Wednesday, 30 September 2009


I now have a new love, Farmville, so if I have dropped you as a friend, it could be because I am very busy collecting cows and sheep, milking, shearing, choosing seeds and keeping up with the ploughing. I am amazed at my diligence - my working day starts at about six in the morning - but I seem to be making some cashy cash. I no longer watch my telephone and sms day and night, and surprisingly boyfriends have lost their appeal to this very addictive online game. I watch my pals' farms and can't believe their sophistication - but it is so annoyingly slow. And though my animals are doing well, I want a house and can't seem to afford one.

Oh come on everybody, it's fun to have this surreal, totally crazy interest in something which really means nothing. It's not intellectual and its not a fashion. It appeals to me in the way meditation does. And luckily, it is very predictable, so I can get on with my other lives, whilst the wheat grows in two days.

Anyway, dragging myself away from Farmville, I have come back to fashion. My first day in Paris was glorious. Reliving my old life on the Trocodero, I had a delicious tea at Carette, with a bun that I have been dreaming about. Carette is a tea house that is regularly used by the locals, but by few tourists. It was fun to revisit, although it has got bigger and more prosperous.

What a difference the English Channel make. Entering The Museum of Mankind, cameras flashing, it was so welcoming. I was immediately taken up to Karla Otta, who gave me great seats at Rochas, where the designer Marcos Zanini,showed mostly wearable clothes for rich ingenues and simple girls on the Riviera, I loved the floating white dresses, which inspired me to book a holiday last night in Positano. And even though it's not really the clobber I wear - as I only like black - I was taken by the short snappy clothes in soft greens, reds and whites. I hate this new passion for prints in lime greens and pinks. I always imagine them fixed on a fatso's bottom.

No, I am much more a fan of Gareth Pugh, who loves structure. And mushroom. Mushroom chiffon, mushroom faces, mushroom hair and spiky mushroom head gear: the determined look of a happy slave, set in what looks like the year after a nuclear explosion, before the dust has quite settled. You can imagine the clothes needed, and Gareth has brilliant ideas, designing shapes with unusual materials. Mushroom of course is not for me but chiffon is, and seeing it attached to trouser legs and coats left imposing, unforgettable images in my brain.. However, he is not letting us forget 2012 is on its way...

Nor is Rick Owens. He has to be the best. A Southern Californian living in Paris - how cool is that. I love his austere, funky designs for the modern woman. I would rather hang out with a man who likes Rick Owens than a man who likes clothes suitable for boarding a private aeroplane to the South of France. He has an intellectual air about him. His audience was interesting, too. Plus, he had the creme de la creme of artists from Paris. Yes, there was American Vogue - Grace Codrington, Hamish Bowles etc : funky goth types and drag queens, Carla Sozzani radiating happiness, Michael Stipe exuding cool. I liked his friends immediately. His clothes reflect a life I want to live - shaped but easy, broad shoulders, slim arms, tight minis and flapping chiffon. The girls wore beautiful make up - simple in the extreme - with stunning eyes and a slightly shaved look for the hair. Yes, it's the End of the World, but I feel happier in his version.

Meanwhile, lunch with Rushka Bergman is never dreary. She has just been given an amazing styling job for a huge pop star. (Of course she is well known as the stylist of Michael Jackson.) She sat down at the Costes Hotel, with big glasses covering her tired eyes, red lips and black straight hair. She still gorgeous in a black Balenciaga dress that I have too; from a season or two ago, it's a winner, and looks as fresh as the day she bought it. The Costes was full of fashion people. But none as chic as Rushka.

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