Thursday, 17 September 2009

TO DYE FOR


I am clearly on the B-list, as I only had five events to attend last night - so it was no trouble to take my friend to all of them. But boys, dye your hair black! Don't look grey, and like him, you'll get in everywhere. People think he's some groovy old rock star, but it's just Tim Willis. Which is okay by me, as he is the only person who can keep up with me. Actually, I have to say thank you to him, as he helped me move house - carrying 155 boxes of shoes down six flights of stairs and sorting out the massive collection of books that belonged to my late grandfather. Without Tim, these volumes would have ended up in the Sussex House School Fair and I wouldn't have known the exciting adventures my grandfather had. There were 150 on murder and 255 on the railways, plus an amazing collection about some people called Boswell and Johnson, who Tim says are very interesting, but mean nothing to me.

Anyway, back to the social whirl, Herve Leger was a five-minute affair, due to the bright lighting. (I am horrified by the illumination in shops, I really don't want to be seen.) Some dolly bird called Mischa was giving the party, in a gold clingy number, and good luck to her. In any case, I had to dash to meet Max Wigram for a show about paper, I think, or was it about video? (Again, the lights were too bright. Have I got to see everybody's pores and wrinkles?) Max was looking good, and success is written all over him, I think. Then off to my favoured galleriste David Gill, where the highlights included a sofa by Fredikson Stallard depicting the Pyrenees - its dramatic uneven surface being perfect for party lounging - and some fabulous jewellery by Luigi Scialanga, friend of the designer Giambattista Valle, glamourous as ever in his signature pearls.

Next, Top Shop. Wow! Sir Phillip Green actually said hello. His clothes are incredible, and incredibly good value. I especially loved the platforms by Christopher Kane, and can only recommend that you get down there, girls, and steer clear of Sloane Street. Finally, to the Blue bar, in Charlotte Street, to drink young blood. Naturally, we were nodded straight in, while the juveniles queued round the block. But then, it's all in the hair.

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