I'm going back to New York

La la la - I'm going home on Tuesday. Much as I like being in London to see all my friends and family, eat proper Indian food, annoy my sister & play with the dog, I do feel that Manhattan is where I need to be right now. I've been away since 16 December and I've been so sick (two eye ulcers. Two!) & broke that it's been hard to enjoy myself over here. Not least, 75% of my wardrobe and possessions are in New York.

There was a slight excitement yesterday when I was asked if I was interested in presenting & producing a series of daily reports from London Fashion Week for a global TV station which I've worked for before. I postponed booking my flight, organised somewhere to stay, & started to negotiate my fee with the station. Then the stupid cow of a producer changed her mind and cancelled me this afternoon. And now my plane ticket has gone up by £60. I could kill her.

Still, at least I get to go home in FIVE DAYS. I am rather excited.

TYRA BANKS IN NEW FASHION REALITY SHOW

WGSN reports that talk show host and former supermodel Tyra Banks is set to present a new reality TV show that's out to find a fashion magazine editor.

IMDB reveals that the show is being dubbed "The Apprentice meets The Devil Wears Prada. Producer Ken Mok says: "It is a competition show about aspiring assistants looking to become assistant editors at a fashion magazine."

Bosses are said to be looking for a magazine to participate with the series, which is set to air on US network, CW, this spring.

Now I know how professional musicians feel about Pop & American Idol.

The power of a brand name

I popped into Hampstead Gap last week for a quick poke around the sale (I love me a Gap sale), and found not just a pair of tailored black flannel short shorts for £2.99(£2.99!), but a big pile of Pierre Hardy Mary Jane style pointy toe flatties. When Pierre Hardy's shoes for The Gap launched in London, I was in Manhattan, and my beloved editor friend E purchased me a pair of the black patent platform heels and posted them to me back in New York.

I had fully expected all three styles in the Pierre range to have sold out by the time I returned to England in December, and certainly the black heels had been snapped up immediately, but thw two tone shoes and the Mary Janes were still kicking around in store.

A chat with the Hampstead manager revealed that they aren't being marketed as Pierre Hardy shoes, and so no one was buying them. Same story in Camden Gap. The manager's theory? If they stuck a big Pierre Hardy sign above them, they'd fly out of the store...

Market: A new British restaurant opens in Camden, London

It’s easy enough to make a grand entrance at Market, a new-ish restaurant in the gastro-wasteland of Camden. Simply push aside the heavy curtain and fall down the hidden step into the dining room as did I and several following customers through the course of the evening.

Fortunately the low key restaurant, with its metal topped tables and salvaged wooden school chairs (watch out for the authentic vicious Wolford-snagging splinters) has attracted a clientele who are far too busy nose down in their troughs of glorious food to take much notice of flailing guests.

Replacing a long-time Chinese restaurant on Parkway, Market couldn’t be more different in approach, with its emphasis on seasonally driven produce and daily changing menu. It’s part of a new wave of London restaurants that ape brasseries with their relaxed local vibe but serve resolutely British food: mackerel paté, pollack, pork cheeks, oysters, offal.

T & I loved our main courses: deeply flavoured beef stew & root mash for her and red curry for me (rather less curry and more fragrant coconut milk with boiled courgettes, coriander sprouts & peanuts), with a side dish of, and here's something I never thought I'd say in a review, stunning January King cabbage, although we weren’t such great fans of the somewhat hectoring owner/server who seems to have froideur as her default mode.

We finished with an ice cream which may be the best I’ve ever eaten, with delicate rosemary notes, served in an old school Duralex glass with rhubarb compote, and a textbook warm bitter chocolate cake before gloating over our very un-London like bill of £48 which included a glass of wine, bottle of fizzy water & service.

What Jane Did Next

We knew Jane Shepherdson had something up her sleeve after she left her job as brand director at Topshop. You don't become arguably the most influential woman in British retail and then leave to spend more time with your cats/children/lover.*

But who knew she'd be getting in bed with Baugar? It was announced today that she has finalised a deal with investment company Baugur to purchase Whistles with immediate effect. Jane becomes CEO of the retailer and is joined by Finance Director Keith Wilks and Marketing Director Jo Farrelly, both of whom worked with Jane at Topshop.

As a result of the management buy-in, Whistles will be separated from its former owner Mosaic Fashions through a newly-created company owned in part by Jane and her team. Commenting on the development of the brand Jane said, "We see a great opportunity to create something unique for the woman who loves great design, isn't scared of a little edginess and who wants to reference but not slavishly follow trends."

I adore Whistles. Not for its own label safe knits & trademark pretty tops, but for its clever buy of labels like Antik Batik & Michael Stars. (And I love its bargain sales too.)

But my love of Whistles goes way, way back. My very first black tie outfit came from Whistles in Oxford. When I was 16, my contemporaries all seemed to sport taffeta evening dresses with sweetheart necklines and poofy skirts (this was in 1988 before fashion had filtered down to teenagers) and, if you were really cool, you wore black DM lace ups or eight hole boots with your dress. Laura Ashley and Monsoon were popular, or else girls made their dresses in the Textiles classroom after school.

Me, I wore a curvy nipped in waist, black double breasted wool evening jacket with a low square neckline and long sleeves, matched with a staggeringly trendy (at the time)Ghost anthracite, dropped waist, full circle knee length skirt in Ghost's trademark wrinkled viscose. No one 'got' my outfit, but I loved it -and I loved my mother more for buying it for me from her meagre salary. I remember that the jacket cost £125 - an absolute fortune back then, and the skirt was £85. I still have both pieces, but the skirt no longer works now that I have hips, and the jacket strains over my bust. I've wrapped them both in tissue paper, and stored them in my parent's attic.

*delete as applicable

Mango sponsor Jean Pierre Braganza

I'm quite keen on Mango at the moment, following the announcement of an intelligent spot of sponsorship directed towards two young British designers. After having sponsored Osman Yousefzada's LFW show last season, (& whilst continuing to support Osman), they will also be sponsoring Jean Pierre Braganza.Braganza's signature sharp tailoring and deconstructed shapes can be seen at his show at the Mango flagship store on London's Oxford Street on Sunday, February 10. The utterly briiliant Osman Yousefzada, whose show also takes place at the store on the same day, debuts his collection of Little Black Dresses in 220 Mango stores worldwide from March.

Photo: Jean Pierre Braganza SS08. Vogue.com

Moet fashion bus for London Fashion Week

When I read that Moët was introducing a tour bus this February to transport editors around the east end of London to the series of fashion week shows known as The Block, I thought, what a great idea. Especially the bit that read, “Guests will be greeted with champagne.”

Then the release went on to list the designers whose shows would be included: House of Holland, Fashion East, which includes Louise Gray, Noki and David David, Roksanda Ilincic and Gareth Pugh. And I thought hmm, but isn’t Giles showing there too, and on the same day?

And then I remembered: Giles doesn’t like, indrawn breath, fashion assistants, and scabrous people who might actually not have drivers or the wherewithal to take cabs, to attend his shows. Senior editors & important buyers only darling.

Whilst I understand that designers like to show in spaces that work with their collections, that are often rather small, I also think that if you are going to be part of the official LFW schedule then you shouldn’t treat the junior editors, assistants and foreign press with such derision. Especially when London has so few big names showing.

And especially when his front row last season had David bloody Walliams, Margot Stilley and Savannah Miller perched on it. Any moral high ground gained was lost the moment he let those completely fashion-irrelevant attendees in.

Lucinda Chambers & Jaeger

There's been a rumour floating around over the weekend that Lucinda Chambers, fashion director of British Vogue, is the new creative director of Jaeger. A Condé Nast spokeswoman hadn't heard this, Lucinda Chambers says it's not true, and the Jaeger press office flatly denied it to a friend. However, as we all know, just because someone denies something, it doesn't mean that it won't happen one day...

This rumour comes on the heels of the announcement of Jaeger chairman Harold Tillman's appointment as chairman of the British Fashion Council.

It'll be interesting to see how Jaeger's Belinda Earl is planning to give the company the shot in the arm it so badly needs. Whilst editorial coverage of the Jaeger London line has been good, and the SS08 collection looks interesting, if a little schizophrenic, the Regent Street flagship store is currently packed with heavily discounted sale rails, and knocked down handbags.

On my visit this week, the store was not attracting the key 25-25 fashion market, but was filled with Jaeger's ex-core customer: confused looking Middle England housewives and grey haired grannies, desperately seeking in vain the comfortable Jaeger pieces they had been buying for the previous twenty years.

If Jaeger's continuing rebranding fails, it won't be for want of trying. If the Chambers rumours turn out to be true, with the BFC & British Vogue in his pocket, Tillman would just about have the British fashion industry all sewn up. Certainly shows would show what throwing money at a project could achieve.

Photo: Jaeger London SS08. www.jaeger.co.uk
(Very dodgy look book styling - she looks like she has a pot belly.)

Allen & Delancey: Restaurant review

I wrote this review for a publication back in November but, owing to matters beyond my control, it got pushed. This is a more personal version than wld have been printed.
__________

It’s late November, it’s cold, it’s windy, I’m wearing vertiginous heels, and there’s a pan handler eyeing me thoughtfully from his doorway perch on a deserted corner of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The sole reason I’m down here on a grim Monday night is that Allen & Delancey is the new gig of Gordon Ramsey-empire exile Neil Ferguson.

He was famously ejected from the Ramsey ego project at The London NYC Hotel in Manhattan by the irascible Gordon after a series of lukewarm reviews, but there were rumblings that he had been hard done by. Certainly his skill as a chef has never been in question: more his judgement of the requirements of the Manhattan fine dining scene.

I'm having problems finding Allen & Delancey, until I spot the discreet lettering at the bottom of the curtained window, and then see my parents looking lost, and eminently muggable, on the opposite side of the dual carriageway, their cab driver having failed to locate it.

My glamorous mother doesn’t do what she perceives as slumming, not ever. Even getting her down to my East Village apartment from her rococo Midtown hotel is a stretch. If I want to know if Ferguson’s culinary reach and reputation is going to extend up beyond 14th street then my mother's experience will provide the perfect litmus test.

Things don’t start well after her first trip to the bathroom. “It smells of wee, and it’s so dark in there I couldn’t see to reapply my lipstick”. Great. We are apparently to have a bi-level dining experience: Michelin worthy, we hope, in the dining room, and LES dive bar in the loos.

An elegant and dimly lit, narrow bar leads to the windowless two roomed dining room proper, with the prettiest flowers I’ve seen in a restaurant either side of the Atlantic: old fashioned, blowsy roses. The calm and cool jewel box of a dining room at the Royal London has given way to the warmth of bare brick walls, adorned with shelves of sub-pub tat, dodgy paintings and exceptionally comfy banquettes. It’s a clever room with no bad tables, and a sense of occasion about it, even given the downbeat decoration.

It’s just a shame that it’s so dark we can barely read the menus. We grab the church candle from the shelf behind us to illuminate our table, but it barely penetrates the Stygian gloom. Someone seems to have forgotten that the enjoyment of good food requires all five senses: whilst I love The Smiths, the music is way too loud: we have to stretch to hear each other.

Although the barman didn't know how to make an Old Fashioned, the wine list is compact but beguiling, with clever choices including a delicious Gruner Veltliner by the glass. We waver over a very well-priced $100 Amarone, but settle on a $66 Ayres Pinot Noir from Oregon. Ten out of ten for offering tap or bottled water, but we are less impressed to discover that the sparking water is the overly fizzy imported Hildon Water.

Eating in restaurants is tricky as a vegetarian. As a fully paid up member of the awkward squad, (no to fish or meat, yes to dairy & eggs) my diet is a source of derision to many chefs. I certainly know that I am unwelcome in Bourdain’s Les Halles and, although I like and admire Fergus Henderson enormously, I’m not beating a path to St John.

If I check out the carte on-line and there is no vegetarian option then I always ring in advance. At Allen & Delancey I am assured that vegetarianism is no bar to entry: speak up, and “Chef will prepare you something off menu. It’s really no problem at all for both courses.”

I am expecting something quite special now. Not least because before he took the Ramsey shilling, Ferguson did a stage at Alain Passard’s thoroughly amazing L’Arpège in Paris, which has brought the humblest of vegetables to the forefront of modern French cooking, earning three Michelin stars in the process.

Sea scallops, celery root cream, braised cipollini onions, verjus and Raviolo of sweetbreads, bolognese, parslied carrots, savoy cabbage arrive. My parents start to look longingly at their cooling plates, as my place remains empty. I call over the waiter who looks bemused: she hasn’t ordered me a first course, explaining that the vegetable plate is ‘very large’. I look at her like she is insane: maybe she is. But hell, I’m English: I eat my way through menus, vegetarianism not withstanding.

The parents are happily troughing away, liking the contrasts of consistency and taste that chime together on their plates. I eventually get leeks vinaigrette with truffled fingerling potatoes, minus the listed proscuitto garnish. It is good, the baby leeks providing a textural balance to the smooth potatoes, whilst the dressing is just the right side of sharp. Unfortunately, the lack of lighting is such that I actually fail to spot the truffle puree at the side of the plate until I have eaten everything else. I call for more of the delicious warm bread, swish it around the plate, and lick my fingers. Although I had to fight to get fed, it’s an admirable start.

And then, after a lengthy wait (bear in mind it’s a quiet-ish Monday night), our entrees are plonked down. I get a vegetable medley: someone in the kitchen has had fun in the various stations, raking over the mise en place, picking out the vegetable garnishes and cobbling them together over an excellent smear of cauliflower purée.

Peering through the crepuscular murk, I start the name game: I spot trompette des mortes and some fat porcini; a tatty sliver of preserved lemon lurks alongside an olive, an artichoke heart, a piece of parsnip, and a little squash. There are some more of those fingerling potatoes, carrots, and rather too many onions, - pearl and cipollini are my best guess – but it’s just too dark for a serious identification parade.

There isn’t a cohesive note on the plate. (Maybe he should be taking a note from Rowley Leigh’s new Café des Anglais in London whose vegetable plate is a thoughtful selection of roast beets, squash, onions, radicchio di Treviso and a little polenta cake, dribbled with sauce vierge.)

It is also not ‘very large’ but rather small, and I polish it off in a few minutes. Still hungry, I remonstrate with the waiter who hops it to the kitchen and returns with an offer of ‘Chef’s risotto’.

Whilst I wait, the parents engage variously with their main courses: slow roasted pork belly, pickled pear, parsnips, fenugreek syrup for my mother and Beef, cabbage, onions for my father, which he ordered purely because it sounded so unprepossessing. What arrives is a roundel of aged beef; a savoy cabbage parcel contains chopped beef shoulder, and a cabbage wrapped onion. He makes small groaning noises which are slightly disconcerting coming from a parent, but apparently indicate extreme appreciation. The beef is cooked perfectly and, what sounded like heavy peasant food, is actually refined and hearty all at the same time.

The autumnal risotto is sensational, similar to one I had back in March at the Royal London Bar, and certainly one of the best I have eaten. There are various schools of thought where risotto is concerned: some prefer it in the Venetian manner, all’onda, or wavy, where the dish is slightly soupy, rippling when you attack it with a spoon.

This is a stiffer version, with a perfect bite and the lack of soupiness works well with the vegetables. It is studded with chunks of butternut squash, topped with sautéed chestnuts and hen of the woods mushrooms, with a creamy truffled foam around the edges. I try to ask the server about the foam’s composition; she nods and says truffles. I give up, and bury my head in my plate, stopping only to emit small squeaks of pleasure as I shovel it in. I stupidly press some of the delicious mushrooms on my parents. We fall silent in homage. I wonder if anyone will notice if I lick my plate clean.

Just as we have perked up considerably, buoyed by the Pinot and the thoroughly excellent first two courses, our puddings arrive. The menu had read well, with an unusual (for a Manhattan carte), and welcome emphasis on fruit, but the orange plate is a heavy mess: a million miles from the implied elegant assembly.

The one tiny tangerine segment is flavourless, with no evidence of the promised caramelisation. The clementine has been peeled, sawn in half and presented as a charmless hunk of tasteless fruit, the ice cream has crystals in it, and the two sliced chunks of financier, (an almond flour, ingot shaped cake) although with the traditional crisp crust, are too dry and crumbly to work with the fruit. Maybe a self-contained Madeleine with its lemon hint would have worked better. Paradoxically, the element requiring the most skill, the orange blossom sabayon, is immaculate: delicately scented, and moreish.

My mother’s sautéed fall fruits, hibiscus, Catalan cream, saffron pistils has several large chunks of unpeeled apple and pear with shards of core left in. We take turns in nicking bits from my father’s choice, whilst he tries to stab our fingers with his fork. It's a clever take on apple pie a la mode: a whole Gala apple wrapped in excellent puff pastry with a caramel sauce and rum & raison ice cream on the side: Scrumptious.

Service is charming, chatty and well-meaning - but stuck at café level. The smooth service that usually comes with food of this standard is notably absent here: the busboys don’t know who is eating which plate of food, we have to request fresh glasses for our second bottle of wine, and there are long delays. Empty glasses and side plates are left lurking on the table.

If Ferguson has pretensions to make Allen & Delancey a ‘top dining destination’ then he needs to ratchet up the quality of the elements surrounding his food. A firm hand front of house would make all the difference. At the moment this truly inspired cooking deserves much, much more.

In the interests of full disclosure I should note that my risotto was comped as were the puddings, a very generous gesture.

Harold Tillman appointed as Chairman BFC

Harold Tillman has been appointed as the new chairman of the BFC (British Fashion Council). I'm not sure I approve: Sir Stuart Rose (M&S) was one thing, but Tillman owns Jaeger which seems to me to hint at a conflict of interest. Mind you, the post is no sinecure, and it's paid risibly, so who else would take it on, bar a rich man in retail's inner circle?

Fakery

I'm a huge aficianado of fake eyelashes. I love the way they give my eyes an almond shaped sexiness, helping them look huge in photographs. I'm a dab hand at putting them on, and recommend Eylure's style 101 lashes for a look so natural that no one can spot them. You also need a steady hand, clear glue in a proper tube (not the ickle glass phials that come with lashes), and those small travel size tweezers that let you get in close when you are positioning them.

Unfortunately they should only really be worn by women who are meticulous about their appearance, and who are fond of taking furtive peeps in their hand looking-glasses*. Whilst I will spend maybe fifteen minutes applying slap, once I'm out of the house I rarely check my face in a mirror.

This is a mistake. Twice now a strip of fake lashes has parted company with my eyelid in a public place, and I have failed to notice. The first time I had cycled madly down Greenwich Avenue to Employees Only (a proper old-school cocktail haunt) for a blind date. I chained up my wheels round the corner, whipped my heels out of the bike basket, applied some lipstick blind, and sauntered gracefully over to my date who was leaning against a tree outside the entrance. We shook hands. He then stared at me, hard. Great, I thought. He's overcome by my flushed cheeks and radiant beauty. But no. One of my false lashes was hanging by a fibre from the corner of my eye.

But at least he told me.

Second time I was fooling around, fully dressed, in bed with a preppy New Yorker. After a while, I de-suctioned myself, as I felt something brush against my cheek. Yup. My lash was dangling from my eyelid again. Oh yes, preppy banker said, that's been like that for a while.

Gah.

* Apologies to Nancy Mitford

Best Costume Design Oscar Nominations

Across the Universe Albert Wolsky
Atonement Jacqueline Durran
Elizabeth: The Golden Age Alexandra Byrne
La Vie en Rose” Marit Allen
Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street Colleen Atwood

For this dress alone, the perfect example of how a costume can work seamlessly with a script, I hope Jacqueline Durran wins for Atonement.

Heath Ledger

In the midst of life we are in death.
Requiescat in pace

Giorgio Armani Privé show this evening

It's a sign of the times that when a fashion house shows a new collection, the first act of the in-house press office is to email journalists images of the celebrity attendees in hope of making the next day's papers. Forget the clothes, or the models in the clothes. Those pictures are no longer enough to sell newspapers. Mr Armani showed his Privé Collection as part of the Paris Couture this evening, with a celeb filled front row to ensure him some press coverage. Armani stalwarts Claudia Cardinale & Sophia Lauren were joined by Hilary Swank, Ellen Pompeo and Dita von Teese. Given that the Golden Globes were cancelled, and award season has been somewhat muted so far due to the writers' strike, I would have expected a higher celeb count. So often, Armani's ladies look somewhat trussed up in over elaborate, over embroidered, over brocaded numbers, which are often far too old for them (Katie Holmes springs to mind), but when these pictures from the Armani press office in Milan tipped up in my inbox this evening, I was struck by the relative elegance & simplicity of the outfits. I think I am going to pin up this picture of Mss Loren & Cardinale as an expemplar of soignée aging. Bellissima. (Britney et al take note.)

Photos: Courtesy of Armani Press Office, Milano

Socialising

To Ken High Street for fashion photographer Matthew Eades’ birthday drinks. It’s a good thing I like him, (as opposed to just liking his excellent work) as it took three buses to get there in the absence of working trains on the District & Circle Line. One & a half hours in the pub, over three hours to get there & back from Kentish Town. I miss the very small island of Manhattan.

Sales joy

I have scored big time in the sales this month. These pretty studded nubuck flats from Office, with a fantastic, winter busting hidden rubber sole, cost just £5 from £29, and I have them in black too. They are perfect for scrunching up in the bottom of my handbag for changing into to walk home after supper in Manhattan. (They are incredibly lightweight too, and water marks just disappear when they dry.)
After weeks of debating, I bought the Kurt Geiger ankle boots, and they look just fine. I also picked up two Whistles jackets. The first, a brilliant black, long line, tuxedo jacket with satin revers was reduced from £180 to £50, and a black fitted, curvy gaberdine jacket/blazer with navy blue grosgrain trimming a la Balenciaga was £80 from £180 - but I hesitated so long before buying it that it was reduced another £35 by the time I bought it.

I also wanted to mention the amazing service in Whistles. If they don't have your item in stock, they will ring around the other branches and, if it's in stock elsewhere, will post it Special Delivery to you for a mere £4. Given the price of London transport, schlepping round to another branch would cost more than this! Plus Special Delivery actually costs £6, so this really is an extraordinary service. I bought both jackets this way and in each case they arrived the next morning.

Wardrobe Wisdom

Contrary to popular opinion, I abhor shopping. Don't get me wrong, I love new clothes, it's just the process of getting them that I can't stand. I've already seen everything months before at press days and, most of all, as I have an unusual figure, about 1% of any shop's stock actually looks good on me.(Huge bosom, tiny back, no waist, great legs.)

I'm also no good at impulse buying: I need to try something on, go away, think about it, and then maybe go back to do another trying on session. Preferably with my sister who can cut through my pretensions with a few well chosen words. It's a truism that stylists aren't very good at dressing themselves.

I also detest shopping with other people: I can scan a shop's entire stock in seconds for pieces that work. Everyone else faffs around, prodding and sighing and stroking for what seems like hours. It drives me bonkers.

I don't mind taking someone else shopping if they'll just sit in a chair, let me pick out suitable pieces and then escort them to the changing room. After all, I AM a fashion editor, and can generally be relied on to make other people look great.

I've just started up a sideline business called Wardrobe Wisdom, where I go round to people's houses, blitz their wardrobe, put together new outfits, and then email them a list of what they need to buy (& where) to pull together their existing pieces. Email me for details & references from some very happy clients if you are interested at libertylondongirl@gmail.com (I'm not cheap, but I am very good!)

With one client last week, we gave three bin bags of clothing to her cleaner, made a pile of designer labels for her to eBay and, even with so much pruning, she only needed to buy four or five pieces (mainly long sleeve T shirts) to bring her wardrobe together. I'm continually amazed at the ease with which people can forget what is actually in their wardrobes, wearing the same few pieces day in, day out.

Most pleasing of all, she has had lovely compliments on how glowing and pretty she looks each day since. But no one has commented on her clothes. Which is exactly how it should be for a size UK14 (US10) mother of two in her mid-thirties: her clothes should enhance her, not the other way round. (It's not about me inflcting what is new & trendy on my clients, or turning them into mini-mes, but making them look like a better version of themselves.)

ooofff

I want to write something intelligent & pithy today but, unfortunately, I am a running river of snot, with a head full of porridge. I will resume blogging activities tomorrow. LLG xx

Marks & Sparks

I was absolutely astonished on my trawl through the West End with Miss P last week to see that Marks & Spencers have substantially lowered their pricing. Where a pair of black lace knickers used to cost £12, with the matching bar chiming in at a painful £30, I picked up some very cute undies for a mere £5 for the knicks and £9.50 for the bra. Whilst I am the first to complain against overly cheap clothing, I have to say that I have never understood how knickers could be so very expensive for a mere sliver of fabric. Of course it doesn't help that I am a 32G (eek!) so I do need some underpinning, but still...I can only assume that with Primark lowering the price bar so successfully, that M&S have had no choice but to follow. Maybe this in some way explains M&S's less than stellar Christmas trading figures.

I also bought this dress for £39.50 after much humming & hawing. It seems so spot on trend for this SS08 season. If I was living in the UK, I wouldn't have touched it with a barge pole - I have no desire to wear such an instantly recognisable dress out & about, but I reckon in the US there's zero chance of bumping into anyone else in it.

A smart party

Well, I had to take a rain check on the drink with the boy on Tuesday night. Instead I had a three line whip for The Sunday Times Travel section's 20th birthday cocktail, so I hotfooted it to Theo Randall at the Inter-Continental on Park Lane.

An absolute pleasure to attend a party that was actually for writers & editors, rather than countless PRs, blaggers, and sycophants, as is the norm in the fashion world. The venue was a little strange though - I feel for poor Mr Randall. His eponymous restaurant is one of the most dispiriting spaces I think I've had the misfortune to hang out in. Windowless, over-lit & corporate. A shame because, if the canapés were anything to go by, the food is delicious. (And the Prosecco is even better.)

I was stumped as to what I should wear. My editor knows me well and requested no 'fashion-y wierd stuff', but as he hasn't a clue, that could just have meant no bright colours and frilly pieces. In the end I plumped for a 1950's style LBD in stretch wool with a cross over V neckline, cap sleeves, and a curving silhouette to the knee, black Wolfords and my new bronze dancing shoes. A slash of fuchsia lipstick and Veronica Lake waves. I carried my big black Janet Collin bag, as an evening bag would have felt too 'in from the burbs for a Big Night Out'. This way I felt like I was in very smart editrix day wear.