STELLA INSANITY...

I know I’m a bit slow off the mark about the whole Stella at H&M thing. BUT most of the other blogs I read who mentioned it were not actually there at 10 am on the 10th of November. Noooo. They were in Kansas or Saskatchewan or somewhere thousands of miles away from an H&M looking at thumbnail pics of it on the internet and wishing, wishing…

I wasn’t there at 10 am either, I got there at 5 minutes past thinking ‘what does it matter, this is Bluewater, who the hell in Dartford/Essex has even heard of her? Ha, I am so sneaky! No one else will come here. It will be just like last year when I had the entire Karl Lagerfeld collection to browse at my leisure (Karl’s effort was un peu disappointing actually. That is a diplomatic way of saying it was boring and crap and probably took him about 3 minutes to design.)

I live in London but I thought I was SO CLEVER going all the way to Bluewater where usually you find all the sold out in London pieces languishing. So anyhoo, I strolled in to the sight of empty rails, a few size 18 bikinis left dangling, women with a mad gleam in their eye pouncing on others cast offs from the changing room. Most disturbingly I spied dodgy looking men, either husbands sent by their wives or professional ebayers stockpiling anything they could get their hands on. One man had 5 huge bags of clothes already and was grabbing anything else he could.

I almost walked out thinking I do not need more clothes that much. But then I realised if I took something, anything to the changing room I would be in just the right place to peruse the rail of clothes people had tried and not bought. Hysteria is contagious. So I stood in line for about 25 minutes with all the other Stellaholics – there was a strange kind of camaraderie, most un-British displays of strangers chatting about the collection, choosing to share changing rooms to save time, and one girl on a mobile phone relayed reports of how Oxford Street was ‘carnage’, people had camped overnight, 3 lorries had apparently been unloaded and the clothes sold before getting to the rails.

Finally I got to try on the three items I had managed to snatch in my size. A black silk tulip shaped skirt with a tuxedo waistband – great fabric and finish – sold! A bikini in my very favourite teal blue colour – sold! A pale pink satin wrapover dress was quite lovely and I was impressed that it was real silk satin but alas, it really did look like a bathrobe. Now of course the same dress is selling on ebay at 3 times the original price. See, I am just not business minded.

I must explain that on my birthday this year I wore what I thought (and still do think) was a beautiful silk satin grey dress with kimono sleeves by Danish designer Naja Lauf. A friend of a friend asked me in all seriousness if I was wearing a dressing gown and was I going to take it off to reveal my outfit? One was not amused and the experience has scarred one tremendously. It’s not easy being fashion forward sometimes you know.

I kept seeing people with some kind of knitted top which came in blue or pink with big long satin ties at the waist and cuffs. I knew this would be mine but I didn’t know how. I knew if I didn’t get it I’d have to go on a mission like the Vanessa Bruno dress mission, like the Gap skinny jeans mission, the Clinique black honey almost lipstick mission and then I would get obsessive and crazy and search every where until It. Was. Mine. But there were none left. There was none of nothing in fact.

Considering every other red blooded woman in Hennes that morning was exhibiting symptoms not seen since the gold rush fever of 1800 and something I didn’t feel the slightest bit of hesitation about lurking at the entrance of the changing rooms for ten minutes until a lady came out with said top. When I squawked ‘ooh that’s the top I want!’ she handed it to me and I was off. Off to the 45 minute queue to pay. After all the excitement and hysteria of the previous half hour fatigue had set in and the troops were restless. One woman said she’d gone into a trance like state. The man whose wife had already bought the whole bleedin’ collection 50 times over and who had positioned him in the till queue with the bags while she ran off to get more goodies began to get on my nerves.

I started to think about Krispy Kreme doughnuts whilst counting the inordinate number of Chloe Paddington and Mulberry tassel bags in the queue. I’m sure the sight of that will never be seen again in Bluewater. Unless of course H&M can cut a deal with Marc Jacobs, Nicolas Ghesquiere or Stella’s old mate Pheebs.

I MISS THE OLD DAYS WHEN SHOPS SOLD THINGS...

Just pondering - why is it that you can’t just walk into a shop and buy something anymore? Is it to do with the Chinese trade embargo thingy or is it just that I’m not as quick off the mark as I used to be? I can get my head around having to pre order something from Marni or Balenciaga for example, but in the last 2 weeks I have had Gap grey skinny cords tracked down and fedexed to me from customer services, and failed in my search for the elusive re-issue of Clinique’s Black Honey almost lipstick that I’ve been wearing for years. Every pair of jeans I have liked has only been in stock in either size 0 or size 16. All I want to do is purchase something from a high street emporium and how weird is it to go into Topshop and be told ‘sorry, sold out, they just flew off the shelves’. Aren’t they supposed to have a merchandise distribution type person who checks what’s selling and then a whole load of fresh new ones arrive the next day? I KNOW they have a person whose job it is to check these things.
My head hurts from thinking about clothes too much.

MOVE FASTER OR GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY...

I have been having a problem liking London for some time. Well ok, about nine years.
Ever since I spent a blissful year living in Italy I have been suffering from ‘the grass is greener syndrome’. In short I have not really stopped bitching about the weather, the coffee, the cost of things, the food, the ugliness, the public transport system, the socialising (ie alcoholism), the men etc etc etc.
And every time I leave and return, it only adds fuel to the fire. I come home and compare London unfavourably to Rome or San Francisco or Paris or Copenhagen or anywhere really.

So, having had a conversation with my cousin recently where she was telling me about this psychology research guy who works on the basis that we filter everything to fit our preconceived notions, I decided to change my reality. Yes, I would go out on a quite sunny not too cold November morning and see the good in London. I would only allow myself to see the positive, to experience things that were pleasant and inspiring.

I headed off to my favourite coffee place, Monmouth Coffee in Borough market, where you can get a decent coffee and sit in nice industrial/rustic chic surroundings. On the way and needing something to read I forced myself to bypass Heat, Closer, New, Now and all the other gossip mags with headlines screaming of the ‘shocking weight loss’ of some C list celeb. Filling my brain with trash would not help. Well ok I had a peek. Old habits die hard. But I bought Time Out. I was going to scan those listings and find - so I thought, free poetry readings, art exhibitions, INSPIRATION!

The article I opened Time Out on was entitled ‘Is it just us, or is London rubbish?’ There followed four pages of fine print detailing all the things that pissed the writers off about the city. I found it quite restrained really, keeping to broad subjects such as the tube, areas of London they didn’t like, and annoying ‘meeeja’ types. I wonder how much they had to edit out.

So it seems I am not the only one who gets fed up to the back teeth with London.
I veer from strong feelings of absurd patriotism when confronted with disrespect towards the city, to really feeling quite down that the town where I was born and grew up in seems to have degenerated to the point where I don’t recognise it as the same place. Leaving seems like giving up. But the sheer energy and force of will required to simply get from A to B on a daily basis is enough to wear you out.

Time Out didn’t really mention the decision by our mayor to get rid of both red routemaster buses and black cabs despite opposition from literally everyone, thus eradicating two of the best known and loved emblems of our city. Would Paris stop illuminating the Eiffel Tower to save on lightbulbs? I don’t think so, and you can bet if they tried it, the people would demonstrate, being French.

Anyhoo I could rant all day long but today was supposed to be positive. So below in no particular order is my completely biased list of
GOOD THINGS ABOUT LONDON.
Tate Modern
The spotty Damien Hirst boat that speeds between the two Tate Museums
All the parks and green spaces
Borough Market
Monmouth Coffee Company
Selfridges
R.D Franks magazine shop
Tower Bridge
The few of us Londoners actually still here are generally quite civil.
Waterloo International (I’m aware that I’m listing something as good because it’s a way of leaving the country. I still think it’s good.)
Waterstone’s in Piccadilly
Red Routemaster buses
Black Taxi’s even if they are extortionate
Free firework displays on bonfire night
Homeless Big Issue vendors who smile and say ‘have a nice day’ even when you don’t buy one.

I just can’t think of anything else.

Somebody once said when you’re tired of London you’re tired of life.
I’d like a nice lie down in a hammock by the Seine please. I’m tired.

Ricky Gervais also once said, when asked what advice he’d give to tourists when visiting London; ‘Either move faster or get out of my fucking way.’

SHOE PROZAC...

One good thing about the clocks going back today was that I got to Greenwich market early. I was only intending to buy some cheese but my little magpie eye spotted a pair of vintage Salvatore Ferragamo black satin evening shoes in exactly the style made famous by Marilyn Monroe. They were cheap as chips, my size and would have been already snapped up by some other beady eyed chick if I'd arrived an hour later.

I am feeling they are somewhat Lanvinesque.
Happy happy joy joy.

NOTHING SAYS WELCOME HOME LIKE...

1: An eighteen quid cab fare for the 15 minute journey from Waterloo, taking in the scenic delights of Elephant & Castle and the Old Kent Road.

2: Gnarly driving rain and gale force winds.

3: A good bout of CHRONIC FOOD POISONING from the local curry house.

MAGNIFICENT DARLINGS!...

We may just need to invent a new word for what Didier Ludot does. To say that he has a vintage shop does not even begin to prepare you for the amazing collection of mint condition Chanel, Hermes, Gucci, Givenchy and every other heavyweight designer you can think of that greets you as you enter his shop. I was also greeted by an enormous funny looking yet adorable bulldog that I later found out is called Kelly. Talking of Kelly, I gawped in disbelief as my mind tried to comprehend that what I was looking at was an entire rail of at least 50 pristine black patent crocodile leather Hermes Kelly bags.

We've become so used to shops that define themselves as 'vintage' but really don't have stock that different to a branch of Oxfam, except the price. Didier Ludot is in another league.

Until this Saturday the shop windows in the arcades of the Jardin du Palais Royal are home to L'Esprit Dior, an exhibition of Didier Ludot's personal collection of Dior. Each little antique shop, gallery space, even a hairdressers has quirkily imaginative displays of Dior, from it's beginnings and the new look silhouette - which I'm rather partial to, through Yves Saint Laurent to John Galliano.

The only word I can use to describe this hommage is magnificent. I don't think I've ever used that word to seriously describe something before. (Only ever in the piss taking context of 'would you look at that guy's toupee, don't you think it's truly magnificent?') A walk round the arcades, (which is a pleasant enough thing to do on any day) is like a history of fashion degree in one sitting. I went round three times and still each time I noticed something new.

There was a pair of turquoise Roger Vivier for Dior shoes, stiletto heel, pointed toe covered completely in what I think were peacock feathers, including the heel. These were displayed in the window of an antique store, in a glass box on a yellow cushion - everything about the display contrasted and juxtaposed perfectly.

I think one of the reasons I loved it so much was that here is one guy who obviously loves what he does, opening up his own private collection in an original interesting way. It felt so different to seeing that kind of thing in a museum exhibit.

All I can say is if you happen to be in Paris anytime between now and Saturday just GO!!!

I know what you're thinking, I've gone all fashiony and 'oh but darling it's magnificent!' I kiss Kaiser Karl's hand, I salute Yves Saint Laurent and his le smokings, I take my hat off to Didier. It's true. But that is because what I have been seeing is the result of originality, hard work, talent, striving for perfection and taking something to the limit of how good it can be.

And that's why I loved fashion in the first place. And I've fallen for it all over again.

The thing I keep thinking here is that whatever people choose to do, they really push it to the limit. They don't just bake a loaf of bread, they become the best at making the best bread, and become artisan bakers. They actually have a guild called something like 'The Federation of French Artisan Bakers League of Bread and Flour'. I kind of made that title up a bit but you get the general idea.

In 3 days I will be cruelly snatched away from this rarefied and refined atmosphere and dragged by Eurostar back to London. I am not sure how I will cope with this. I already find myself planning a strategy to get home from the station with the least possible exposure to ugliness and burger outlets.

Didier Ludot, 20 -24 Galerie Monpensier, 75001 Paris
www.didierludot.com

STROLLING IN MY SPARE TIME...

When I'm trying to pick up a language there are certain words that people use again and again that I don't yet know and eventually have to look up. On a trip to Forte dei Marmi one Easter with some Florentine aristocrats those words were meraviglioso (marvellous) and spaventoso (I can't remember exactly but it means frightful or horrendous, something like that.)

Here in Paris the words I kept seeing and hearing were flanerie and loisir. Flanerie apparently means strolling, and loisir means spare time. If you could ever capture the essence of a city in two words...

ABSOLUTELY COCO ABOUT IT...

I found myself in the Rue Cambon this afternoon and decided to see if I could feel the spirit of Gabrielle Chanel lingering somehow. I entered the enormous Chanel store which stretches along half the street feeling like my boots were too cheap. I don't know why I get this feeling in Paris as I used to actually work in equally intimidating designer shops in both London and Milan. Yes I used to be a snooty shop assistant in snooty snooty posh stores. But I wasn't really snooty I was very nice to people. Including shabbily dressed tourists.

So there were at least 100 members of perfectly 'Chaneled' staff, all wafting around, going in and out of doors that lead who knows where - to the inner sanctum? And each and every one of them says 'Bonjour!' And I reply 'Bonjour!' After about the 25th time I start giggling a bit and try to concentrate on the clothes.

When I was studying fashion the tutors always made this reference to the fact that the actual cost price of a Chanel jacket that sells for a couple of thousand is £45. How they knew this I have no idea. I have wandered round Chanel boutiques before, bought the odd pair of sunglasses but today there was something about the atmosphere, the way the clothes were displayed that made me examine them more closely.

A beautiful loosely woven slub silk tweedy jacket, almost ready to fall apart if you're not careful with it, had an layer of chiffon just peeking out under the hem. And when I turned up the hem it had a metal chain sewn all the way around it to make the jacket hang perfectly. I have only ever seen that before on vintage clothes in museums.

Karl, I kiss your fingerless leather begloved hand.

CAT FREAK...

Today I was walking along on the Quai de la Megisserie and decided, perhaps unwisely to enter a pet shop. It was full of little fluffy kittens, and this persian kitten was all squished up against the glass. He/she looked so funny and not unlike this:http://www.bonsaikitten.com.

I couldn't help but laugh and then spent about the next half an hour talking to and playing with these funny little creatures through the gaps even thought there were 'do not touch the animals' signs everywhere. The man at the cash desk kept rolling his eyes but I did not care. At first I thought I should not have come in here, as it just made me miss Lola all the more. But then I wiped away the tear that was rolling down my cheek and reminded myself that I will see her again in only 5 days.

I wish I had taken a photo of the squished persian but I probably would have got kicked out. The owner was not amused at all by my being there so long.There were siamese and these funny Norwegian forest cats too. Oh, my heart melted.

There were dogs too but they were boring.

I know I sound like such a saddo cat freak but I honestly don't care.

SANS SANG S'IL VOUS PLAIT...

I spent most of this evening wrestling with a purple sinewy mass of steak entrecote. It was my own fault. I asked for it medium when as everyone knows in France that means dripping with blood, flash fried for a minute on each side.

All I could think of when attacking it was the skill required for serial killers to cut up their victims.
Having neither the sharpened canines or sufficiently sharpened steak knife to make much of a dent in it I conceded defeat and happily demolished the huge slab of gratin dauphinois that came with it.

When I was waiting to be seated, the waiter emerged from the kitchen with a huge blob of chocolate on the edge of his mouth. He showed me to my table. He kept licking the other side. So I said, 'Vous avez chocolat' in my best pidgeon French and pointed to the spot. From then on we had some kind of bond. He repaid me for saving him from further embarrassment by re filling my glass of wine at least 3 times, then only charging me for one.

WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE MONTY PYTHON...

Today in the Rue de Bretagne:
A red stuffed toy parrot lies on the pavement outside a cafe. The waitress kicks it to the kerb.
A patron asks, 'Il est mort?'
'Oui, il est mort,' she replies with a sigh.

SEQUINNED HEADPHONES vs. FROMAGE...

Today I went to the Marche aux Puces de Vanves. I spent about three hours there, rummaging and haggling. I realIy fell for a blue enamel sign that said 'Atelier' but the price was 80 euros. I ended up buying one thing that cost one euro. And it wasn't even for me. The problem is I kind of like things when they're all clean and merchandised. If I had seen half the things I dismissed as random crap in the flea market displayed in a nice space and arranged artfully I probably would have desperately needed to own them.

Ding! I just understood the entire concept of antique and vintage stores.

Who wants to rummage at a stinky old market stall when you can pay exhorbitant prices for a bit of old tat in the Rue de Poitou from a shop that has no discernable name? What is this thing in Paris of not clearly showing the name of a place? Maybe the next step will be to remove all the merchandise from display so you have to know exactly what you want and go into the empty space and ask for it.
Je voudrais some sequinned headphones and a stuffed antelope.

I do love the Marais and particularly the area just into the 3rd that I'm talking about but I worry how it will be in 2 or 3 years. I really hope it doesn't succumb to the same fate as Brick Lane and Shoreditch.

A breath of fresh air and a welcome respite from the hype in the same area today was the Marche des Enfants Rouges on the corner of Rue Charlot and Rue de Bretagne. Organic veg, sushi, Moroccan, Italian, flowers, cheese and a friendly atmosphere.

Observations about Paris:

People look you up and down. After 3 days of feeling inferior and hating Parisians I realised that's just what they do. They're looking at your shoes, checking you out. It's not done maliciously.

Even when it's really crowded no one does that thing of not knowing which way to pass you and going, 'Oh, er oops, sorry'. I don't know if this says anything about the French but somehow they always know which way to pass.

If you say 'bonjour' when entering a shop and 'au revoir' when you leave, or at least make an effort to speak in French then people will be really nice to you. I learned this the hard way.

On a Sunday in the Marais you may observe thousands of sparkling Converse boots being herded down Rue Vielle du Temple and Rue des Francs Bourgeois by their owners.
They are not battered and beloved like mine, they look brand new and EVERYONE wears them.

Fashion week is considered an important event by the city as a whole. Perhaps because of this you feel you are actually there to appreciate the clothes. It's somehow more friendly and dare I say it, fun.

Boulangeries make you fat. French girls are freakishly thin. I haven't quite worked this one out yet as right now my jeans are straining to contain all the baguettes I've eaten.

French girls are taught how to knot a nonchalant chignon as soon as they have enough hair to work with.

When the sky is blue and I walk accross the Seine, my head spins with just how beautiful it all is. Total cheesiness alert:

I feel as if I can't quite take in any more beauty or perfection. AND I have been writing poetry. A whole notebook full so far.

Go on, take the piss.

Everyone I have met here is a writer, poet, artist or creative type.

French boys are cute and sexy. They actually speak to you in bars and when they say 'enchante' I forget it really just means 'pleased to meet you' and kid myself that they are really enchanted.

Every non French person I have met who lives in Paris has a variation on the story that they came for a holiday and stayed for 1, 10, 20 years.

The wine I always drink from Nicolas in London which costs £4.95 (very reasonable) costs 2 euros 90 here. 'What a bargain' I thought.
Then I saw tramps drinking it in the Place des Vosges. Admittedly they were upmarket tramps, being there in MY neighbourhood, but still..
Perhaps zey are shipping it over to us to snigger at ow stupid we are to love ze tramp plonk.

I love Paris but I miss Lola. Her passport is almost finalised. Soon she will be able to travel. She is fully vaccinnated against 'La Rage'.

C'est tout.

THIS WEEK IN LONDON WE ARE MOSTLY WEARING...

Suddenly it is autumn and suddenly everyone is wearing skinny drainpipe jeans, ballet pumps, waistcoats, tweed city shorts and cropped A line jackets. This is the uniform that Kate Moss has been wearing for ages, and thus we must all now wear it because she is the fashion oracle. I don’t think she intended to share the ‘rolled up tenner in the nostril’ look though.

A few weeks ago I looked at my beloved bootcut James jeans that I’ve been wearing almost daily since January, and they just seemed all wrong, hideously outdated in fact. So I dragged my arse and saddlebag thighs (literally) into autumn/winter. And you know what, I look ok. I’ll spare you a photograph.

I am still obsessed with the Vanesa Bruno dress. It apparently does not exist in London (were the buyers blind?) so I will try my luck when I get to Paris. The Vanessa Bruno store does not put things on hold. They do not have time to speak on the phone, they are very busy and can only tell you that they do have the dress you want but you cannot reserve it unless you pay for it over the phone even though you don’t know what size you are. And you cannot put two sizes on hold, oh no no. Non.
I am now also obsessed with finding the perfect knee high flat, round toed riding boot.

I am SO shallow. I like being shallow. I am a mindless consumer robot as the man who preaches with the megaphone at Oxford Circus would say. This is absolutely true as today I was so consumed by window shopping that I forgot to go to my yoga class.

I wonder what people will mostly be wearing in Paris? Small pooches? Facial expressions of disdain when confronted by my scruffy Englishness? Or should that be my English scruffiness? I’ll be sure to let you all know. All three of you.

I used to live in Florence and got used to the looks of pity I received when dashing to my class with non blow dried hair and no make up. I will try to make an effort in Paris. I may even iron a few things and look in the mirror before going out. But I draw the line at matching accessories, bouffant hair or jauntily tied Hermes scarves.

BONJOUR PARIS...

It is all TOO exciting. I am actually going to spend October in Paris, home of a fashion week that, unlike London actually has shows by designers I CARE about. I don't mind jostling with security, being seated in a row where I have to strain to see the bottom left half of a model’s back or waiting 2 hours for the show to begin. Because it will be worth it! Hurrah for Isabel Marant, Vanessa Bruno, Chloe, Sonia Rykiel, Balenciaga and Lanvin. I CAN’T WAIT!

So many croissants, a whole month to eat ‘em all.

I am currently obsessed with a particular Vanessa Bruno shirt/coat dress. It is just the kind of thing Audrey Hepburn might have worn in How to Steal a Million. You know when you see something and know immediately that this is the piece you’ll wear all the time, strangers will compliment you when you wear it. It will be indispensable and will make your winter wardrobe perfect. Somehow, it will make your life perfect. I saw it in Copenhagen at a shop called Moshi Moshi which I really like and is just next to the Amokka café in Osterbro. I also bought a lovely satin polka dot belt by Baum und Pferdgarten there. ( My other top tip from Copenhagen designer wise is Stella Nova.)

They only had the Vanessa Bruno dress in a large size, the Danes being such slaves to fashion (and also thin from all that interminable cycling) they had obviously pounced on this baby as soon as it hit the rails. ‘Oh, I’ll get it in London’ I thought casually to myself. And now the mission begins. Every stockist of Vanessa Bruno has my phone number, all the details and very specific instructions to CALL ME and put it ON HOLD if they get it. I even phoned the store in Paris and of course spoke in English, my Franglais being quite frankly embarrassing. The assistant rather endearingly asked me to hold while she asked her ‘headmaster’ if they had it.
It will be mine.

NOT FLAKY. OR FLUFFY...

I just discovered another cat blog. Oh no, this is bad, it was all cute and fluffy and 'look how clever my cat is, she rolled over and scratched'. Let me get this straight: although I do of course talk to Lola and take numerous photos of her considerable beauty, we are not, I repeat NOT flaky cat lover people. Lola is cooler and has a more interesting personality than most people I know. She is a great judge of character, will use claws and teeth if necessary, and she does almost pornographic 'floorshows', a still of which (left) illustrates. She is a quirky, groovy kinda cat. And I do go out sometimes actually so maybe, just maybe I'll write a bit about non cat related events.

IT'S ALL ABOUT ME...

This is Lola.
I am not Lola.
Ain't she pretty though?
She knows it, she works it for the camera.
Don't worry, this is not a blog all about fluffy little kittens, but you'll be seeing a lot more of her in various poses because I am a sad cat freak.