Absence / Kate Moss for TopShop

My blogging has not been up to speed. I have so many entries pending, but all blogging has had to be postponed by the announcement that I am being audited by the Inland Revenue. I have spent the last four days with a bucket of receipts and several assistants trying to make head or tail of my un-filing system.

In between I am jumping into cars to go to TV Centre to do umpteen TV & radio interviews. The burning topic of the hour? The launch of Kate Moss' dull, dull, dull collection for TopShop. More of my views on this later, but suffice to say I think it sucks. (Oh yes, I am a writer, yes I am. But really, sucks sums it up so well.) Celebrity as designer? Come off it. Sure every piece has been designed - by someone else -in that the collection has been copied/inspired by the contents of her wardrobe. If not, at best they are a collaboration between Kate & the (usually very good) TopShop inhouse team. Where's their credit amongst all the hooha?

Busy like a bee

How, how did it get to be Wednesday already? Still, I have been breakfasted, lunched, filed copy, been on air three times, been fitted for a dream of a dress by lovely Osman Yousefzada, painted a bedroom, been to Ikea (the horror), seen my father, hung out with twelve girlfriends this evening, interviewed new tenants for my flat and been commissioned to write regular updates on New York life for an on-line style guide. I even managed to go to the Karla Otto press day today (loving Victor & Rolf for AW07). My legs ache & ache from cycling everywhere: even to the wedding & back on Saturday, & to Knightsbridge from Hampstead this morning. I also have a splendid set of bruises on my knee & foot from tripping over a pothole in the middle of the night on Saturday. You'd have thought that at my age, and in my profession, I could manage to walk unaided in Louboutins, drunk or not.

Hello

to Fraser - the one man i know who reads my blog daily. And I haven't even kissed or bribed him to do so...Cheers mate! xxx

London vs Manhattan

It's not until I returned to London that I realised how relentlessly urban it is in Manhattan. My car died in January, so I've been biking all over London in the sunshine, along the canals, through the parks, trundling through the West End properly appreciating the wide open streets, plethora of parks and green spaces and, above all, the lack of traffic even in the centre of town. There is so little differentiation between the different parts of Manhattan - you can bike up fifty blocks of sun starved avenue, and the streets will look exactly the same at the end as at the start. It's made me realise that although I am very happy in our Village walk up for the time being, this experiment with Manhattan living will not turn into a permanent thing.

I need to live somewhere that I can ride my bike with impunity - in NY I take my life in my hands, dicing with the yellow cabs who drive with murderous intent. However, on the NYC plus side, London is shockingly expensive, service in restaurants and especially in hotels is abysmal, and I miss the smiling open mien of the majority of New Yorkers (but not the evil, rage-filled morons who drive trucks and 4WDs up the arses of poor unsuspecting cyclists in the East Village)

Nuptial bliss

A fabulous wedding at The Landmark on the Marylebone Road. A looked beyond ravishing in Caroline Castigliano and her husband glowed beside her all evening. She's a commercials music director, he's a television magic producer (& a magician himself) so a brilliant mixture of interesting, party minded guests: Derren Brown was groomsman and pretty much every English TV magician was in attendance, plus fashion people, photographers, designers - even a criminologist. We kicked off with the rehearsal dinner on Friday night at Haveli in Belsize Park with all A's relatives who had flown in from America. On Saturday A walked down the aisle to Panis Angelicus, and back up to The Beach Boys. I read Love's Growth by John Donne and T a Leonard Cohen poem, then the groom's father sang a song he'd written about his son & A.

Then we all drank way too much Champagne, ate our way through a three course dinner, listened to an exemplary best man's speech from actor Andy Nyman, watched John Lenahan do tricks, and did a lot of dancing - including the chair dance in homage to A's Jewish roots. And then more drinking in the hotel bar 'til 2am with the super cool bride & groom. I kissed a sexy magician and discovered that they are indeed manually dexterous.

Today I feel quite unwell.

I wore: Black silk very short Rory Beca V neck tunic. Long vintage gold rope chain. Black patent Christian Louboutin ankle strap stilettos. Bare legs (courtesy of Mystic spray tan). Black patent bubble bag on a long strap. Tashia black fur stole.

London

I've been incommunicado: with just ten days in London, I'm not sure how I'm going to get everything done. I have to find a new lodger for my London flat, do some appointments & sort out my taxes in addition to getting my hack's visa for the US and attending A & A's wedding.

So I now have an I Visa after a tortuous couple of days burning around London picking up letters of accreditation for the US Embassy, so I will legally be in New York when I return. Yay!

Rain, rain go away, come again another day

So it completely passed me by that the thunder and rain that has kept me awake for the past two nights has been a freak storm that caused the cancellation of 300 NYC flights yesterday. My American friend A is understandably perturbed as I fly (hopefully) out of Newark tomorrow to attend her wedding in London. Being English, to me rain is rain is rain - it really hadn't occured to me that it was a special, aeroplane-grounding kind of rain. It just goes to show how isolated from external events one can become in the middle of a big city.

I splish splashed my way through the puddles to meet my personal strength trainer at the torture chamber this morning - I am now lifting 120lbs and making small grunting noises rather like my sister's dachshund - and on the way back braved the tourist hoardes at Bloomingdales to buy vast quantities of beauty products (Prevage, Kiehl's, Murad, Stri-Vectin) for all my girlfriends. I also bought a pretty silk tunic for the wedding rehearsal dinner in Zara - 30% cheaper than in Europe.

Unfortunately I (and I suspect all of A's English girlfriends) had failed to realise that we were expected to wear glamorous eveningwear to the wedding. A very unusual dress code for a wedding in England where it's more usual to wear smart day wear with a jacket & hat for the ceremony, even to late afternoon weddings. (It's actually illegal to get married after 6pm in England). I am even more perturbed by the fact that she said floor length sounded great. Now I am impaled on the horns of a dilemma - do I doll myself up for A (not very English, dahling) or dress to fit in with the other female guests...

Fuck the sprouts

Today I am mostly eating chocolate.

There's been a lot of eating this weekend already: up an alley, surrounded by taxidermy at Freeman's on the Lower East Side for TC's birthday, and to O.G. in the East Village to celebrate the end of JD's shoot. Tomorrow I shall graze on sprouts...

Out of sight, out of mind....

This week I've had two men (with whom I've been previously romantically involved & who I thought had pretty much forgotten my existence) get in touch via email. One (an American) is playing some game I really can't be bothered to work out, (that's my current theory) the other is just being his usual friendly self, I know.

SCUBA suits & G strings

I am writing like a fiend, aiming to get copy filed for Monday am but feel the need for a little procrastination. I was distracted by three comments left on various postings here. Blimey! People who don't know me actually read my blog. It's quite a disconcerting thought as although, like all hacks, I secretly hope that someone, somewhere, is hanging on my every written word, a blog is so personal that it's quite a mental leap to realise that I am sharing part of my life with strangers.

It's sunny here, but still chilly. JD is shooting for Numéro again. Her asst is away, so ran a couple of errands for her whilst she was shooting: picking up a SCUBA suit (don't ask) & buying underwear. I got a certain amusement from burning up 1st on my pink bike with a SCUBA outfit suspended from my handlebars. I've spent the rest of the morning buying women's flesh tone G strings in SoHo for the male model. You can imagine the conversations I've been having with the shop assistants in Calvin & Victoria's Secret. I didn't suspend the underwear from my handlebars.

Lily in bloom

Pic: vogue.com

Lily Cole was photographed yesterday in her costume as Polly in the remake of the St Trinians movie. But the reason I posted this pic is because dear Lily fills her smashing tank top admirably.

During London Fashion Week the Evening Standard has run front page photos of Lily showing her sticky legs with a screamer along the lines of "Super thin model shocker". Lily may indeed have the legs of a daddy long legs but she's no bag of bones - as any editor who has seen her splendid bosom on show on the catwalk can testify.

I was a super skinny, thin legged, large bosomed teen who ate like a horse (sigh) so I find this persecution particularly irritating as I know you can be shaped like Lily & be thoroughly healthy. Gah. There really is no hope for a sensible debate on eating disorders in the fashion industry when the media itself fans the flames erroneously.

Field in the city

Patricia Field has a Siamese cat called Carrie, two poodles called Sultana & Putana who sat on my lap during our interview &, yes, she really does have bright red hair.

Unfortunately that's about all I can tell you as I have signed a contract banning me from discussing any part of our interview for the next six months...so sorry, no dish for y'all.

Oh My God (I can't believe it I've never been this far away from home)

It may not be true in miles, but sometimes New York seems a million miles away in attitude. The fabulously glamorous N (one of the best dressed girls I know), is the NME PR back in London, & sorted me out guest list for the sell-out NME sponsored Kaiser Chiefs gig at The Roseland Ballroom. One of the best gigs I've been to in years in terms of sheer continuous bouncing child-like enjoyment. Poor A - I don't think he realised he'd be spending the evening standing next to a Mexican jumping bean.

At one point during the completely over-excited encore (Angry Mob, Oh My God), I launched myself at least a foot in the air, arm punching the sky,(as everyone screamed "Oh my God I can't believe it I've never been this far away from home") and then for a moment duing my downward momentum had to seriously consider whether my heels would snap under the force of landing. (Note to self - very short skirts not so practical for jumping purposes.)

But here's the odd thing: all the New Yorkers just stood there like lemons for at least the first half of the set. (And this isn't germane to the Kaisers - it happens at most gigs here.) The Kaisers played an immaculate, anthemic Everyday I love You Less & Less second song in, and the the crowd barely reacted. There was a tight bunch moshing at the front, a little bobbing/airpunching/head nodding on the fringes of that, and then all these stock still New Yorkers. But, best of all, were these little pockets of obvious Brits (easy to spot - good looking & better dressed) jumping around amongst the statues.

I'm so used to the ebullience of London crowds, whether or not it's a famous band, that it was hard to believe we were at a live show. The Yanks will happily sing along, but dance, oh no siree. Far too cool. Still the irresistable force of the Kaisers, combined with a good sprinkling of British supporters meant that by the time the encore kicked off, the audience had too. The Kaisers should be thoroughly pleased with themselves. A cracking evening.

Saw MM loitering in the coat check queue afterwards. Went over to say hello, against my better judgement, as wanted to check if my judgement had been previously impaired by alcohol, but no, he is definitely a very, very attractive (& unobtainable) man. Sigh.

Oh, & another thing about Americans that struck me tonight. Why are they all so short? I'm only 5'6" (altho obviously I have 4" heels permanently welded to my feet) & find myself towering over men here. This does not bode well for my romantic chances in Manhattan - I only really fancy (with a few notable exceptions) tall men.

Osman Yousefzada is a god

I'm heading back to London to sort out my hack's visa, attend the kick off for the first in the 2007 wedding season and, almost more excitingly, get to go the studio to get my new Osman Yousefzada dress. I ordered it at the tents last September in London (40% of retail) and have been desperate to get my hot sticky paws on it. It's beautiful, one of the series of black cocktail dresses he did for this season and which US Vague featured last month.

There's no doubt in my mind that Osman is going places. Christopher Kane may be the most hyped, and Giles the most international, but Osman's quietly confident & graceful collections are right on the money.

No comment necessary

"A Louisiana pawn shop saw a father give his 2-year old toddler a lesson in how to use an AK 47. BJ's shop owner said the man kept repeating "anybody in front of you, you can mow them down. Kill everybody, soldier, because daddy's going to buy you this chopper."

Click here to read more

Courtesy of Popbitch

The Big Smoke vs The Big Apple

Last night we were guested for YoYo at tiny club Love in the Village. After all a Notting hill Arts Club night transposed to Manhattan & presented by Dazed masquerading as the after party for Lily Allen's gig earlier that evening seemed an obvious go to.



A club full of English people: a suited & booted Jefferson Hack & squeeze Anouck Lepere, Jacquetta Wheeler, Lily Allen, Sophie Ellis Bextor, Olivia Inge, loads more models, NY - LON magazine people and, er, us & all our mates.

Brilliant music, fantastic venue, shockingly badly dressed clientele - par for the course in New York it seems. We danced our socks off.

Click here for photo

Blandification

On Tuesday evening we took the F train to Jackson Heights in Queens on our continuing quest for authentic Indian food. We may live on Curry Row (East 6th) but the food is bland, dumbed down for American tastes. The charming Bangladeshi lady in our local copy shop recommended Jackson Heights for the real thing. Unfortunately, even though The Jackson Diner serves a mean mango lassi and a textbook naan, & the Kingfisher was good and cold, the curries were still not spiced enough. Bah. Brick Lane is on my list of eating places next week in London.

British Vogue May 2007 cover

There are many, many reasons why I think this is a shockingly bad cover but I'll start with the most obvious. If you were a famous model would you want to be photographed with a dodgy rocker with the words 'Fashion's Big Easy' stamped just under your groin?

It cld be argued that now Johnny Borrell is shagging Kirsten Dunst, Vogue were remarkably prescient in putting him on the cover, but surely they could at least have run a cover that hinted at some chemistry between their chosen stars? We all know she's married with two kids, but hey, fostering the illusion that they wanted to rip each other's kit off would at least have made a visually interesting cover. And what's with the dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards hair on Natalia?

British Vogue does have a history of putting dubious celebrities on the cover. Robbie Williams with Gisele Bundchen in October 2000, P.Diddy with Naomi Campbell in October 2001 and Elton John with Elizabeth Hurley in December 2002... the last one in particular set a new low at the time.

Tant pis

So, B never rang to confirm dinner...(and neither did I). The male ego is a funny thing. It's all very well for him to spend an evening flirting & feeding me cute lines, but when I tell him he has a reputation as a shocking player he drops me like a hot brick. I guess I punctured his bubble...

The question is: should I have played the game too by keeping my mouth shut? By repeating his friend's comments I missed an evening out with an interesting & intelligent man. (And was possibly rude too.)But then, as I never had any intention of being another notch on his bedpost, it was a simple way to discover his intentions.

Of course, my ego is a little bruised too.

No no no

On my way to the gym to meet my trainer this morning (more of this later), I amused myself by listing & then spotting all the fashion faux pas that seem to appear after the vernal equinox.

1) Dungarees. I don't give a flying fuck if they are in this season. There are only two exceptions: If they are OshKosh & being worn by a child under ten or covered in paint as workwear.

2)Birkenstocks. No, I do not want to see your flat plates of meat. Why is it that Birkenstock wearers always have disgusting feet?

3) The belted trench coat. Ignore the fashionistas. This is a conspiracy to get more Burberry/Daks/Acquascutum* advertising in their magazines. I know you all want to look like Kate Moss in the Burberry ads but take it from a real life fashion editor: out of a studio they only work on tall, completely flat chested women. Otherwise think bag of potatoes with a string around the middle. And as for the shoulder straps, flaps etc, they just add bulk...and why would you want that?

4)Flesh colour tights - especially those with lycra. In fact, make that all tights with lycra - why do you want your legs to shine? It just makes your calves the size of a Premiership footballer's.

* Delete as applicable

Joke du jour

Two cows were talking in the field. One cow says,
"Have you heard about the Mad Cow disease that's going around?"
The other cow answers, "Yeah, makes you glad you're a penguin, doesn't it?"

Kulchur

Yesterday we dragged ourselves away from House (JD) & Sex & The City (me)* and up to the rarified air of the Upper East Side. East 96th no less (consider that we live on East 6th). Several of the major museums are on Fifth which borders Central Park, allowing the dilatory museum goer to get through them all in a relatively short period of time - think South Kensington. The Met loomed ahead but we couldn't face it, our cultural leanings satiated (for the time being) by the Cooper Hewitt National Design Museum, The Guggenheim & The Frick.

To my utter, utter shame I had never visited Cooper Hewitt before. The current show, Design Life Now: National Design Triennial is a window into the experimental designs and emerging ideas at the centre of American culture now. It's beautifully curated and, above all, enormously enjoyable. Go, go, go if you are in New York. Take the relatives, hell, take the kids. (There's Pixar & penguins, KidRobots & The Sims - fun, fun, fun for all the family.)

The rest of the day.
Supper: Vietnamese (sauteed pea shoots, chili spiked long beans & beancurd) at Tigerland on 1st at 6th with JD & T. (She's planning a PhD on Jewish mysticism in 14th C Italy. As you do.)
Party: Tre's housewarming in Alphabet City, in an apt filled with models & beer. I lasted an hour, exhausted by culture.

Oh, & I have orange nails now.

*I have an excuse, yes I do. Interviewing Pat Field on Wednesday. This is research, oh yes it is.

Best laid plans...

It's Easter Sunday, & I woke at 8.30am fully intending to haul my sleepy ass up to the UES to go to church. I had pinpointed an Episcopalian church on 90th & Fifth, just by Central Park, that seemed as English as possible, with good music and Rite B liturgy. But then I had a funny turn - after I had showered, made up, found a don't-frighten-the congregation outfit (more difficult that I had thought) & located a suitably non blasphemous playlist on my iPod for the journey. So, now I am back lying on my (deflated) bed feeling most strange.

(I shld explain that when we moved in it was obvious that one room was sunnier & a little larger. So we tossed a coin on the understanding that large room equalled double air bed rather than trad bedstead. I won. And now I suspect that one of the mice has been chewing as my bed now deflates during the night, leaving me beached each morning. Problem is that I don't want to wake JD by reinflating the bloody thing.)

Oh the glamour of sub-letting.

Hippy Hoppy Easter

Happy Easter to you all

Easter bunnies

It's dislocating being in Manhattan when London is cheerfully on holiday. The Easter break, (which encompasses Good Friday & Bank Holiday Monday) means that England pretty much shuts down for four days. I don't miss home but I miss my annual rituals: eating a vast quantity of chocolate, village church on Sunday and a delicious lunch cooked by my mother for all my friends and relations. I'm going to have to build my own in Manhattan. I suspect they may be somewhat different.

So far, they include: drinking beer, dancing, eating chinese take out, burning around the village on my Schiaparelli Pink bike, the movies (Blades of Glory - utterly fabulous) and general hanging out with JD & A. Tomorrow JD & I aim for focus: The Frick, The Guggenheim & The Met, combined with a strenuous walk in Central Park. We'll see.....

Gallery of shame

Am absolutely horrified to discover that JD & I were snapped at The Grand last night. Although I'm not sure which fact mortifies me more: appearing on a gossip/party site that reeks of desperation or just how unintentionally hilarious we both look. (Email me for the link if I know you & you want a laugh)

hmm

It's somewhat late, but I'm far too awake to sleep... We started off at Manitoba's in Alphabet City, a regular dive bar (and our new local, I reckon). About fifteen of us, all photographers as usual. I hadn't realised that L & A's mate Martin was the extraordinarily good Martin Crook, who I worked with a lot in London, but had never actually met.

At about 11pm the call came in from B & Freedom with whom we partied at The Grand a fortnight ago. So, we ended up in a cab burning it up to midtown, tumbling out at the velvet rope, & uttering the magic words: we're on Freedom's list. And zap, we were in. And yet again, centre stage silliness, more bottle service & ludicrous, ludicrous dancing. And some dancing and misbehaviour with B. I do like DJs who play sets that mash up, amongst others, Blur, Gwen Stefani, salsa, mambo, Guns n Roses, techno, house, dancehall & Cyndi Lauper. Most amusing. And more exercise than I've had in weeks.

So, after B asked me out for dinner next week, ("anywhere you like, anywhere, you choose"), I told him that his girl friend K had told us that he was a shocking player. Don't think he was that chuffed. Now I'm intrigued to see if he does call me after all.... I think of it as calling his bluff...

I wore: Was dressed for drinking not dancing. Petrol blue cashmere fitted long line V neck cardigan, brown tweed short shorts, brown 80 den Wolfords, TopShop burgundy patent platform Mary Janes. gols chains.

Elaine's

Candace Bushnell at Elaine's 1997

When I thought about things I might be doing in Manhattan, being driven through Central Park in a chauffeured Bentley didn’t even make the list. I ‘persuaded’ JSL to be my non-date date* to a party at the Central Park Boathouse to launch the Bentley Brooklands Coupé , an all singing, all dancing, hand assembled coach built luxe-mobile. (For those of you care about such things, production will be strictly limited to 550 cars, with a 530bhp, twin-turbocharged 6.75-litre V8 that produces an enormous 1050Nm of torque)

As the Boathouse is all of about 100 yards from Fifth Avenue, it is obviously far too far for very important people to walk, hence the chauffeured Bentleys. As most of the UES road exits were shut for repairs, we purred our way right round the top of the park before we exited on the north side & were dumped back in reality. Then we headed to Elaine's for supper.

JSL & his Paris Review past make him what I’d call well-known there – we were offered the best table in the house. They make a very good Cosmopolitan, but the food is bog standard Italian & certainly not the point (the table hopping action is).

JSL introduced me to Gay & Nan Talese. And I garnered a serious compliment from Gay who looked at me and then said to JSL. "She's beautiful, very young - but not fragile". La di da di dah. Elaine joined our table after supper: she's a large lady with a sleepy presence, behind which lurks a razor sharp brain.

Each person that left the restaurant filed past her for a well-defined nod, handshake or brush of the cheek. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had been wearing a ring papal-style for customers to kiss.

* Date here in NYC is a flexi-term that can equate to walker in London. A walker here is a gay man as JSL explained through clenched teeth when I described him as such.

I wore: TopShop navy blue long puff sleeved silk tunic. Grey opaques. Gold vintage chains. Blue patent platform heels. Cream 1950's cotton swing coat. Janet Collin stone handbag.

Think pink

In answer to your queries, I found my bike on Craigslist - for the grand total of $67. I spent more in K Mart (I know, I know) on locks & lights today. I'm picking up my (Christ, it's so pink, but a) I do work in fashion dahling, and B) hopefully that shld diminish it's appeal to sticky fingered muppets) bicycle from Hoboken PATH (I gather that's a train station in New Jersey) tomorrow at 10.30am. Unfeasibly excited. Fingers crossed that I'm not meeting some dodgy perv w/ an imaginary ride. So to speak.

Barbie does Prada

I'm not sure what to say about Fashion Model Barbie other than a very big thank you to A who fought the hordes in FAO Schwartz on Sunday morning with her immaculately behaved 3 & 6yr old to give a fluffy rabbit, a couple of Power Rangers and Barbie new homes. I am very impressed with her on trend Prada-esque turban. She has pride of place in our minimalist living room. And she rocks it.

Shit. I can hear a mouse - their new trick is abseiling down our recycling bin. Must go.

Cliché

I'm afraid that there is little to report about my dating life in Manhattan. The only man I've met so far for whom I could envisage removing my clothing, & with whom I could have a conversation, is married. (Am I asking too much?) Tant pis. Manhattan is however a most confidence boosting environment in which to gallivant around. I've been eyed up, chatted up and generally appreciated more in four weeks here than I have in four years back in London. A state of affairs of which I heartily approve. (Nothing could be more dull than a drought combined with no interest.)

Today I am listening to: I Am Kloot
Sartorial: Brown Comptoir tight T shirt. Lux denim bubble mini with bustle. Bare (fake) tanned legs - i's warm outside! Kenneth Cole Cream suede wedges

Four wheels bad, two wheels good

Drum roll, please.

My new bike



After all, I figure if I can cycle round Piccadilly Circus in stilettos, then Manhattan should be within my grasp...

Literary lions

It’s not usual at a drinks party to spot a Nobel Laureate out the corner of your eye. Orhan Pamuk, currently in exile after a series of death threats following his recent acquittal in the Turkish courts for “insulting Turkishness” is a rare bird to spot. Kind of like bagging the Yves Saint Laurent of literature.

When JSL called to persuade me to a small do up the road on E 18th, I hadn’t quite grasped that it was the literati-filled New York launch of William Dalrymple's lauded book, The Last Mughal: The Fall of a Dynasty: Delhi, 1857, which came out here last week, following its English launch last year. Hosted by Suketu Mehta,(who wrote Maximum City), at his beautiful townhouse, Booker-winner Kirin Desai was there too.

Although I spent much of my twenties on a travel magazine for which Dalrymple wrote, I didn’t get around to reading any of his books until I was struck down with shigella dysentery in India whilst I was on assignment a couple of years ago. I spent a miserable week being poked and prodded in UCH’s tropical diseases ward and, desperate to read about the country, even if I was too ill to travel around it, chewed up his entire works with increasing glee. City of Djinns, his account of a year spent in New Delhi as an foreign correspondent sticks most in my mind. It's an eminently readable, eloquent and witty study of an ex-pat's life in that cacophonous and bewildering city, intertwining his domestic travails with a meticulous, almost wistful, account of the history of Delhi.

He’s an award winning bestseller in England now, and deserves to have an equal success in America. His readability, certainly not a given with historical works, and his sound analysis are reason enough for his works to transcend the British fascination with the Raj, and gain him a global readership.

I spent most of the evening talking with JSL, of course, a beautiful Colombian member of a think tank dealing with Latin American politics & culture, an al Qaeda expert from NYU's Center on Law & Security, a fascinating Turkish doctor & an NY Times book reviewer. Gloriously fashion-free, if a little heavy going at times.

The earlier part of Saturday can be summed up as follows:
Union Square Greenmarket. Not a patch on Borough, and a somewhat disappointing dearth of snacks for JD & me, hungry as usual.
Purchasing the new Kaiser Chiefs' album. Excellent. Go buy it.
Burgers at Paul’s in the East Village. Excellent. Go eat there.
East 11th St flea market. Excellent. Go pick up cheap frocks there.
Buying cold remedies at Rite Aid. Excellent range of self-medication. Go there if ill.

I wore:
Evening: vintage lucite necklace, black vintage A line cocktail mini dress. Black patent ballerines. Random black leather shoulder bag from Century 21.
Morning: Brown leather flat riding boots. Blue New Look T shirt. Denim skirt. beige cashmere wide scarf, CK aviators (press gift from the presentation on Thursday)

Lowering the bar

A good weekend. I just walked in the door after an afternoon in the Museum of Natural History, & was going to post a summary, but JD has decided we are going to a bar. It is 21.30hrs on a Sunday evening. As long as we don't end up in Coyote Ugly,(a block away,) I'm happy.