Bridesmaid duties

I've been asked what I'm going to wear as a bridesmaid, and the answer is, no idea, never done it before. I've been an official non-bridesmaid twice, & I've put in some serious non-bridesmaid hours at other weddings over the years: taking the official photographs, reading in church, flower arranging, even baking a wedding cake, but I've skipped the dress-wearing part up until now.

For M's wedding in the Vienne, L & I did a major road trip from London across France with the wedding dress and spent a week doing helping get everything ready at her father's wonderful farmhouse in the August sunshine.I think I got the better side of the bargain: I got to read a beautiful poem during Mass, and L wore the fuchsia satin strapless fishtail dress. (She looked fabulous but so not my thing, and I'm four inches taller than both M & L.)

I went to my first American wedding when I was 19 and visiting friends in St Louis, MO. I was gobsmacked at how different it was. Ten grown-up bridesmaids wearing black (a definite no at home) & matching groomsmen was so different from an English wedding.

I saw that truly abysmal Katherine Heigl flick '27 Dresses' the other day. The scenario of being in 27 different weddings just wldn't happen in the UK where a) traditionally you can only be a bridesmaid if you are unmarried, (although a married friend can act as matron of honour), & b) it's pretty normal to have just one or two grown up bridesmaids, if any, with the rest little ones in sweet ballet frocks or shorts & shirts.

The wedding party is actually quite small. There is a best man, but the rest of the groom's mates are called ushers. They seat people in church & hand out the orders of service, generally helping out, but that's it. They will usually wear button holes but it's considered pretty naff for them to all wear the same outfits as the groom and best man.

BA is something very important at a major American fashion house, and says she wants her wedding to be small & sophisticated. Her fiancé is French but American educated so I guess the wedding will be a mélange of different traditions. I trust her implicitly to choose something beautiful for each of us. (She's already decided we won't be matchy-matchy, thank goodness, as all three of us bridesmaids look completely different in hair, figures, height.) I can guarantee that none of us will be wearing lemon yellow frills, but I'm certainly going to continue torturing her with ghastly wedding dress suggestions.

Photo: Outbuildings at M's father's farmhouse in the Vienne, France

Wedding bliss

I'm simultaneously over the moon and rather depressed. BA, my partner in crime over here, has just become engaged to be married to the man she loves. And she's asked her three best friends in New York to be her bridesmaids, me along with F & J, at the wedding in the south of France later this year.

But it will inevitably mean she moves back to London at some point. The nature of New York - no one seems to be from here - means that one has to get used to a rather high turnover of friends. M & L have already returned to the UK & I do miss them enormously but hopefully my other wonderful friends are staying put for the time being. I certainly don't think there's much likelihood of me returning to live in London for some years. Although paradoxically, as the negotiations for my new job continue & it's looking like a runner, it means I am likely to be in Europe more as I will be covering the collections.

And I am amusing myself by sending BA pictures of wedding dresses. I can't think why she didn't like this one:

Celia Birtwell launches iconic fashion prints for the home

Her designs for Topshop whisk off the shelves on arrival but now there’s a much lovelier way to show your love for Celia Birtwell’s beautiful fashion textiles: she’s hand-picked four of her most popular fashion textile designs, Candy Flower, Mystic Daisy, Pop Check and Posh Dot, for a brand new linen furnishing collection entitled “Pop Story”, printed on oyster and natural linens.www.celiabirtwell.com

Hiroshi Fujiwara for Converse at Dover Street Market

The only shoes I wear apart from boots and heels are Converse. They just work. So I'm pretty excited by the news that the godfather of Harajuku culture, Hiroshi Fujiwara, has teamed up with Converse to produce these extremely limited edition and very fabulous sneakers, exclusively available in the UK at Dover Street Market from Saturday 5th April. They look like boy's shoes to me, but I don't care, I'm in love.

Lucy Yeoman's to head BFC Press Committee

So, in a not altogether surprising move, the British Fashion Council have announced that Lucy Yeomans, editor of Harper's Bazaar has been appointed chairman of the BFC press committee, replacing Alex Shulman of British Vogue. So I guess that means it'll be Lorraine Candy of British Elle next and so on until in ten years time it'll be headed up by the editor of Cosmpolitan.

The press committee comprises leading fashion directors, fashion editors and creative directors from British broadsheet newspapers and leading fashion magazines. who offer collective advice to the BFC on the organisation of London Fashion Week, lend expertise to advisory panels for the selection of designers to show at LFW and in the exhibition. The press committee also plays a key role in proposing and voting for the long and short list of nominees for the annual British Fashion Awards.

Sunday in the park with Philly

Yuca Bar on Avenue A on the border of the East Village & Alphabet City does the best huevos rancheros I have ever eaten. It’s a posher version than is usual round my way, where the plate is typically an unedifying slump of beans, rice, eggs, tortilla and salsa which tastes delicious but looks like a car crash.

Yuca’s version starts with an exceptional chargrilled refried bean quesadilla topped with two crispy fried eggs, then with salsa, guacamole, sour cream and grated queso fresco, with a light bean purée spiked with lime and coriander (cilantro) in a puddle around the plate. It’s a harmonious whole, satisfying and not too heavy.

I often eat there alone, with my huge pile of Sunday papers for company, but I like it also because it’s the first place that JD & I went for brunch when we first arrived in Manhattan last year to start our NYC adventure. I’m still here and very grateful for that, so brunching there today, almost exactly a year on, was a kind of toast to me and to JD.

After brunch I took myself across the road into Tompkins Square Park in the bright glorious sunshine. Spring has certainly sprung here, although there’s a pretty strong nip under the heat of the sun. After buying some Northern Spy apples (an indigenous American apple) from the Farmer's Market, I watched the dachshunds shooting around like sausage shaped missiles in the Park dog run (& wept a little tear for the babydog, at home in London with my sister), called my father in England who made me hoot with laughter*, (scaring the squirrels foraging in the bins), and then found a bench in the sun and spent a couple of hours with the papers.

I looked up at one point to see a fifty-something guy rollerblading past. But that wasn’t what I noticed: it was the small furry animal curled up in the crook of his arm. I caught his eye and asked him if it was a chinchilla, so he whizzed over – and handed it to me, where it nestled in my arms, whiskers quivering, wide eyes staring at me, with its long tail wrapped around my forearm. Bliss.

And then the piece de resistance: he reaches inside his leather bomber jacket and brings out another small cute furry thing, this time a baby chinchilla, just a few months old, and the size of his hand. I am in paroxysms of furry joy by this point, and there is quite a crowd surrounding me and my new friends. After I while I give Philly the chilly back and watch as he burrows back into the safety of the jacket, and he & his dad scoot off through the park together.

To quote Cindy Adams, only in New York, guys, only in New York.*(He had bought a how to speak Spanish in a day book at Heathrow and, whilst in Madrid on business, & attempting to buy some turron for my mama, was a bit insulted that the confectioner’s assistant replied to his Spanish in English. On returning home he asked my fluent sister how she had known he wasn’t fluent when he thought he had done so well. Apparently he had said in his best Spanish:” I love you. And may I buy some turron?”)

Debauchery at The Box

I spend my evenings in ways diverse in this city, but watching bare breasted women singing Superstition & shaking their booties hasn’t, until, now, been one of the usual ones.

The evening started in a calm, grown up fashion, as I drank a glass of Burgundy, did my hair (nearly asphyxiating myself with hairspray) & picked out a microscopically short black tunic dress with dull black pailettes, which I paired with Wolford satin opaques and my burgundy patent Mary Janes.

I cabbed it to the West Village to pick up glamorous CA (perched on her new Prada floral wedges) and head to a private view at Plane Space on Charles. It was rammed, with some rather attractive men throwing us some extremely gratifying glances, but they were serving beer in plastic cups from a keg, an economy I understand when your event has attracted maybe 200 people, & we were aiming for a slightly more sophisticated vibe so we hopped it to a party at the Alex Beard Gallery in Soho thrown by a friend of a friend in London.

I found E & introduced myself, (she’s English & charming, which is always a relief when you have to report back) and then milled around, eating delicious canapés (white bean, & artichoke bruschettas and tiny Vietnamese summer rolls).

We decided to end the evening, or so I thought, at Employees Only, a fabulous speakeasy style bar in the West Village drinking Champagne, and blackberry and lemon vodka cocktails (I like to suck down some vitamins with my alcohol). After walking CA home to Perry, I was going to jump in a cab home when S rang me with the lure of a table at The Box. Irresistible.

It’s a tiny jewel box of a club, which always reminds of 19th century vaudeveile theatres & saloon bars, all velvet, flock wallpapers, mirrors & chandeliers. Pocket sized, with a stage, several big curved banquette booths down the side, and maybe five huge velvet sofas in the middle of the room, it's always rammed with beautiful people (& people who think they are beautiful). Upstairs is a pretty curved gallery with six velvet-curtained booths (we were in one of them), and another bar with more sofas. There’s also another recessed salon with a pole for private performances.

It’s extremely exclusive (although there are a few too many louche Eurotrash kicking around for my taste) & fiendishly expensive – a table upstairs costs at least $1500 and I reckon a night out can top at least $3000, although there are a few standing people let in each night. (But, given the ferocious door, I don't recommend trying). Fortunately the irrepressible S is a banker, with clients in tow, so it was all on them.

The USP is the twice nightly revue, which is where the bare breasts came in. Nudity, circus performers, singers, tap dancers, skits: they don't discriminate. Last night’s was a second rate mixed bag (altho the aerialists were exceptional) but highly amusing all the same, and fitted in with the general atmosphere of controlled debauchery throughout the club (there’s a topless girl gyrating in a ring above the bar).

I had lots of amusement. It definitely involved Champagne, strawberries, a bottle of tequila, dancing and talking to funny boys.

And now I need to feed my hangover. (I arrived home somewhere around 4.30am, although the club was still going strong). I am off to eat huevos rancheros with the papers at my favourite Nuevo Latino restaurant on Avenue A.

The future of brands

If any of you are interested in the business end of fashion, then this thought-provoking piece by Lauren Goldstein Crowe in The FT is a must-read.

The French take London

The British & French papers are full of the state visit to England by the diminutive (5'5") French President Sarkozy and his tall (5'9") wife of seven weeks, Carla Bruni.

The model/pop star's Christian Dior by John Galliano wardrobe has been analysed with the same breathless excitement formerly reserved for Diana, Princess of Wales, so I'm contenting myself with the happy couple's shoes. Says it all really.

Breasts vs the fashion industry

I have a good figure, but it’s not normal for the industry in which I have chosen to work. I am a woman and I love my not particularly generous curves. I am 5’6”, weigh 10,5 (145lbs), have great legs and wear a UK12 (US8) on a good day. I also have very, very large breasts (I’m not exaggerating –they’re a 32 Double G) and they are pretty damn fine: high, round and just how they should be. The poster model for big breasts. Until I clothe them. Or maybe that should read attempt to clothe them.

I dress for my figure, not for my taste. I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, wear the clothes I would choose if I could fit my breasts into them. I can’t wear, in no particular order: shirts, polo or turtle necks, tight T shirts, any light coloured tops, crew necks, batwing or dolman sleeves, strapless numbers, bikinis, halter necks, vest tops, waistcoats (vests), suit jackets, trench coats, sleeveless, braces (suspenders) shoestring straps, busy prints, corsets, tight or high waists, anything tucked in, anything cropped, sequinned embellished or with writing on it, striped tops, maxi dresses, elasticated tops, dungarees (overalls), pinafores (jumpers), bias cut, wrap or slip dresses, unboned bras, anything with seaming on the bodice or 99% of most designer collections.

I do have friends with large chests who can wear some of the above, but I was blessed with high breasts that practically start under my collarbone. This means I look like a German barmaid, brimming with good cheer in the most demure of outfits. I have nothing against a bit of cleavage but I prefer men to talk to my face not my chest. And you try being taken seriously if your chest resembles two puppies wriggling in a sack. Most of all I wish someone would produce tops I could wear. I really only ever wear sweaters or done up cardigans as nothing, and I mean nothing, else fits.

On the other hand shopping is paradoxically easy for me. I know, if I am lucky, that there may be one, possible two pieces in an entire store that might work on me. I am not faced with a cornucopia of choice or complicated fiscal decisions. There just isn’t anything out there on which I can spend my money,

Most of all, I wish fashion designers & editors would stop trying to pretend that the female figure is mutable. Lucinda Chambers (fashion director of British Vague) deserves to be pilloried for telling big breasted women to buy an M&S minimiser bra this season if they want to be fashionable. What is she going to suggest next? Foot binding because small feet are suddenly fashionable?

It is a fucking stupid pose to tell women that their particular figure is fashionable one season, only to recant the next. Male designers should accept that women come in sizes other than clones of homo-erotic boys. And editors should stop colluding with them.

I’m not arguing that high fashion editorials shouldn’t exist: they are there to inspire, to provide escapism, but in the real world we need fashion for everyday, fashion we can actually wear. I am fed up with being unable to dress myself.

Dating Option Number two

So Dating Option no 2. I left you with me getting tipsy at the Versace party. Only problem was that at 8pm I was due to meet D02. He had suggested PDT, but it's one of my locals, so plumped for Midtown as he worked there and I wld be at Barney’s.

His pick was the bar at Quality Meats. Controversial choice of venue to take a vegetarian (it's listed on my dating profile). For all he knew I cld have been a militant vegan - had he bothered to check. Turns out it's below his office. Nice of you to make a real effort there mate.

Still, I'm always interested to see inside restaurants, and this one is designed by AvroKo, New York's restaurant design mavens. Cool.

I called from Barney’s as arranged, giving myself five minutes to get to the bar. I didn't cover myself in glory by turning up a good ten minutes later: I was wearing four inch black patent heels, and a tight black leather pencil skirt so I wasn't moving fast, plus I took a few minutes to sit on a bench in the square outside The Plaza, surrounded by the lit up skyscrapers to have an, ‘Oh my God, I’m in New York’ moment. Yup. I was definitely quite tipsy. Late & tipsy. My bad.

First impressions: Propped against a pillar, suit, open shirt, nursing a straight shot of whisky, he actually looked like his photo, which is always a good start.

The date wasn’t exactly bad (like this one), & he was reasonably interesting but there no spark whatsoever. However, I’d sum it up as a long series of textbook how not to impress a girl moments. But then maybe he wasn’t trying to.

Took him five minutes to offer me a drink. I asked for water. He called me a cheap date. He spent the next ten minutes eyeballing my body. Must have scanned every inch, with particular, loving attention paid to my breasts.

My feet were killing me, so I suggested we sit. He ineffectually gazed around, so eventually I went off to find us a banquette. When he called the waitress over to order another a drink, he didn’t ask or offer me anything. I had to call her back.

We talked easily, but he was a bit shouty so I found it difficult to concentrate and my attention was wandering. I was suddenly sober, starving, & wondering when it would be polite to leave. As I was thinking greedily of a burrito on the way home, he suddenly said he was extremely hungry, & suggested supper. I had thought maybe he was uninterested/wanted to go home too, (the stunningly ineffectual behaviour), but obviously not. So, I think what the hell, might as well have some food here as anywhere. He calls for menus at the low bar table where we are sitting and, after staring at the carte he says, so expensive, but hey. And I’m thinking: you know the venue well, love. It can’t be a surprise to you.

Surprisingly, the menu is great for vegetarians. I mull over corn crème brûlé, cheese gnocchi and cipollini onions. He orders a $40 hunk of filet and I go for the mushroom pot pie from the $10 New Classics list, with a side of very good sautéed spinach. The mushroom filling is delicious, heavily enriched with cream, but the puff pastry lid is obviously pre-made and just attached for warming through. He hasn’t bothered to order any sides so eats half my food too.

When the check comes, I do the intention reach – the one where I lean for my handbag but don’t really expect him to take me up on it, (he chose a very expensive restaurant to meet in, suggested we eat there, and his share of the check was at least four times my own) when he comes up with a real winning statement, “Of course I’ll get this: unless you have an expense account too?”

Needless to say, there will be no second date.

Finally: the Versace at Barney's party

There are many things which and many people who are considered to be quintessential parts of the New York experience. I’ve done pretty well at ticking off a lot of them in the past year, but some have eluded me – until last week. I firmly place Woody Allen on the list, so his under-stated entrance at the Versace party last week made the evening for me.

I’m no starf**ker,(you just can’t be in my job), but he is so synonymous with Manhattan that I was completely over-excited to see him, standing rather awkwardly as the tweedy filling in a photo sandwich between the resolutely un-fashion Soon–Yi and Donatella.

However, to my eternal shame I have to report that B and I were even more excited to see Leighton Meester (aka Blair) from Gossip Girl working it in blue Versace over by the Champagne bar. I know thirty-somethings shouldn’t be into Gossip Girl, but we are, so suck it. She’s incredibly pretty, looks relatively normal and is as tiny as all screen stars are in real life.

Donatella, on the other hand, whilst tiny, looks relatively abnormal in the flesh. She is such a construct, that I can’t begin to imagine what she must look like sans bleach, tan and maquillage. There is absolutely no sense of what her real self actually looks like. I do have to give her props tho for being able to walk in the highest pair of stripper heels I’ve ever seen in action outside of a lapdancing bar.

Fashion PR parties such as this one (to mark the launch of Versace menswear at Barney’s) are odd affairs. Firstly you have to disabuse yourself of the idea that they are parties. What they are are photo ops for all concerned. Very few people are there to kick back and have fun. (The worst ever was the Kate Moss for ToSho launch also at Barney’s).

I normally loathe them (my thoughts here - scroll down to fashion parties), but this one was actually rather enjoyable. Lots of eye candy (all those sexy gay boys), rivers of fizz, delicious canapés (altho I do wish Barney’s wld ring the changes as they serve the exact same caviar/truffle fest at every party), and great music from an extremely hot female DJ. It wasn’t over-crowded (except in the area by the lifts where the snappers where practically orgasming over Woody, a fur-clad Patti LaBelle and Busta Rhymes) and we (well, I) proceeded to get tipsy on three glasses of Laurent-Perrier. Oops.

Party pics are over at Style.com

Handbag nightmares

Let this be a warning to be vigilant: I had my handbag stolen from a cinema in Leicester Square whilst watching The Painted Veil last year. Granted I was curled up in a ball, sobbing my heart out by the end, but the last thing I expected was that some sticky fingered cretin would hook my huge Anya Hindmarch handbag out from under my seat during the film.

Spending the next two hours in the nick, hanging around for an officer to report the crime, I started making a list of what had gone. I nearly had heart failure at the total. I do not buy a lot of designer accessories and fashion editors on magazines, contrary to popular belief, aren't especially well paid, but the replacement value of all the Christmas presents, press gifts & freebies soon mounted up. And, as you may have noted from the picture of my bag here, I sure carry around a lot of stuff.

Once I added up the replacement cost of the bag itself, my Smythson Fashion Diary, a pair of Prada sunspecs & pair of Oliver People's Vanadis, & the Prada wallet which was my leaving present from a job, I was already thanking God for household insurance. In addition I lost my precious digital camera, prescription spectacles & my gold family signet ring, which I had been carrying in my make-up bag prior to getting it re-sized. And then I added up the replacement value of all the cosmetics in my make-up bag. Eek.

It took me months to get all the receipts together, and find the authentication cards for the Prada pieces, in between pinging across the Atlantic like an elastic band. Still, the insurance company have been great and, whilst they are directly replacing the camera & my ring, they've sent me a cheque for the rest. It's mighty tempting to blow the lot on high living or even my tax bill, but I do feel I should replace my nice things, rather than just buying cheap shit.

I did think about calling the PRs for replacement sunglasses, but it feels super cheeky, so I'm buying the replacements. For the rest, some stuff is difficult to get hold of in America, but eBay is proving most helpful.

My new Vanadis (pictured above) arrived this morning via DHL, and I have my Mason & Pearson hairbrush arriving soon. Very excited to have all my accoutrements again: aomehow I feel more together when I have all my accessories in a row. They may not all be expensive or designer but everything I choose is the best thing for the job, and I take great pleasure in that.

Lookbook

I styled an AW08 look book the week before last for a new young ethical designer whose work I really rate. All her pieces are fair trade, and the fabrics are all organic. Better still, the designs stand on their own merits, regardless of their worthiness.

She had chosen to use the factory in the Garment District where her samples are made up, and shoot the model in situ, as though she was a designer working there herself.

Her creative vision is so strong, and so spot-on, that I was less a stylist and more a sounding board. It's perfect when you just get each other, and we really do work brilliantly together, with a total respect for each other's opinions. This meant I had time to scoot about the factory floor, which has to be one of the most fascinating places in which I've hung out in Manhattan. R, the charming & super helpful owner has worked with anyone who's anyone in the young American designer world, and there were bolts of fabric and trim stashed away on shelves with labels with boldface designer names scribbled on them, sketches and cuttings pinned to the walls, and half made up garments lying on benches.

It was a fantastic insight into the side of the industry we journalists rarely get to see, and I have a whole lot more respect for young designers now that I appreciate just how much back room work goes into a small capsule collection like F's.

MORE Hot Cross buns!

Scenario: Good Friday and I am pootling around the apartment, alternately mulling over copy & swearing at the mystery bike thieves. The door buzzer rings, and Mr Fedex hands me a really heavy big box.

Inside are sixteen Marks & Spencer Hot Cross buns. Squishy, curranty, spicy, sugar glazed and wholly delicious. They've had a serious journey: from London to San Francisco in the case of one of my oldest fashion friends, and then back to New York via Fedex

When I put out my plea for Hot Cross buns on-line, I was just looking for info. I certainly didn't expect anyone to actually send me any. Lovely Susie at Style Bubble suggested she send some, but I thought Customs might take a dim view. Tales From The Runway went one step further by actually bringing them with her on her holidays.

I ate four on Friday: one immediately, stuffed in my mouth like a chimp at a tea party, one cold with an inch of butter sandwiched between, and two toasted, split & buttered (but I didn't eat anything else - my diet rule, if I eat bad things, I can't have any other food!) The rest are in the freezer, and I am rationing them.

Evil bike nabbing bastards

It takes a lot to stop me in my tracks, but this did it. BASTARDS. Evil bike thieves had tried to use the weight of the bike as leverage to bust the D lock. Props to K Mart for my $12.99 lock which didn't snap. However, not only did they leave my bike hanging off a signpost, they jammed the lock, in addition to bending the wheel out of shape, and screwing up the gearing.

Fortunately John from Great Used Bikes was on his weekly mission into the city with a van full of bikes on Sunday, so stopped by St Mark's and literally melted the lock off the signpost with a flame torch thing. Most impressive. Sadly my wheel is beyond repair, so he's done a bodge job for me to ride around on this week, and is bringing me a new wheel next Sunday. Now that's what I call good customer service. I am thrilled: not least because I don't have to rely on the charlatans at the bike shop around the corner who charged me $5 to put air in my tyres last month.

Posh actually looking ike a normal chic person

Is it just me or does she look (relatively) normal, pretty and together in this picture? And how much better does she look when she's not trussed up in body-con outfits?

I've never really got the Posh phenomenon, but any editor would be a fool to underestimate her effect on the general (British) public. Every time I've done a radio 'phone in for the BBC as a studio guest, the callers have, to a man & woman, thought that she was the epitome of aspirational style. She's one of the very few celebs to have this polarising effect: where the fashion world continually derides her, but the real world thinks she can do no wrong, style-wise.

Nanette Lepore shoe

For a fashion editor, I am remarakably restrained about my shopping splurges. I buy a lot of High Street (carefully seeking out the pieces that could be designer), & vintage and wear a lot of my mother's pieces from the Sixties. I rely on sample sales, discount cards and gifts from designers too. Full retail price for designer stuff is not a concept with which I (or any other editor) am enormously familiar. But, once in a while, the blood rushes to my head and I see something I REALLY, REALLY want. Like these Nanette Lepore shoes.

I am a half size, & have incredibly narrow feet & heels, so I generally wear Mary Janes or shoes with ankle straps so that my shoes actually stay on. It's also the secret to wearing very high heels as you get more stability. I heart these babies as they will lok fab with opaques for the next month, and then work brilliantly with all my summer dresses. (I think it's difficult to find a high heeled shoe that doesn't look tarty with flippy summer clothes.)

$360 from Shopbop.

Personal style

I was hooting with laughter when I read a lovely review of my blog on Coffeecrazed's microsite on Stumble Upon. It included the line: "You can just tell from the picture that she's one of those impossibly well-manicured, well turned-out blondes with smooth hair. *sigh* ".

I do feel I have to disabuse her: Blonde straight hair (by genes not bottle,) okay - true, but the rest unfortunately not. Sure, I scrub up fine, & I cannot deny that I have a pretty amazing wardrobe, but the scrubbing up & donning of the amazing wardrobe is a very conscious exercise which only happens when I have an event or meeting, as I work from home. I also f**king hate having to blow dry my hair or get my paws painted. My thoughts on the subject here.

This is probably a good place to point out that 85% of fashion editors have no personal taste and often look truly horrific. (The English often favour the 'my wardrobe exploded this morning & I'm just wearing whatever landed on me approach', and the Americans adore wearing a mishmash of expensive labels with no thought whatsoever to creating a personal look.) The other 15% look bloody brilliant, & I envy them wholeheartedly.

There is no greater truism than the one which reads 'Fashion editors can only style other people, not themselves.' And I include myself SQUARELY in this camp.

ADDENDUM: Anouk asked in the comments why, then, do the85% not style each other? My answer: Because a lot of 'fashionable' people in the industry would rather wear the latest trends or cult label to signify how on it they are, rather than consider if said trend or look actually suits them. LLG xx

Easter worship

I don’t get homesick for my life in England: I’d pretty much reached the end of my tether there, but I do miss the comforts of familiar rituals. When I called home this morning everyone was in the middle of a huge Easter lunch at my parents’ country farmhouse, and I could hear the laughing & joking as chairs scraped across the flagstones, Champagne corks popped and the whippets, Jack Russell & dachshund leapt around looking for snacks.

We always go to church at Easter, walking up the hill to the tiny village church with sheep grazing in the graveyard and my mother’s glorious vases of lilies in the chancel and in the choir. My faith is an undecided thing, but I take great comfort in the familiarity of the liturgy, and enjoy feeling part of a community, even if I only go twice a year now.

Moving country necessarily involves building new rituals. I looked up churches on the net, and fixed on St Thomas’s at 53rd & Fifth Avenue, as it’s reputed to have the best choral music in America. It’s Episcopalian, part of the Anglican Community, and joined with the Church of England, so the liturgy is the same.

I’ve never worshipped in an urban church, and certainly not in a society one, before and it was an extraordinary experience. Fifth Avenue was closed for the Easter bonnet parade, with onlookers watching as we queued to get in, so popular was the service, and I was seated by the skin of my teeth in the chantry.

I was all dressed up in a black fitted coat, black fur wrap and heels but looked positively restrained compared to the elderly women in cartwheel hats & full length furs, and the ushers in full morning suits, with floral buttonholes. There was a sprinkling of denim clad tourists in pac-a-macs, several immaculate, Prada-clad African American families from infants to grandparents, and a lot of preppy couples in the congregation.

To move from the commercial bustle of Midtown to the calm of a grey stone, cantilevered interior, with carved altarpiece, tall Paschal candles burning through out the nave & chantry and lilies everywhere was like changing centuries. The choir had a full orchestral accompaniment and sang Taverner, and then various motets during communion which set me off crying again.

In fact I had started crying the moment I sat in my pew. I cried throughout the service. I thought of my grandparent's funerals in quiet country churches, of daily chapel services at my boarding school, of constructing a Garden of Gethsemene at primary school, of country house Easter weekends at the R-B's and of point-to-point racing in the mud on Easter Saturdays, of reading the lesson and taking the collection plate around when I was a child, of my sister & parents & I sitting like ducks in a row in our family pew at church, of all the things I’ve left behind in England.