the lovely Loris - it's no surprise to me that serendipitous blessings come by way of a feline).

I will save my pennies which will be converted into lots of euros, which will then be spent combing the boutiques of Vanessa Bruno, Isabel Marant, A.P.C, Comptoir des Cotonniers and Princesse Tam Tam for a few perfect pieces. I will stockpile my favourite Nuxe, Cote Bastide and Caudalie beauty products and fill my suitcase with Crealine H20 cleanser. I will buy French Vogue and Purple Fashion. And cheese. All these purchases will be entirely justified you see, because I will actually be saving money. Exhibit A: Hei Poa shampoo. Cost: 9 pounds a bottle in the U.K. 6 euro's a bottle in France. I rest my case.

I then saunter past Topshop and remember that this month Colette is having a celebration of all things British to coincide with them stocking a range of Topshop clothes. There has been much hoo haing and fanfare about this. Allegedly hula hoops and smarties were provided at the opening party. Le tout Paris clamours to get their hands on the stock, even with the no doubt shocking 25 - 50% mark up. Tick tock, tick tock.

So what would happen if somebody brought over a hand picked selection of the latest Topshop puff sleeved trenchcoats, cropped and full length (*in beige, not aqua or peach) some terribly sweet flat patent round toed Mary Jane's in navy(*again, the red would be un peu trop for Paris), perhaps some of the Sonia Rykiel 'inspired' black enamel heart shaped brooches and some Tom Ford-esque sunglasses, just for close personal friends through word of mouth? And not nearly as expensive but oh so much more exclusive than the Colette stock? Would that be like, totally illegal? Or just the same as selling things on ebay?

*In London, sartorially speaking, the bonkers the better.
In Paris I must always remind myself - do not expect to see anyone actually wearing leggings, or chunky Chloe wedge heel platforms or anything too fashionable. Or in a colour except beige, greige or black. Or charcoal. But everyone will look impossibly, impeccably chic. Funny how French Vogue is so fashion forward and creative, thanks to Carine (adopt me please) Roitfeld, yet the French would never dream of dressing in any of those looks. By contrast British Vogue - the dullest, most suburban uninspiring title in Vogueland is published in a country where we revel in expressing our individual style and playing with trends.

There was a piece in Grazia magazine today on French vs English style. On one side there was some woman who has lived in France for five years bemoaning the fact (hmm not sure about that) that most English women dress like Jordan on a night out. On the other was Camille Aznar, the French ex of Preston from The Ordinary Boys who I totally fancied until he copped off with the Paris Hilton look a like. Anyway Camille apparently loves living in the U.K because she can experiment with wearing gold ballet pumps and blue eyeshadow to her hearts content, without being banished to the 'Hermes Academy of Scarf Knotting 100 Ingenious Ways' for re-programming.

But isn't that the ideal situation? Adopt a country you love and embrace it's particular quirks and customs instead of being embarrassed and stifled by your own?


Dresses with pockets: Sandra Bullock - yes, Maggie Gyllennhhalllall whatsit - nooooo.

Michelle Williams - who would have thought a buttercup yellow Vera Wang gown worn with red lippy would be lovely? (Isaac Mizrahi translation engine - AMAGAAAHD, TOTALLY HAAAMAAAYZINGLY FABULOUS AND DIVINE DARLING)

Naomi Watts - 'Ooh yeah, Givenchy, lovely, I'm thinking raw chicken colour, and plenty of padding at the hips for that fat fairy princess effect. Bonza.'

George Clooney - sorry, was drooling, mmm, what?


Sunday, March 05, 2006


Evidently enough time had passed since I started drinking again for me to forget why I gave it up for eight months. Since then I had not drunk more than a glass or two of red wine at a time. With the benefit of hindsight, it seems only too clear that I was due for a little reminder.

I love Sundays and it's a beautiful Sunday morning. Blue skies, I am by the sea and the best thing to do would be to take a long stroll along Brighton seafront which I was really looking forward to doing yesterday. That was before I started staggering around with cabernet stained lips and tongue, making squiffily judged home time choices.

As I sneak back in to Ele's house I am not really guilty of anything gossip worthy - to everyone's dismay, but I feel like a slapper simply because everyone else is in cosy PJ's whilst I am in my smoky clothes and high shoes from the night before.

I am unable to perform simple tasks that require hand to eye coordination such as spreading marmalade on a croissant. I cannot understand how my electric toothbrush works, or how to switch on the shower. Or why I still look like a goth after washing my face three times.

My sparkling breakfast conversation consists of monosyllabic answers and the occasional mumbled phrase. I am great company slumped in my chair, intermittently snoozing.

My choices are: drive back to London without throwing up or stay here and try not to throw up. I get in my car. It feels really weird, like driving for the first time. Or I am possibly still drunk. I am leaving Brighton without even a quick hello to the sea. I try having the window open, I try having it closed. I feel pukey.

I blast out local radio which interrupts 'Rock the Casbah' for a traffic update on the closure of the only road back to London which I am on.

Three hours later...
Home. Bed. The OC. Cup of tea.
Such a waste of a beautiful day.

Thursday, March 02, 2006


Sometimes words just aren't enough.
Look at this .
(Don't be distracted by the funny chin strap helmets and the platforms stolen from a tranny convention.)
Just drink in the perfection of Nicolas.