The Met's Costume Institute Benefit Gala - Christopher Kane & Givenchy

I've avoided commenting on The Met's Costume Ball as I am sure any fashion minded person is thoroughly sick of the pics by now. However, whilst I was on the 'phone last night, I did scroll through the 156, yes you read that right, 156 pics on style.com to see what all the non A list were wearing too, and the two following pics struck me as worthy of comment.

First up: Christopher Kane's work partner & sister Tammy, looking utterly splendid in Christopher Kane AW07. And proving that you don't need to be a teeny tiny stick to wear his designs, just sexy, grown up and glamorous.



And then this:




I've been thinking hard how best to describe this. A classic case of the dress wearing her, rather than the other way around. It's reminiscent of my grandmother's old loo roll cover, but then there's also a hint of those ruched curtains that everyone had back in the '80's. Most of all it reminds me of those balls of fur around a shaved French poodle's legs.

The woman wearing this Givenchy Haute Couture frock is a celebutard* called Fabiola Beracasa who is known here in NY for being rich and social. Beyond that I have failed to discover a reason for her existence. I am at a loss as to why Givenchy could have possibly thought putting this dress on a woman who is not the shape for which it was designed was a good idea. I am sure she could have looked charming in something a little less frou frou. Bottom line: this is a runway look, designed to show off the talent of both the designer & les petits mains, not a real life look. It was borderline ludicrous on Natasha Poly (see below), it does not work on Fabiola who, bless her, will not be gracing a runway any time soon (unless at some celebutard benefit).



* Celebutard: Celebrity/debutante=celebritante. Celebrity/debutante/very stupid person = celebutard

Photos via style.com

Radioactive me

Goodness gracious me. I am orange. Furnished & burnished by EZ Tan's sun. I bloody well hope the bronzer part of my spray tan washes off tomorrow else I'll be glowing like Cat Deeley. I am off to see The Kooks in the evening with H. Am jumping up & down and emitting small squeaks of excitement in anticipation. About The Kooks, that is, not lovely H. Altho it's always extremely nice to see him too. I shall be bereft when he returns to London on Saturday morning. It's difficult to find male kindred spirits, especially in a strange city where one never really knows whether men are trying to get into your knickers, or just being nice....

A question about dating etiquette in New York

If, when pottering around the food porn merchant that is my local Whole Foods emporium on Houston, happily plugged into my iPod and dancing a little bit to The Jesus & Mary Chain when I get carried away by the bass line, a rather attractive man comes up to me and initiates conversation, does this mean he is trying to pick me up? Or is it because he really WAS offended that I was surreptitiously sampling my way through the 50 or so salads on offer? I was so embarrassed that my surreptitiousness wasn't surreptitious at all that I mumbled something & legged it. Honestly I do think that it would be so much easier if men just asked you for your number instead of, I think, trying to be all cute about it.

Target signs Temperley for new line

Is it just me or does this seem like a somewhat bizarre pairing? I know it's not exactly a secret that Alice Temperley's husband and CEO Lars von Bennigsen will be satisfied with nothing less than world domination for the brand, but is Target really the way to go? For a label whose reputation is built on textiles, beading and intricate embroidery rather than cut or tailoring - whether or not Alice likes that reputation, how can they produce mass market pieces without compromising the inherent Temperley ethos?

Of course it’s easy to argue against Temperley, a brand that causes much sniffiness in fashion circles, with Colin McDowell being famously dismissive of it as not being fashion, but perhaps Middle America will appreciate pretty dresses and tops more than the directional vision of Proenza Schouler, Target’s last designer signing.

Still from a world domination point of view, it feels like the brand is trying to run before it can walk in America. Proenza Schouler may be a younger label than Temperley but they already have a strong media presence in the US, and it certainly helps being protégés of La Wintour. Temperley, although they had high hopes of some stellar names on the red carpets during awards season, didn't live up to expectation in that arena, and it could be argued that they need a higher profile to build upon before they attempt collaboration with a behemoth like Target.

The departure, after not much more than a year, of Elaine Sullivan, previously at Gucci and brought in as a star signing to guide the global expansion of Temperley, to head up the new London offices of Roger Vivier and Tods raised eyebrows in the industry, and suggests that there is not total agreement as to the direction in which the brand should move.

TopShop - Sir Philip Green confirms permanent presence in US

“We are one hundred percent coming to America. It’s not if but when,” Sir Phillip Green told me Tuesday night. Rumour has been rife concerning a possible TopShop opening in the US, with some commentators speculating that the Kate Moss collection collaboration with upscale department store Barneys signalled the end of parent company Arcadia’s independent US expansion plans. Not so, said Sir Phillip, when I asked him, “In fact we were looking at sites today.”

It has always been presumed by business commentators that TopShop would be unlikely to open first in New York, as the city is not thought to be reflective of retail trends in America as a whole. This would make it difficult for a Manhattan TopShop store to provide a reliable barometer for the success of the brand elsewhere in the country. Prior to the launch with Barneys, the only places to buy TopShop in America have been at Opening Ceremony in Downtown Manhattan & in LA, which stocks a very small range in its upstairs gallery.

And that is my very last word on TopShop for quite some time.

Rant du jour - The TopShop Press Office

Up their own arses beyond belief. It’s TopShop for Christ’s sake, not Balenciaga. I emailed different people at the office four times, and called seven times over two days to get ONE lousy press release, which never appeared. And this problem is not germane to the Kate Moss collection, it's always been like this.

I suppose one could grudgingly admire their across-the-board incompetence crossed with a certain fuck off insouciance (ignoring both the poor interns toiling at the coal face of the fashion cupboard AND editors), but personallyI do expect a little help to enable me to do my job accurately & professionally. (When I'm speaking on the BBC World Service to over 25 million people, I want to know that I've got my facts right.)

Needless to say I was invited by the lovely people at Barneys to the Kate Moss party last night. I doubt the UK Topshop press office even note which journalists file to the UK from abroad. That would be FAR too intelligent a concept for their tiny little minds to process.*

It really gets my goat that the British fashion press are so scared of losing their TopShop 250 cards (40% press discount) that they hardly ever criticise ToSho in print. Sure, TopShop can be good, brilliant even, but it’s not consistently so, as the Kate Moss collection neatly encapsulates, so the press office might like to consider keeping the press onside by being efficient rather than by bribing them.

* Nov 07 ADDENDUM: Unlike the UK Banana Republic Press Office who do exactly that, for example.

Chickpea, red onion, chili & avocado salad - A delicious summer lunch

I am obsessed with this salad that I made yesterday from the contents of my fridge, & inspired by something similar that Miss P made me on my trip to London. I think it's the perfect summer lunch: the parsley makes it smell as good as it tastes, & the Tabasco adds a hefty kick to the metabolism. It's also good with some goat's cheese crumbled through it.

Put the following ingredients in a bowl and mix with your hands - it feels so much more satisfying.
Half a can of organic unsalted chickpeas.
(Soak dried ones 24hrs ahead by all means but I'm a fan of the here & now)
large handful cherry tomatoes, halved, make sure the juices don't escape
handful of flat leaf parsley, chopped
half a red onion minced
Juice of one lime
glug of olive oil - I like Greek, for its peppery green-ness
very good shake of Tabasco
Maldon salt & fresh ground black pepper

Eat (it all) with pitta.

Kate Moss TopShop collection launch party at Barneys New York. Yawn

To Barneys last night for the launch of Kate Moss' thoroughly unexciting TopShop collection in the US. The pocket sized model turned up - on time - looking decidedly low key in a city where grooming is a given not an option. After the blonde 30's vamp of the Oxford Circus store, this time we got a scraped back knot (they aren't called Croydon face lifts for nothing), a blousy off the shoulder print smock dress cinched with a black belt, accessorized with a yellow clutch and rather unappealing zebra print ankle strap heels. If she was trying to convince New Yorkers that she was stylish, this so wasn’t the way to go.

Even though Mairead and Tabitha from the Queens of Noize did their best to get the room moving (their fave track of the evening: the Headman remix of Virginia Plain by Roxy Music), the party, to be honest, was less of a knees up, and more of a press feeding frenzy. The list had been kept super tight, which in reality always means a half empty room. La Moss and Sir Philip (with a protective arm twined around her waist), circled the room for 45 minutes chatting with reporters & TV crews, whilst everyone stood, gawped & snaffled the truffle, caviar and smoked salmon canapés.

Interestingly, bugger all A list turned up. Suzy Menkes told me that in her opinion the Yanks see Kate as a latter day Marianne Faithful, a rock chick rather than as the cultural & style icon that she is perceived to be in England. I bumped into Naomi Campbell getting into the lift on the way out in some truly bizarre ballerina get up; her habits haven't changed with age - she was arriving as everyone else was leaving, Kate having left the main room 40 minutes before. Christopher Kane was on excellent form, especially after having spotted the excellent forms of the extremely hot waiters. Sister Tammy wore his designs as normal and looked ineffably chic, whilst Agnyess Deyn jumped around in a Kane frock in a corner with the Queens of Noize (looking they were having their own private party).

Apart from that I spotted Jonathan Newhouse lurking on his own looking saturnine, Hilary Alexander looking more and more like Mrs Tiggywinkle each day and um, well, that was about it. Oh and Harvey Weinstein & girlfriend Marchesa designer Georgina Chapman. Yawn.

Death of a fashion maverick: Isabella Blow

Picture: vogue.com

A friend in London has written to tell me that the influential stylist Isabella Blow died this morning. A spokesman says it was cancer. One of London’s true fashion eccentrics, she was part of a select crew of fashion’s grande dames: Anna Piaggi, Suzy Menkes and Hilary Alexander. Issy had her own unique style which caused heads to turn whether she was entering a tent for the shows, attending a product launch or just going through the revolving doors at Vogue House.

Frequently captured in the press wearing truly extraordinary Philip Treacy hats: a face covering mantilla, a Spanish galleon with full rigging & a lobster were amongst the most notable. With her hats perched upon her severe black Louise Brooks bob, along with a kabuki white face, and a slash of red lipstick her beauty was jolie laide, never pretty.

Most recently fashion director of Tatler, she had resigned following a series of depressive episodes in the wake of her separation from and reconciliation with her husband, art dealer Detmar Blow, and a serious accident resulting in damage to her legs, which had meant she could never wear heels again. She was a contributing fashion editor to the title at the time of her death.

Born Isabella Delves-Broughton in 1958, her first major job in fashion came about when she was introduced to Anna Wintour by Bryan Ferry in 1981. Becoming Anna’s assistant, and working with Andre Leon Talley on fashion shoots, she went onto assist Michael Roberts at Tatler in London where she eventually become Style Editor. After four years as Fashion Director of The Sunday Times, she returned to Tatler.

Her two defining relationships in the industry were with Alexander McQueen, who she discovered, and with Philip Treacy. Upon attending McQueen’s graduation show St Martin’s in London, she approached him to buy his entire graduate collection, which he sold to her for £5000, and which she paid off in monthly instalments for years. Probably the best advertisement for Phillip Treacy’s glorious hats, their fruitful collaboration resulted in an exhibition at the Design Museum in 2002, When Phillip Met Isabella, and an accompanying coffee table book.

She was responsible for discovering the models Sophie Dahl, Honor Fraser and her cousin Stella Tennant: all of whom were posh, beautiful, quintessentially English girls, not unlike Isabella herself.

Impossible to miss, sometimes impossible to work with, Issy’s was a throwback to an era where fashion in the twentieth century was guided by maverick aristocratic Englishwomen.

Picture:Vogue.com

The Met's Costume Institute Benefit Gala

Oh my goodness. Take your sunglasses if you are one of the lucky few to have stumped up £100k for a table or are a designer/model/actress in La Wintour's pocket. The American wing of The Met is closed whilst they decorate the large hall for Monday's party. We peeked through the windows to see the most horrific neon/black/primary splashy/squiggly hangings being prepped: kind of like the bastard art love children of African/Tribal & Keith Haring. Added to which the centre of the hall has what looks like raised squares edged with troughs of pale pink rose bushes. Nice combo. A colour blind interior designer perchance?

The gala may be celebrating the opening of the Paul Poiret exhibit and, as any fule kno, Poiret was known for introducing the vivid colors of the Fauvists and the exotic references of the Ballets Russes to the haute couture but, really, these hangings are VILE. Less of an homage and more of an insult, I'd say.

A perfect day

Today I shall mostly be eating & sleeping. Since I left for London on the 17th April I haven't had a moment of downtime, bar sitting in Heathrow waiting for my delayed flight. (I don't count flying as downtime, because sitting in goat with my knees around my ears for seven hours is not a relaxing experience, especially when you have a fat man hogging the arm rest, and letting his blubber encroach on my seat.)

J the ebullient actor is staying here in JD's room 'till Monday evening, so I've scrubbed the apt, bought flowers (all the flower stands are full of fresh lilac for $6 a bunch) and generally tried not to scatter my possessions around the place.

H & I had a quintessential NY day yesterday in the 22C sunshine: a stroll through the East Village, brunch & Bloody Marys at Life Café in Alphabet City, a spot of bike shopping in the flea market on East 11th, and then up to the UES for culture. The Cooper Hewitt, again for me, then three hours in the Met, roaming through four millennia. Plus a detour to see the Frank Stella scupltures perched on the Met's Roof Garden. One of my new favourite places: 360 views over Central Park and Manhattan, plus the acme of civilisation - a daytime martini bar. Genius.

Cocktails at The Bowery Hotel (not as hip as it would like to be) and yakitori & Japanese tapas at Village Yokocho on Stuyvesant St in the East Village just about finished me off. Poor H: I was so thoroughly tired by this point that I clung onto his arm for support as he walked me home. Hopefully I will have revived and be able to function by the time we meet for supper at The Lovely Day this evening.

Picture: The view over Central Park from the Metropolitan Museum's Rooftop bar

To the Soho Grand for cocktails with H. The bartender makes a mean passionfruit Cosmo in a glass big enough to hold a couple of goldfish. H was in fine form, especially after a very large Manhattan. We meandered over to the Lower East Side to drink beer in The Magician and then to Schiller's for red wine, frites and the rest.

This morning my right elbow is causing me considerable pain - I can't lift my arm high enough to brush my hair. Tomorrow I am buying a new bike with better brakes and possibly some gears too. As for today, I think I might museum hop with H, altho I am knackered with jet lag, having awoken at 6am, and starving hungry. I need to find a proper diner ratehr than just legging it to The Bean on 1st (think Central Perk without the wankers).

Ouch! &*@#*£$

I fell off my bike on E13th, just past Strand Books. Fuck. My elbow hurts. Potholes - four in a row, unavoidable - I swerved all over the place before finally keeling over and falling with my dress rucked up around my waist. My purple lace knickers must have been quite a sight to the six (very) cute construction workers who rushed over to rescue me. Don't tell my mother.

Meanwhile, back in the East Village...

I'm home! And it really feels like home. London is my place, my mother ship, but Manhattan is where I live for now. It's 22c outside, my friend H is flying in tonight & taking me out for dinner, & I'm off on my bike to get my nails painted and my skin spray tanned.

J is staying in JD's room in the apt all week, so it's not too lonely without her - she's stayed in London as she is flying off to LA tomorrow to shoot a famous model/singer/designer for the cover of an English mag. In fact, she's away all month, so if anyone knows anyone else who'd like to keep me company over here for May let me know....

I found an invitation to the Kate Moss party at Barney's on Tuesday in my mail box last night, which should be...interesting....

!!!!Breaking fashion news!!! Luella to show in London

Ok - I know that this means absolutely bugger all to the 99.9% of you who don't work in fashion but, to those of us who have a vested interest in London's waning position on the world fashion map, it can only be a good thing when one of London's fashion diaspora returns to the mother ship.

Luella started showing in London: her debut fashion week show ‘Daddy, Who Were the Clash?’ was part of LFW February 2000. The next year, in September 01, she moved the show to New York Fashion Week and has continued to showe there.

Of course Club 21 (her London-based distributor, owned by Mrs Ong) isn't just showing the Luella spring/summer 2008 collection at London Fashion Week for purely philanthropic reasons. Oh no, it's because Luella will open the world’s first standalone Luella store at 25 Brook Street, London W1 this winter, a la Marc.

It would also explain why the lovely Miss Diane Crook recently upsticked from Miu Miu to head up the Luella London press office - after all, Luella has hardly been big on the editorial radar of late.

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."

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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.

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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.

Clarification

This, my friends, is a Dalek.



And this is David Tennant

A motley of thoughts about differences between here & there

When a BBC or ITN presenter turns to the studio screen to talk to the reporter in the field, we generally see a wind swept woman of indeterminate age & minimal makeup, in a sludge coloured overcoat battling (wo)manfully against the elements whilst delivering crisp, informed analyses. On Fox, we cut to a dyed blonde in a lime green satin blouse, with the artful hairstyle of a regional beauty queen & make-up that indicates application with a trowel, who continually glances left at her (off screen) idiot board.

When someone says "Yo dude. Wassup?", they are not being ironic.

Pie. When I hear the word pie I think of chicken or of steak & kidney. Here it seems always to refer to apple or, unfathomably, peach.

Fire crews: I see at least two or three fire trucks a day honking their way down the Avenues, with an American flag billowing out behind them. And every time I stop and watch them go by, a symbol of pride in their country, & try to imagine what it must have been like to live here in the latter half of 2001. It’s not quite the same seeing as a fire engine go down Kentish Town High Street.

Daleks ahoy!

This is a bloody brilliant interview with David Tennant et al by Caitlin Moran in The Times about the new series of Doctor Who, for which I have a passion bordering on the mildly joyful, (or am I confusing that with my passion for David Tennant?). Hmm.

Blog-tastic

I don't deserve to be mentioned in the company of Janine di Giovanni and the fabulous William Dalrymple, but thank you to James Scott Linville for linking to me on his erudite blog The Main Point

Other blogs I find myself clicking through too often are the acerbic View From The Fourth Row, The (genius)Sartorialist and the knicker wettingly funny Fug Girls (A proper guilty pleasure.) I stumbled across The Coherent the other day - gd to get a male take on fashion for once. And, of course, all my fellow fashion hacks as listed in my Required Reading links - off to the right. Mind you, I haven't even investigated food, literature or music blogs yet. I feel tired at the thought.

Although I must give a mention to Fire and Knives, an addictive food & cooking blog from London by the extremely talented Tim Haywood. I know this because I have commissioned him.

Calvin Klein 'model presentation' Fall 07

Thoughts after the Calvin Klein static ‘model presentation’ for AW07 today. ( BTW model presentation did mean exactly that: a stepped, almost ceiling high pyramid in the middle of a show space with about thirty male & female models in Calvin clothes artfully arranged on the various levels, looking bored senseless for the two hour duration of the 'presentation'.)

1) Who thought it acceptable to make a very young female model stand naked bar a butt floss G string and tiny bra for two hours? For Christ’s sake I think we all know what a beige string looks like - we have them in our prop kits.
2) In an industry run by women obsessed with their weight how come the only size to run out immediately on the underwear gift table was size large?
3) Why are NYC fashionistas SO badly dressed? A Prada purse, Chanel coat and Gucci sun specs do not stylish make.
4) Why serve muffins? I have never ever seen anyone so much as take a nibble of anything that might remotely contain carbs at these events? (Apart from me of course. The Bateman cartoon: 'The Girl Who Ate Carbs At A Fashion Do."
5) Oh yes, the clothes. Fine. Minimal. Exactly what you’d expect.

Schiller's Liquor Bar (is surprisingly good)

I'm giving my liver a rest this week. I’ve walked a lot around the East Village, written a huge amount, failed to catch any mice, and discovered that I can download CSI for free on the CBS site. I know all three of you read this blog to hear about just these kinds of thrilling activities.

Monday night we walked down to Schiller’s Liquor Bar on Rivington on the Lower East Side. Another Keith McNally (Pastis, Balthazar) joint it has a rep for being busy, buzzy, sloppy of service, and over rated. The first two, yes but the food was in a different league from, and cheaper than, most superannuated Parisian brasseries ($30 each). Seven of us (nearly all photographers - is this a gd thing?) shared plates of fried calamari & Schiller's Nachos, plus bottles of Sol & lime. Then I ate warm chèvre & sliced potatoes with tapenade and a little salad, and a bucket of skinny crispy fries on the side. Delicious. House wine comes as Cheap, Decent or Good. The restaurant blurb posits that Cheap is best, altho Decent Red was a very acceptable 05 Sicilian.

There are a lot of restaurants in Manhattan that could learn from Schiller’s. I’m fed up with eating in local places (Flea Market Café in the East Village springs to mind) that produce over priced, mediocre food and serve undrinkably bad (& expensive) house wine. Oh and Schiller’s had way over its complement of exceedingly attractive male customers and (A & M tell me) the female staff are pretty hot too. I see no reason not to return.

I wore: blue grey scooped T shirt. An exceedingly short denim skirt. Grey high heeled Mary Janes. Double breasted navy wool cardigan. Over sized slouchy brown leather bag. big hoop earrings. All High Street.

Still ill.

Bugger. I wasn’t sick. I am allergic to the beautiful lily scented candles we were given at a show back at NY Fashion Week. That’ll serve me right for helping myself to an extra one of the bloody things. I already knew that lilies in flower set me off, (closed, swollen sensation in throat, lassitude, headaches, fever) but it hadn’t occurred to me that candles could too. There’s a moral in there somewhere.

Still feel horrid though.

Listening to: Johnny Cash Live From Folsom Prison

Varnishing the truth

Very very dark red, almost black nail varnish seems unnecessarily gloomy in the sunshine. And I’m fed up with seeing it (chipped) on the paws of D list celebs. Having finally stopped chewing my nails last autumn, I’ve taken to having weekly manicures (an indulgence possible in NYC where it costs me $10 incl tip), and choosing a nail varnish has become as exciting as choosing books in Strand. Which explains why I am currently sporting neon pink nails. (I’m pretending it’s a nod to SS07’s acid colour trend but actually I just think it looks ridiculous and therefore weirdly desirable). And which is why I will be sporting the nail varnish colours more usually seen on an over-excited tween until the novelty wears off. Given the selection of colours at the nail spa I reckon it'll take at the very least the next six months.

I’m thinking silver for next week.

Knickerbocker Glory

A clarification: knickers in England are underwear. I gather knickers in America are plus fours. Go figure.

Sick as a parrot

Posting from my bed. The sunniest day of the year and I have a sore throat & a headache. Thoroughly grumpy. Am lying here working out which gigs to go to, and buying new frocks on line. Great things about NYC: good English bands playing over here. Bad things: gigs selling out and over hype of the average.

Bored.

I need excitement oh I need it bad.

I am wearing: A pair of knickers and neon pink nail varnish
I'm listening to: The View (are on fire)

Sod Spring, it's summer

23C and I'm wearing a sundress, typing this perched on the wide window sill leading onto our herb filled fire escape, three floors up, with the chirpy sounds of The Fratellis floating out through the huge open windows. I do like Manhattan. Altho, considering I was wearing a hat & gloves a few days ago, it is quite strange.

I've been alternately spring cleaning & writing all morning, but have to eat. Off with my laptop to a diner round the corner now. Lots I want to witter on about today but it'll have to wait.

Sartorial note: last season's French Connection navy silk 1940's sundress with sash. Metallic pink pointy ballerines. vintage chains. huge brown leather All Saints bag

Guest post-er du jour

May I introduce the The Barrister, currently fighting & righting wrongs at the Bar back in London? He has provided the following thought regarding my experiences with being hit on by men who are in relationships here in Manhattan.

"I really don't know what to suggest. I almost despair indeed. I can't understand why chaps with birds go looking for another unless the first relationship is so worn-out that it would fail the moment the chap in question met you. That is undesirable but understandable. What is maddening is the horrific arrogance and, more to the point, absence of any finer feeling represented in a chap with a bird seeking to shag another while leaving bird 1 in situ"

Hear, hear I say.

There on the stair

Today I shall, mostly, be mouse hunting.

Calm day

Wrote all afternoon, sorted my wardrobe ( why did I think it necessary to bring 14 pairs of shoes & 8 handbags with me to Manhattan?) and, best of all, initiated the final stages of Mission: M.

JD's boyfriend & I have been plotting the execution of his surprise visit for ten days. I got a grumpy & hungover JD to The Bowery Hotel at 4pm by pretending we were meeting a record label boss who needed a new stylist. Scowling like a cross kitten, she slumped onto a sofa in the lobby, & I promptly disappeared to hide behind a palm tree to call M down from his room. He strolled in, sat opposite her and waited for her to look up. Result: Absolute blank astonshment. Genius. Complete success. I scarpered pdq and left them to it.

JSL came round for Korean & beer at Dok Suni on 1st & 6th. We wandered around the East Village afterwards while he showed me local bars that weren't full of NYU students & Bridge & Tunnel: a hidden basement sake bar near St Marks and Angel's Share on 9th & 3rd, a fabulous and dark one room cocktail bar hidden through an anonymous door. I'm not sure what was more unexpected: walking up a staircase into a recreation of a Japanese street restaurant in an East Village building, or falling like Alice though a door in the restaurant into the bizarre & chic bar. We ended up back at The Bowery drinking bourbon & rum in the (packed) lobby bar. NB. BH is chocka with models and pretty people.

Today I'm off to Union Sq to buy music, Strand for books, and then The Frick for the El Grecos & Whistlers.

I wore: denim mini. black leggings, patent ballerines, DKNY black jacket, TSE cashmere sweater. Big silver hoops. Ponytail.

I am listening to: Kings of Leon

What not to do in Manhattan

Delicious, fun dinner for four at Soho House on Friday night: British Banker, JD, Married Man (MM) and myself. I never normally bother with it in the evening as the crowd isn't really my scene, too desperate, somehow; it's better for curling up in an armchair, reading the papers and drinking tea during the day. However all visitors demand to be taken there so.... Cocktails, Cristal, Oregon Pinot, vodka. And then a cab at midnight to The Grand mid-town for dancing and more drinking. Result: serious hangover today.

We were with B & K who were on the next table to us at SH. He's a hedge fund person , she's a beautiful TV exec. They swept us in on the guest list, past the hordes, & we partied in quite some style, centre stage table, bottle service et al. I love the way black guys like B go dancing here dressed like dons (cord jackets and specs). So sexy.

Good moments: everyone dancing on the banquettes to Crazy in Love. Hilarious ones: JD falling off the banquette (fortunately in my direction like an angel from heaven, just in time to avert me from lamping MM (with octopus hands) who had just told me that I was trouble). B turns out to be best friends from college with actor boy from Wednesday. Small world. A hilarious evening, all other things apart.

I'm just pissed off & disappointed because I thought I had made a great new platonic male friend to hang out with here. And instead MM was chatting me up, & I was too drunk to realise & then deal with the situation in a grown up & sensible manner. I am a naive fool.

I wore: Black silk V neck tunic, Black Wolfords, Kurt Geiger black patent pointy toe 4" lethal Mary Jane stilettos. one very long knotted gold chain.

Today I am listening to: The Smiths

Same old, same old...

British banker forgot to add one salient detail into the mix: he lives with his girlfriend back in London. Although I didn't fancy him, (not my type at all) I had made a resolution that I would say yes to anyone who asked me out in Manhattan. So ML , when you described where you lived in great detail, (off Upper Street in Islington), told me how much you liked my scent, admired my heels, & asked me out to dinner, how come you forgot to mention YOUR LIVE IN GIRLFRIEND? Nothing happened, nothing would have happened whether or not I'd known, but I am not wildly impressed at that omission.

Little Britain in Manhattan

I hadn’t realised that the promotion of a Little Britain area in New York was the burning issue of the hour until I received an email today askng my opinion from two London friends who live on different planets: a fashion PR and a barrister. To those who presume I spend my time browsing in Paul Smith, with a Lulu Guinness carrier swinging from my finger tips, before chugging down cups of Earl Grey in Tea & Sympathy and moving onto (a portion of) fish & chips (vinegar, wrapped) at A Salt & Battery, the answer, dear reader, is no, I do not. When I can buy a Crème Egg and a pot of Marmite in my local corner shop why pray wld I walk 35 mins to the West Village to buy the same articles from a load of homesick Little Englanders?

Whilst I am not against the idea of being able to buy Twinings & HP in Manhattan (thank Christ I can because Lipton tea is foul, and HP – well, nuff said), heading to a faux British enclave to do so seems asinine. Integration is what makes great cities fabulous; ghettoisation does not, even if all it boils down to is a few overpriced British stores drumming up some free publicity.

The eternal complaint that British fashion isn't taken seriously on the international stage isn't going to be resolved whilst we continue to focus on nationality as a defining characteristic rather than quality and individuality.

The Four Seasons

It's a whole different world up there in mid-town. JD's boyfriend's best friend F is a banker, in town for some mega mega deal. When the call came in to schlep up 51 blocks for after dinner drinks at The Four Seasons our enthusiasm levels were low. Eventually we dolled up, furs, legs & heels and trotted off to the hotel looking like two Russian call girls on the make. JD did look thoroughly fabulous.

Two English guys looked us up & down as we swept into the bar, and said knowingly, "Park Avenue". Genius. The four superannuated blondes at the bar, who really were on the make, were not best pleased at our arrival. Best line of the evening: Them to me: (after some sniping about my elbows in their space at the crowded bar) Looks like Camilla Parker Bowles Jr has arrived. F to them: Looks like Hillary Rodham Clinton Sr is already at the bar. Most pleased to spot some old school New Yorkers with wind tunnel plastic surgery, helmet hair and couture coming out of Atelier Joel Robuchon (the hotel restaurant).

We relocated to the lobby bar, away from the suits & the filles de joie, to snack on an "artisanal" cheese plate & Kobe hamburgers. Someone please tell them that their Camembert is not a goat cheese and that Kobe beef tastes so much better served hot not stone cold.

Joined by M, an investment guy on the deal. We ended up drinking a vastly overpriced bottle of Oregon Pinot in SoHo. Their expense account. M did flirting & asked me out for dinner tomorrow. Typical. My first date in NYC is with a British banker. (Although not my type, plus JD and his mate are coming along too, so should be fun.) Soho House is booked. (We can be the annoying braying English that AA Gill hates so much).

I wore: My black vintage mini dress again (ok I was hungover - sartorial decisions not high on priority list). Black patent low platform ankle strap stilettos with red soles. Black fur wrap. Black bakelite cuff. All Saints bubble patent bag.

Today I am listening to: 2 Many DJs mix

Michael Teperson

This is the elegantly beautiful Toaster bag by the talented Michael Teperson, a gift from the designer, bless him, after I interviewed him recently for an English publication. Mine is actually cream all over, but this is near enough. (My camera cable is still AWOL)

Refreshinly attitude free, Teperson is one of the most interesting & original bag designers working at the moment. Trained at Parsons and at Central St Martins, he originally intended to become a womenswear designer. His partner Francesco Dori encouraged him to set up hs own label, & he presented his first bag collection for SS05. He cites his main influences, unsurprisingly, as good design and architecture. He admires Richard Meier and his focus on space and clean lines, and you can see this design language refined through in the handbags, which are minus a grating logo.

The Toaster bag above is his most iconic bag. Taking the inspiration from the spiral binding of his Filofax, he used it to create a small zippered flap pocket secured to the side of the bag by a series of metal spirals.Stocked at Fortnums in London & Bergdorfs in Manhattan.www.michaelteperson.com

Catherine McNeil - A new beauty personified

photo: Style.com

Australian, aged 17. With Next. On the catwalk for Dior. Personally, I'm glad to see a classical female beauty after the run of alien babies.

Last night was a winner

Utterly bloody Spotted Pig was rammer. Full of bankers & badly dressed girls. So, we went to Frederick’s Downtown on the edge of Meatpacking for supper a deux. The waiter didn’t get it, one of those French fuckwits who think women shouldn’t dine together without men. I chatted to him in French a bit when JD was in the loo & he unbent a little. By the end he was all, 'bisous', and 'charmant'. Tosspot. Still our grande bouffe was £32 each, including a bottle of Crozes Hermitage. God I love eating out here. For the price of Pizza Express we eat onglet, asparagus and passion fruit semi-freddo. Formidable!

We trotted off to the Casio unbreakable phone party at One. Woo hoo. Pink was there & various other ahem 'celebs': Damon Dash, some bloke from Run DMC. You get the picture. For some random reason we ended up sitting with Michelle Rodriguez and her mates. I spent the latter part of the evening hanging out with a sexy AND intelligent man. Extraordinary at a publicity party.

JD had him tapped as an actor; I thought she was delusional. Anyway, turns out she was right: it’s just that I watch one version of his show & he’s in another… whatever. Google tells me he's been one of People magazine's "Sexiest Men Alive".(hmm) & that he graduated from an Ivy League magna cum laude (now that's properly sexy). He took my number, & asked if I was in LA often. But hey, it's just flirting. I've been warned about the men over here... JD hasn't stopped teasing me since - not about being chatted up but because of my inability to recognise an actor from my supposedly favourite TV show.

I wore: Banana Republic cream silk, cap sleeved, scoop neck, short tunic over Miss S brown tweed, pretty short, shorts, brown Wolfords, ToSho dark red patent platform Mary Janes. Lots of vintage gold chain action.

Today I am listening to: Dirty Pretty Things

The Lafayette Hotel

The hottest - & most stealth hotel in NYC.

http://lafayettenyc.com/

From the guys behind Waverly et al. And round the corner from chez nous.

Ah ha - shopping!

photo: Style.com

My new DKNY jacket

Left apt at 12 for quick trip to the tailor & to see John at Prince St Copy, the best colour copy guy in town - got back 6 hrs later - via most of the shops in SoHo (only bearable during the week) & lunch in Chinatown. I blame JD - she led me astray.

But - did get that shopping bug sorted. Bought 2 pairs sunglasses $7.49 each in H&M,(I lose all the time so Oliver Peoples are wasted on me) and a black wool semi tailored jacket from AW06 is waiting for me to return with my discount card in DKNY on W Broadway. $495, then half price with an extra end of sale 50% plus another 25% press discount: $70 - BARGAIN. Rude not to really. And I finally swapped the yellow raincoat I bought for the babydog (I know, I know) in Old Navy & bought some grey short shorts instead. Practical, huh?

We're off to drink pints at The Spotted Pig - you can take the girl out of England etc etc & then to a party at Little W 12th hosted by Carey Hart for some phone. THRILLING. But I resolved to be a party whore for a few months at least while I'm still getting settled. I stopped going to those parties years ago in London but at least they are new faces here - for the moment anyway....

Today I am listening to: I Am Kloot

New terminology

In The Sunday Times this w/e, AA Gill described call girls as "knickerless executive-stress consultants".

HIgh Street: London vs New York

The lack of well-designed cheapo clothes in Manhattan is starting to exercise me greatly. My wardrobe looks tired: my AW clothes have been worn & worn, and it's too bloody cold to break out any acceptable SS pieces. When I want a quick fix here there's literally nowhere to go. I've always relied on a mix of New Look/ToSho/Miss S etc, vintage and sample sale/private order designer to pull my look together. Sure, vintage here is particularly strong, esp in Williamsburg but I just don't have time for half a day's rootling. I'm still waiting for my SS private orders to arrive from London and the sample sales I've been to here so far are crapola. I tried Forever 21 yesterday but got scared & ran away. Think New Look on acid. 10 000 pieces of clothing rammed on rails, some so far above yr head that you get arm ache just reaching for them, and nearly everything in size twiglet and poly blends.

Banana Republic is all very well, but it's not cheap enough and everything is taupe or navy. Zara - I'd rather save up to buy real Chanel. Proenza by Target? I don't think so - the good pieces sold out within seconds. And the ubiquity of Hennes here means that everyone has the same few pieces. Dull dull dull. I want NEON, print and interesting. A couple of clever bargains is all I ask.

Unless someone comes up with a solution, I am going to acquire an expensive online shopping habit and a v gd relationship with Fedex.

Re-sees: Peter Som

One of the absolute joys of being here & not there is not having to do the endless AW07 press days in London. We've hardly recovered from the shows, it's still schizo weather central here, and I haven't even begun to address my summer 07 wardrobe when I'm supposed to be thinking about my a) stories for next season & b) personal orders for my wardrobe for NEXT bloody winter. Ha! I don't even know which city I'll be living in then, let alone whether I'll need a $2000 coat....( that's what it wld cost if I was paying retail - which I don't, obviously)

Fortunately the heavenly (& intelligent - thank Christ) P is dealing with all my mail and trundling off round London on my behalf.

I did make an exception to do a re-see at Peter Som today. Such a beautifully put together collection with an exemplary level of craftsmanship. There's a strong vintage feel - but more Lily et Cie than Oxfam. I WANT this coat. A LOT.



I wore: Plain black 60's A line mini dress with short sleeves from vintage warehouse in Williamsburg. Gold New Look bauble necklace as choker. Wolfords (again). Black round toe patent wedges (bit over now). Black & gold bangle from Express (yay!) Michael Teperson cream bag (Thank you Michael)

Blimey, It's Spring again

Walking from our apt in the East Village to my photographer friend Jools' place for Sunday lunch yesterday, I slipped and sloshed my way for 35 mins through heaps of snow, black ice and puddles of freezing slush. I know I looked like a crazy girl, carrying a pot of red tulips, & dancing & singing along to my iPod in J's over sized green silk parka with fur hood, beanie underneath, with my stick-y legs poking out the bottom in skinny jeans & riding boots. Still Manhattan has way more than its fair share of crazeeee people so I'm sure I fit in just fine.

Lunch was fabulous: Jools & her husband B have a duplex apt on W15th in Chelsea with a huge glass roofed dining room & terrace. Perfect setting for a Spring indoor picnic. B is skiing in Aspen, (Jools is (glowingly) pregnant so he might as well whilst he can), so 8 girls sat down to antipasti, salad and heavenly cinammon-y spiked apple pie & cream from Balducci's. We were a mix of stylists, editors & photographers. Not a media lunch by design but more a reflection of the people we all meet & like through work. And not an American in sight: 2 Aussies, 1 Kiwi and 5 Brits. I live in hope of actually socialising with New Yorkers.

I sat next to a senior editor at a US CN mag who I met for coffee at the Gehry canteen in CN headquarters on my trip over in Oct. She is one of those rare people who brings out the most charming side in everyone she meets. (But then she is an writer rather than a stylist so praps that's why she's not a completely fatuous bitch like most staff stylists.)Fabulous company, and very supportive of my fledgling NY life. On my other side was CM, an English photographer in whose honour lunch was being thrown. I've always liked her work, so interesting to finally meet her. www.chloemallett.com

J & I walked home afterwards - via Bleecker for a quick squint in Marc. So over rated. We scarpered pretty quick, after a laugh at the queues for the equally over rated Magnolia Bakery.

I am wearing: blue skinny jeans, Loomstate wolf print T shirt, big dangly Indian earrings and heavy brown leather flat boots.
Listening to: the divine Ella

Supper at Il Bagatto

J finished shooting in Brooklyn at 8pm so we ended up eating with L & Little L, who were already comfortably through a bottle of red at this East Village Italian at 10.30. Curious mixture of perfection and downright bad.

The menu is small plates from a menu that, for once, seemed authentically Italian with a refreshing lack of pasta. And no sodding pizza.

Imported burrata (a money bag of mozzarella filled with scraps of mozzarella & cream) was overpowered by an sauce made from basil & minced olives which had been squashed into a bruschetta and poured over the cheese. The buratta's delicate flavour was overpowered into nothingness; the overwhelming taste mouth-puckeringly salty and bitter. A salade composée was dull: the asparagus over cooked, the mushrooms sliced too fine to add taste or texture.

Then the Valrhona mousse shut me up for at least ten minutes. Beating the pud at Gordon Ramsey into a cocked hat. Literally just chocolate and egg whites (I think) it was heavy, unctuous and generous in size. I used my fingers to scoop every last lick out of the glass.

I'm not a fan of maitre d's who present themselves as wine aficionados and then push you to order more expensive wine after the first two bottles, and who put your second bottle straight into the glasses from the first without offering it in a clean glass for tasting.

I wore: black silk Rory Beca tunic, black wolfords, black cardi, vintage gold chains, sheepskin bonnnet & black bubble skirt coat. metallic pink flats.

From the BBC Weather site ( my bible)

Wintry storm hits northeast U.S. by Sean Batty

The northeast of the US was hammered by a huge storm on Friday, which brought heavy snowfall and chaos to the area. The National Weather Service said that the New York, New Jersey, West Virginia and Pennsylvania areas were worst affected and temperatures here fell well below zero.

Up to 6 inches (15 centimetres) of snow fell on parts of Maryland, and more than a foot (30 centimetres) may have fallen in upstate New York. At least five traffic deaths occurred as a result of the snow in Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

Authorities in New York and New Jersey said that more than 1,500 flights were cancelled from the region’s three major airports, while road traffic was brought to a halt as the wintry storm lashed the east coast.

Despite Friday’s heavy snow, a massive clean-up operation was taking place in the streets of Manhattan on Saturday morning in a desperate bid to allow the city’s St. Patrick’s Day celebrations to go ahead.

I love my new dress by Rory Beca

Picked a very simple black washed silk, V neck, long sleeved short tunic off a rail at Henri Bendel on Monday. It's the perfect shape for the season & for my apple shaped figure as it accentuates the good bits (legs, bust), and hides the very bad (stomach), whilst still being immensely flattering. It wasn't super cheap - $238 before tax but it'll be a wardrobe staple. It came with a tie sash which I think is superfluous, off trend, and grossly unflattering unless you are a twiglet.

I'd never hear of the label, and the Bendel's assistant cld only tell me that she was 'upcoming'. So Google revealed all. Rory Edelman is just 24, based in Los Angeles & has an impressive list of US stockists already. She started out designing scarves, morphed into one of a kind red carpet dressing, and put her first collection together for SS06. This tunic is called Rizzo, & is a key shape in her collections which are beach minded, West Coast in feel, and based on simple shapes.

Unfortunately, really, really dreadful amateur styling in her look books masks that chic simplicity making them look more High Street than High Style. A combination of shocking lighting, and a contorted model means you can't see the line of the pieces - a fairly basic error.

However, I like what she does. It's not really fashion, just easy everyday pieces that could easily form the basis of a 20 or 30 something's summer wardrobe, at a bearable price point.

I gave the frock a whirl at the Allegra Hicks shop opening on Wednesday night, pairing it with black patent, ankle strap block heels with ribbon bows on the toes (a direct copy of the ones that Matthew Willamson did for Pucci for AW/06, I'm afraid), 80 den black Wolfords, & a black leather & patent bag by All Saints. In the summer it'll go with tanned bare legs and open toe wedges or ballerines.

My new shoes

Kenneth Cole, would you believe? Four inch wedge, light platform. Cream two tone suede a la Prada this season. And SO comfortable. I will wear these all summer with cropped jeans, with my TopShop silk smocks & with shorts. I was a little concerned that they look orthopaedic - in a bad way - across the toes as they are quite wide, but the comfort factor won out. I walk everywhere in Manhattan, and having to tote a pair of flats around when I'm wearing heels is a pain.

A few parties kept us busy....

Sod Spring. It's snowing again

Sod Spring. It’s been snowing all day, & the BBC says it’s -2C (the New York Post says 28F – whichever) outside. Very Christmas in a fucked up kind of way for March. I was woken at 6am by a mouse trotting across my bedroom floor. (Who knew they had such noisy feet? – must be wearing clogs) Simultaneously attacked with cramps and have now spent the day alternately asleep and reading trying to mask the pain with glorious Solpadeine Max ( I stocked up @ Heathrow – you can’t buy codeine here, fools)

Nipped out at lunch in my furry bonnet (at last!) to buy a hormone demanded brownie at Coffee Bean on 1st and 4th. Taken aback to open the front door to find the sidewalks completely covered in a couple of inches of snow – that had passed me by. Impossible to cross the roads without stepping in piles of slush. Horizontal, face exfoliating hail too. Situation redeemed by the charming flirting of coffee guy & the spotting of THREE attractive men – a staggering count in a city seemingly devoid of cute guys. I am so going back there during the day with my laptop for some writer-ly (read gazing) activity. Then trudged through the snow (in my now decidedly damp canvas Converse – too much codeine to make sensible shoe related decisions) to Thai Garden on 2nd for a lunchtime special, $10 all in for big, rice-filled, sleep-inducing lunch. The lemongrass & galangal spiked steam transported me straight back to Bangkok – until I looked up from my book to see the slush covered sidewalks, slipping walkers and sweaty snow shovellers.

Went to the party for the launch of the Fashion in Film Festival last night with Writer man and L, after drinking margaritas with M, a V stylish English fashion PR I met at the Allega party on Weds pm up in the hermetically sealed Upper East Side. Saw A as planned, and she, L & I ended up in some latenight dive bar in the Lower East Side. VERY drunk.



J is shooting for Numéro @ a studio down the road so I am home alone. I did pitch a couple of stories to my editor at The Sin-day Times Travel section, so something ( very small) achieved. As well as speaking to the divine Miss P back in London. Craving a chilli loaded curry and a DVD. Hmm. Does Blockbuster deliver?


Reading: Eating My Words by Mimi Sheraton,
Wearing: Blue Boden T shirt & black lace knickers

Spring has sprung in Manhattan

Christ। Where does the time go? I spent far too much time last week worrying about my book, and trying to collate clips to send to various CN mags & to NY papers ( have a fistful of personal recommendations but feel such a cheese using them). Got to get a grip.

On Thursday I managed to get lost on 42nd St on the way to Condé Nast. It was hardly my first visit – there's really no excuse. I HATE Times Square: it’s confusing, visually migraine inducing, full of camera toting, sheep like tourists and touts. It was so bloody cold even through my furry ear muffs, that I had to duck into glam ole Burger king to check the map. Too cold to stand still for just one moment on the pavement, sorry sidewalk, whilst stationary.

Supper at Lil' Frankies with an entertainment editor from a big UK mag to a soundtrack of hard rawk from East Village Radio piped through from their studio next door. The pizza is stupendous if fat making. Note to self: DO not let self be dragged there again unless hungover and desperately in need of carbs.

But now it’s Weds again and we are in full Spring. Frolicking and gambolling like little lambs. It’s a relief not to have to wear six layers although gutted I haven’t had an opportunity to wear my mother’s vintage sheepskin skating bonnet with pompoms ties a la Marc that she brought out for me at the weekend.

Off to Soho for lunch with Tallulah’s sister in law who talks faster than a ticker tape. I was gong to schlumpf along in boyfriend jeans and converse but unfort have an appt with a fashion PR for a showroom wander so feel I shld dress like a fashion hack rather than a student. Sigh. Just a little hungover from the Waris party at Bergdorf’s last night. More on that at a later date when I find my camera cable so I can post pics.

Soundtrack: The Kooks
Wearing: TopShop navy blue silk tunic with trumpet sleeves. Grey woolly tights. Blue patent platforms. Vintage gold chains & necklaces ; Michael Teperson cream Toaster bag

Libertylondongirl is, technically, now Libertynewyorkgirl

We are now safely ensconced in our beautiful East Village walk up. I do love it here, although I miss my lovely English friends. (She gulps, weeping inconsolably into her cup of imported Twinings Earl Grey, while holding onto her teddy in one hand, and reaching for the Marmite toast with the other.)

Writer Man came round to inspect the apt on Sunday and we walked up to heavenly, heavenly Strand Books, a mere 10 min walk from home. My intention is to try to read as much American literature and, specifically, literature by Americans about or based in New York whilst I am here. WM’s no comment face when he saw Candace Bushnell’s Lipstick Jungle in my basket was priceless. I didn’t tell him I was just finishing Tallulah’s proof copy of The Manny (part of her care package for me). I redeemed myself with Dawn Powell & Willa Cather and added Mimi Sheraton’s restaurant critic memoir & Daniel Boulud’s cheffing book and a history of the American Revolution. J bought The Beauty Guide to NYC - she is desperate to find a hairdresser who won’t screw up her highlights. (I just want to find a place that does cheap, long lasting mani/pedis)

We arrived to torrential rain, Saturday was so warm we had brunch outdoors in T shirts (being able to eat huevos rancheros was almost worth the move to Manhattan alone), & now it’s snowing. AND -10. Gah. Bloody schizophrenic weather. Frostbitten knees again. Either I buy thicker tights (can you get thicker than 80 den Wolford?) Or I lower my hemlines. My parents descend in state on Friday - have told them to bring brollies, sunglasses, wellies, balaclavas and fur. They are treating us to Gordon Ramsey’s new restaurant on Sat and The Carlyle for brunch on Sunday. Delicious.

First flea market trip in the East Village - result: one green pressed glass cake stand for $10, & yet more vintage gold chains for my necklace collection.

Hit the email yesterday and, as a result, we are out practically every night for the next fortnight at least. We have our first fash/socialite do (at Bergdorf’s) on Tues which I am sure will be fascinating from an anthropological view. My asst back in London has emailed all the gd PRs to make showroom appts for me so I shld be up to date pretty soon.

Other than that, we are tramping the streets just getting to know the city. I am determined to walk for at least an hour each day so I can discover, well, everything.(& become toned, healthy etc etc). I don’t think there is any danger of our being bored her and, of course, practically every person that I know in London is threatening to come to stay.

I am wearing: Black silk nightdress from Anthropologie in SoHo & woolly bed socks

Flirting: Why interviews can be amusing

I started this blog with the best intentions – and then promptly took six weeks off. My only excuse is that Fashion Week took over, and that I needed the time to clear my head of thoughts of he who shall not be named. No, not Voldemort as H suggested yesterday, but my ex, C. Although, on reflection, at times it feels as though they are both on the dark side.

Whilst I’m certainly not looking for a new boyfriend, I do feel like there is light glimmering at the end of the tunnel. Although judging by the enormous waves of anger that made me feel physically sick as I lay awake until 3am last night, I still haven’t forgiven him for lying, cheating, and then using me. And, I think it’s fair to say that I shouldn't contemplate a relationship with anyone else until I can regard his behaviour towards me with calm detachment.

But that's not to say that I can't do flirting. I was sent off to interview a designer last week who had been described in as (unusually)straight, attractive and public school. I conjured up a vision of a hulking great rugby player with plummy tones, and a love of beer. As any fule kno, I only fancy emaciated, tall, fey boys with tortured souls and commitment problems.

My assumptions were wrong. Enter one tall, fey boy with a tortured soul and a whole host of commitment problems. And possessed of buckets of charm. And an MA in flirting.

But, the problem is this: the golden rule of interviews is that the female interviewer must never, ever believe that the male interviewee actually fancies her. He is merely flirting to ensure a favourable outcome in print, and to salve his ego.
Still, it was most cathartic; a most unexpected experience which I highly recommend for anyone struggling to get over their fuckwit ex. The moral of the story: flirting doesn’t have to mean anything, but Christ it puts a spring in your step.

I wore: Black wool A line tunic. Purple opaques. Silver Lara rope chain bracelet. Black patent round toe wedges. Black tailored slub silk 1950’s coat. And an enormous smile.