I realise it is slightly after the event to be blogging about a programme that went out on Boxing Day, but I can hold my peace no longer. Noel Streatfeild's Ballet Shoes is one of my top five favourite books, and like many fans of this classic tale, I awaited the BBC dramatisation with much excitement.

Comfortably settled on the sofa with a glass of Bailey's ("With A Hint of Creme Caramel"), things began to go wrong almost immediately, with the observation that Sylvia had been cast as a young vixen in the form of Emilia Fox. They went further downhill as Emma Watson proceeded to butcher the part of Pauline. I realise Emma Watson is a national treasure, the new Keira Knightly and the future face of Chanel, but whatever. She might have been good as Hermione Grainger, but in playing Pauline Fossil it is my humble opinion that her limitations as an actor were all too apparent.

And another thing (I always want to write these three words in a news column, but can't, for the simple reason that they are not a sentence. But on a blog, who cares?). For the life of me, and in common with all other Ballet Shoes fans, I'm sure, I do not understand why the writers had to invent new, and completely unnecessary, plotlines. It's a classic tale, for god's sake. What next: tampering with Shakespeare? God damn but those sonnets would read a lot better if they didn't rhyme. Although if Andrew Davies can tweak Jane Austen (cf the current BBC1 version of Sense & Sensibility), then I suppose poor Noel Streatfeild never stood a chance. Even so, imagine my horror when Mr Simpson, a happily married man in the book, who lodges with the Fossils at Cromwell Road with his WIFE, is redrawn not only as single but as falling in love and MARRYING Sylvia. What? Why? Was the book's ending not optimistic enough already? A travesty, I tell you.

Worst of all, though, was the implied dubious nature of Mr Simpson's relationship with Petrova. Petrova, who, in the book is an innocent young girl with a morbid fascination for cars and aeroplanes, enjoys a relationship with Mr Simpson which can only be described as fatherly. Not according to BBC1. For some reason, the young actress playing Petrova had been told she was Nabokov's Lolita, for if she batted her eyelashes, thrust her chest and smiled coyly at Simpson once, she did it a thousand times. It was enough to put me off my Bailey's, which curdled at the very thought of any flirtation between these two.

Sexed-up as the BBC version was, I'm hardly surprised that the bath scene with Emma Watson and the minx that played Petrova has ended up on youtube, alongside loads of salacious comments from what are no doubt sad and hideous middle-aged men.

Ballet Shoes is a girl's book, one of the most loved of all time. Why it was turned into a wank-fest for men I will never know. It would have sat beautifully on the Boxing Day schedule just as it was. The BBC should be ashamed of itself.

The launch party for Kate Moss's new Christmas range for Top Shop last week was a typically glamorous affair. Supermodels Elle Macpherson and Naomi Campbell rubbed shoulders with the opera singer Katherine Jenkins, the TV mogul Simon Cowell, the actor Christian Slater and, er, the page three girl Keeley Hazell. But even among all this sophistication, nobody could have failed to notice the sweet, diminuative figure of Chloe Green. Not quite seventeen and clutching a mineral water, her long hair a tumble of expensive honey and toffee-brown highlights, Chloe had an assurance far beyond her years, happily chatting to Kate and her inner circle in an animated, though not arrogant, way. But then, if your father is billionaire retailer Philip Green, such self-assurance is in the genes.

Fluent in French, and currently doing English, maths and business studies at school, you could say that Chloe is the real brains behind Top Shop, since she has her father's ear. And, unlike most of his staff, Chloe is completely unafraid of telling Green what she likes and doesn't like in the Top Shop range - not to mention Miss Selfridge, or any of the other chains he owns under the Arcadia umbrella. "Don't you think Chloe has a good eye?" he once asked a hapless journalist on a tour of Top Shop's Oxford Circus store last year. And so she has. How else could she have chosen to wear what turned out to be the best-seller from Moss's first Top Shop range to the launch party back in May? With first dibs on the whole collection, Chloe could have worn any number of outfits, but it was her pick, the one-shouldered white prom dress, that sold best.

Using Chloe as a barometer of what will sell well this Christmas might not be as foolish as it seems. Some might ask what a seventeen year old girl could possibly know about fashion: the answer is, a whole lot more than a 27, 37 or 47 year old. Trends change so quickly these days that, arguably, only the truly young can keep up, and Chloe is nothing if not a dedicated shopper - something she no doubt inherited from her mother, Lady Tina. According to Sir Philip, it is undecided whether Chloe will go to university before entering the family business: he prefers the university of life. "Chloe has to find her own platform, and be respected on her own account - not because she is the boss's daughter", he told me.

Sir Philip is good that way. You would think that a man at the helm of a multi-billion pound empire might have better things to do than talk on the phone to little moi. But no. And, save for one occasion several years ago when he called me a "f***** p****", our relationship has been fairly cordial. Actually, it used to be non-existent until my editor invited him to lunch in our glamorous sixth floor boardroom, but since that halcyon day, he has always exchanged a nod and a wink whenever I see him socially. He hasn't invited me onto his yacht yet, though.

But I digress. If Chloe is to be believed - and she probably should be - the best seller from Moss's new Christmas collection is destined to be the silver and black beaded twenties-style flapper dress that Chloe wore to Annabel's last week. Sir Philip is no doubt ordering more stock as we speak.

I am in Milan. No, it's not glamorous. It is a city with no air, which contrives to make you look as though you've had two hours sleep, even if you had the luxury of six, as I did. At 1.45am, I was woken by the couple in the room next door having vigorous sex. Quite why anyone's thoughts would turn to sex in Milan is beyond me. Still, the food is all right.

On the flight over yesterday morning, I was reading the Daily Mail (it was free) and chanced upon a small article about Jodie Kidd being dropped by M&S following the allegation, in the News of the World, that she deals cocaine to the poshos in Windsor. I suppose you don't have to be Kate Moss in life, but it helps. Poor Jodie. You can imagine, as she tucked into a bloody Mary that Sunday morning, that her reaction to the NOTW scoop was quite muted - possibly even cheerful. What harm did Kate's coke scandal do, after all, other than to increase her earning power exponentially? Jodie may have been hoping for the same result. And who can blame her?

Alas, instead of Cavalli and Versace, Jodie had plumped to work for M&S. Your M&S cannot possibly countenance a cocaine scandal alongside the cherry toms and not just cashmere but M&S cashmere woven by the hands of virgins. And so she had to go. I'm sure all is not lost, though. The Times might not be asking her to "join the debate" any time soon, but maybe Versace will come calling. If anyone should look lightly on a model tarnished by cocaine it is Donatella, no stranger to the drug herself.

Taking drugs when you're wealthy is one thing, but why you'd bother dealing drugs when you're already earning £250k a year flogging M&S credit cards, is beyond me. I thought people got into dealing drugs because they were broke. Starting to deal drugs when you're already a millionaire is really retarded, because you have far too much to lose.

I was never a fan of Jodie Kidd, and so I won't be sad to see her demise. It wasn't so much her I didn't like (never met the woman) as her (quite unjustified) high profile. Somewhere along the line, she became fixed in the general public's eyes as "Supermodel Jodie Kidd". This "supermodel" prefix would accompany her everywhere, even though she was no more super than you or I. A supermodel is someone like Linda Evangelista, who works at her career, has shot with the very best photographers and has longevity, personality and style. Modelling for Julien Macdonald and being posh doesn't quite cut it.

Yes, Jodie was tall, but she wasn't a brilliant model. I think she would probably be better at dealing cocaine.

I am in New York, the city that never sleeps. Particularly if you live in the Meatpacking district. Despite the strong and pervasive stench of rotting flesh, the Meatpacking district is still the hottest area in Manhattan, even among vegetarians. Stella McCartney opened her first New York store bang in the middle of it. I guess she holds her nose every time she visits.

If you were going to be unkind, you would say that there is something bridge and tunnel about the Meatpacking district. Just like Hoxton, it has been over-run, particularly at weekends, by out of towners, the men in black suits and the women all sleeveless black dresses, slingbacks and washerwoman arms. They come in gaggles, and they trot down the street making a real din, their voices shrill with excitement at the prospect of banging into Sarah Jessica Parker or whoever. As indeed they might. One of the best things about New York is the very real possibility of seeing a bona fide celebrity, as opposed to somebody off Big Brother. Only last night, I saw Robert de Niro at dinner. Which was nice.

Yesterday, I went to have my bi-annual manicure and pedicure. I never have these done in London, for the simple reason that it would cost about a week’s salary. At the excellent Soho Nails (West Broadway, next to the Aveda salon), it costs $23. Yes, $23 (that’s approximately £14) Let’s just pause and consider this for a moment. In London, it costs £15 ($28) for a manicure ALONE, while at the smarter salons (eg Bliss) it would cost £85 for both. If you asked a New Yorker to pay $150 for a mani and a pedi, they would laugh. And you would shortly go out of business.

Soho Nails was excellent as always, and I thoroughly recommend it if you are ever in New York with grotty nails.  The only downside was that the woman doing my pedi said “Yavacad?” to me shortly after I’d sat down, which meant nothing to me, and when I asked “pardon?” she simply repeated herself, and I was too embarrassed to say “pardon” again and so instead took a gamble and replied with a breezy “Just a basic pedicure, thanks.”

Afterwards, though, I sat in the chair and fretted. What if “yavacad” meant “are you on holiday”, or “do you come here often”? And I had replied by saying “just a basic pedicure, thanks.” That would be tantamount to rudeness, akin to saying “just shut up and do your job, bitch - I don’t want to talk to you.”

To compensate, I left a gigantic tip.

I still don’t know, and possibly never will, what “yavacad” meant.

Or, How I spent £500 Without Even Leaving my Chair

I was having a shitty day yesterday, and so I decided to do what other girls do when they are having a shitty day, and make a random purchase. Aren’t surveys always telling us that shopping causes an adrenaline rush that increases wellbeing, libido and life expectancy? (or something). Maybe that’s true if you actually go down the shops and engage in the act of buying something. But that would assume you had some spare time. I never have spare time. All I do is get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner and go to bed.
Which is why my random act of shopping had to take place on the internet. Forget Bond Street – this shopping experience took place from the glamour of my own desk. I broke my net-a-porter virginity at precisely 15.43 on Thursday August 2nd, 2007. (Note to any employers reading – the transaction took me six minutes, far less than it would to log into Facebook, and a whole lot less than the “lunch hour” that I’m supposed to take).
It was all surprisingly easy. Too easy. Dangerously easy. I saw a dress I quite liked, guessed the size I’d be, clicked “proceed to checkout”, entered my credit c- … anyway, you get the picture. There was none of the “should I really be spending this much money” that you get when you try to make a purchase in a shop. So abstract was the whole experience that I felt quite disengaged from my actions. This, I suspect, is where the danger lies.
More seductive still was the fact that the dress arrived the very next morning. Truth was, I’d stone forgotten that I’d bought it. “Who’s this b***** ringing the doorbell now,” I thought to myself as the hapless postman arrived. “It’ll be another parcel of mining books for my boyfriend.”
But no – it was for me. I’d like to say I rushed upstairs and opened the big square box, but actually I carried on with a piece I was writing about Heathrow airport. Then I had some soup. Then Jarek, the builder, arrived to give me an estimate for some work we need doing on the roof. Only after he had gone did I get busy.
It was quite gratifying that the dress arrived in a big black box. You open the box and your purchase is nestled among layers of black tissue, contrived so that the label is peeking out on top. The packaging gives you no choice but to get into the spirit of things and pull out your purchase in the manner of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman after Richard Gere had taken her on that spending spree on Rodeo Drive – ie, delightedly, as though cameras are filming your every move for a TV programme on the joys of internet shopping.
I tried on the dress – a black silk cocktail dress by Stella McCartney with a tulip-shaped skirt. Pray God that Victoria Beckham never buys it. One strap was shackled with a plastic tag that said: “This garment can only be returned if this label is intact”. Fair enough. Perhaps loads of selfish women have bought things, worn them to a party and returned them smelling of fags. It wouldn’t surprise me. The dress was the right size – not bad for a guess. Apart from the small but ever present matter of what sort of bra to wear with it, it was pretty near perfect. Damn. I’d have to keep it.
Had I tried on the dress in Selfridges, I’m almost sure I wouldn’t have parted with the £545. But to do so over the internet was easy, because of the aforementioned disassociation. Then, once the dress was in my bedroom, it felt disloyal to return it – not to mention a pain in the arse.
I think net-a-porter is marvellous. If it didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have a new dress. For girls like me with no free time beyond six minutes to “surf the net” (I hate that expression), it is a godsend. That the dress arrived so promptly and so beautifully packaged was wonderful. I will definitely be shopping with them again.
But not too often, or I’ll be bankrupt. Let me just take another look at those Chloe boots…..

Post # 6: Cheese, crisps, sushi, chipotle and their significance in 21st century Kensington

I am sorry I haven't blogged for a while. They keep flagging my "GREAT NEW BLOG" in the Standard, and it isn't very great at all, and it's certainly not very new.

So, what have I been up to? Let's see. Went to the hairdresser. Went to see the very excellent Bob Lind at the Luminaire in Kilburn. Had my mum down for a few days. Went to the new Whole Foods Market (several million times).

There has been a lot of stuff written about Whole Foods Market since it opened on June 8th, not least in the Evening Standard. Our offices are directly below it, you see (never let it be said that newspapers don't cast their nets far and wide when it comes to sniffing out stories). "Sniff" being the operative word. Turns out that being in such close proximity to London's largest selection of organic food has a downside: namely, that the cooking smells from all that freshly prepared takeaway food waft directly up and into our offices. Personally, I don't mind onions, and think it's quite funny that the Standard now smells like a Moroccan souk.

Obviously I have been into WHM every day (sometimes twice) since it opened, and am rapidly hurtling towards bankrupcy. Food always has been what I spend most of my money on, and while I am no Fay Maschler, I feel duty bound to present, in a fashion hits stylee, my Top Ten Buys from Whole Foods Market this summer. It being such a vast place, I've handily included some directions:-

1) Four cheese bread (bread counter, as you go in on the right)

2) Cream cheese brownie (as above)

3) Ribblesdale goat's cheese (cheese room, back of the ground floor)

4) Five year aged mature gouda (as above)

5) Brown rice spicy tuna inside out roll (chilled counter, left of takeaway section, ground floor)

6) Pak choi with oyster sauce (takeaway salad section)

7) Sag chicken curry (takeaway salad section)

8) Pork and apple sausages (from the fresh meat counter, handmade on the premises every day, lower ground floor)

9) Chipotle dip (same aisle as crisps, lower ground floor)

10) Tyrrel's sea salt and cider vinegar crisps (as above)

This is quite a cheese-heavy list, because cheese is my favourite thing to eat. I would be really interested in anyone else's experiences of Whole Foods Market, so if you leave comments I promise I'll reply. Do you think it's expensive? Have you even been? Would you bother going to Sloanesville (aka Kensington High Street) to check it out as a Shopping Phenomenon?

I love food, me. I can't imagine spending a day at work and not rewarding myself with loads of treats. Wednesdays - the worst day of our week - are "Cookie Day", where one of us will go to M&S and buy chocolate chip cookies all round. At the moment, my favourite breakfast is a decaf cappucino and a savoury muffin with pine nuts, parmesan and basil from Pain Quotidien. For lunch, some Tom Yum soup, a couple of pakoras and some pak choi from Whole Foods that costs the same as a Chloe handbag.

Is a blog meant to be this mundane? I dunno. I am a fairly boring person, though, so why hide it?

One thing I have noticed about Whole Foods is the high concentration of women with eating disorders who seem to shop there. I can see why. I suppose it is like porn for them.

I do worry about the wastage, though. Americans love choice but Brits are intimidated by it. I don't think our tastes - even in mega-rich Kensington - run quite so sophisticated and eclectic as John Mackey is hoping.

Whatever happens to WHM, you can rest assured I'll be monitoring the situation closely. With my stomach.

Post #5: The Staff Canteen

I was in the canteen the other morning, because I fancied some toast. “Two granary, please,” I said to the toaster operator. “Butter?” he asked, once the toast had plopped out, toasted. “Please,” I said.

Not everyone is as undemanding. I’ve stood in the queue for toast and heard the most unlikely specifications. When the toaster operator asks: “Butter?”, instead of a simple yes or no, some people say “LIGHTLY buttered,” with a sharp emphasis on the “lightly”, as though a heavy smattering of butter would ruin not only their morning but possibly their entire life. But my favourite is when the toaster operator asks: “Butter?” and the person replies “Yes, right to the edge.” Granted, a dry, unyielding crust is not the most pleasant part of a piece of toast, but really. Why put the poor toaster operator, who probably thinks all people who work on newspapers are a bunch of w***ers anyway, in such a testing position? Even in the comfort of your own kitchen, with your favourite knife, buttering your toast right to the edge takes concentration and dexterity. For a toaster operator forced into buttering hundreds – possibly thousands – of slices of toast every morning, asking him to do so is taking the piss.

Of course, some members of Associated Newspapers are such control freaks that they can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else toasting their toast. To this end, another toaster is situated on a separate worktop, with loaves of bread (white, brown and granary) that you can toast yourself, to whatever specifications you demand. Most importantly, there is also a large bowl of butter for you to spread according to whim.

If toast isn’t your thing and you fancy a muffin or a bagel, it isn’t a problem. Editions (for that is the canteen’s name) provides them all. Currently for breakfast, I favour a plain bagel, toasted, sliced in half, buttered (however the toaster operator prefers) and then one half lightly coated with Marmite, the other with crunchy peanut butter. This I set off with a cup of tea. Having worked my way through the whole of the Twinings range during my seven year tenure at the Standard, I have permanently rejected Assam in favour of Traditional English. English Breakfast is, I feel, too strong for a morning, and Earl Grey too lemony. To me, Earl Grey has always been more of an afternoon tea, as I’m sure a lot of people would agree.

Post #4: Nothing to Do With Fashion  At All

So I haven’t posted for a while. My boss wasn’t very pleased. What did he say to coax me into writing something? He didn’t threaten to fire me: oh no, far worse than that. He told me I might end up in the pages of Media Guardian. “They watch to see who keeps up with their blogs, you know.”

I already knew that journos slag off other journos for being so hubristic as to have a blog, then not bothering to update it. There is a feeling that most newspapers (Guardian excepted, which is why it can afford to be smug) came very, very late to the www, and are all now frantically trying to establish their internet presence with flashy websites and reams of content. Of course, said content is necessarily generated by existing staff, who already have full-time jobs providing content for their employers’ newspapers. In these days of brutal staff cuts, rare is the journo who ever has a spare half hour to knock off a blog or three. This is why I haven’t blogged for three weeks. I’m not lazy. I’m overworked.

I wonder if we will all regret how hard we worked, when we’re tooling around the old folk’s home in wheelchairs, clutching sore stomachs wizened by ulcers. Was it worth it? Did we enjoy the one-bedroom flat in Hackney that we sold our souls to procure? And our children: did they turn out okay under the childminder’s gaze? And our parents: when they dandled us on their knees as babies, did they expect their twilight years would be punctuated by far fewer visits than their boundless love deserved?

Working too hard makes me maudlin. So I’m going down the pub.

Post #3: Marc Jacobs Extra Quotes

Due to overwhelming reader response (well, four) here, as promised, are some extra bits from a recent Marc Jacobs interview, conducted on 16/02/07, several hours before his first London show, and several days before he admitted himself to rehab.

THE SCENE: a top floor drawing room in Claridges. A large oak table, set with a large water jug and six glasses at evenly spaced intervals. MARC JACOBS enters, dressed casually in a brown T-shirt and leather jacket, combat pants and sneakers. He orders an espresso and sparks up a Marlboro Light.

On his health
“I had this condition, osteocolitis, bothering me for years, and I treated it with hydrocortisone, and through herbs, and being careful with what I eat, but along with the diet was exercising every day, perspiring every day, cardio, yoga, meditation, sunlight, laughter – all these anti stress kinds of things. I lost 20- something pounds in 8 months. Physically, I’m more fit than ever. If I could get rid of the cigarettes I’d be really healthy."

On Top Shop
"Everybody always asks me that question [whether he has been] but I don’t really see the point of going to the Top Shop" (sic)

On Top Shop being so “inspired” by him
“Well, again I think it’s totally flattering. Robert and I have always thought that if we could do it for the price that they do, we would, but we can’t, so we don’t.”

On success
“I define success by being able to continue doing the things that I love to do. I don’t think success is a completed act. It’s not like the destination. Success isn’t a final thing. I don’t think I am successful, I am more successful than I was 20 years ago. It’s a continuous daily thing”

On his last show (a/w 07)
“I was so happy, and I very rarely say that. I mean, I was happy with the execution of that show.”

On his Marc line
“We’ve over the years established a style and it’s a wardrobe for boys and girls or men and women, its clothes that people actually use every day – in the street, in restaurants… there can be a shift in the style from season to season as there usually is,but they just seem like clothes people actually wear as opposed to a seasonal fashion statement. They’re usable, not just a special occasion thing, people really do use those clothes. Even though it is more affordable we try to maintain some integrity.”

On his favourite bag for this season
“ I loved all the patchwork bags we did – pieces of metallic kangaroo or pieced together in a of degrade crocodile, and they had a funny kind of chain. There were several different shapes,  but I just liked any of the things  that were pieced and seamed.”

On the Stam
They’re always named after someone. I don’t usually name them and I don’t know whose ultimate decision it is to name them as they do, but Jessica’s  very happy that the bag is called the Stam

On the size zero debate
“Well I’ve avoided really contributing to this conversation only because I think its so ridiculous. I think any kind of eating disorder – any kind of addiction or disorder is serious, and it’s not something that’s unique to the fashion industry. And I think when something happens, like when someone is so severely sick like some model dies of an eating disorder, and there’s this ridiculous thunderous response by the fashion industry and I think its all such hypocrisy. Eating disorders are a huge problem but it’s certainly not unique to the fashion industry. And because one or two girls suffer from it that are models, it doesn’t mean all models… some girls are naturally skinny and they’re healthy skinny. I mean I feel like I’m healthy skinny right now.”

.
On obesity and addiction
“In the states, obesity seems to be a bigger problem than under eating. How is this helpful? I think of that thing in Bowling for Columbine; that moment where they ask Marilyn Manson what he would have told the kids,  and he said ‘I would have listened to them. I wouldn’t have told them anything’. And having had some experience myself, not with eating disorders but with other things, if you don’t have a parent who is watching or opening up to their kids or allowing them to open up to them, …One can care and one can be open to listen to someone who is trying to say something, but you can’t stop people from doing what they do. So much of what I know about eating disorders is hidden, so I think the best thing to do, from my experience is to listen. Instead of a bunch of people who don’t really understand and maybe can’t really relate on a first hand basis imposing or telling people what to do, like put carrot sticks out for models if they work past eight o clock.”

On blame
“I don’t think we can blame anyone. You can blame their parents, blame their environment… you can’t argue but you can listen. Anybody with any kind of disorder, like with an alcohol problem or a drug problem, needs to talk to other people who have the same thing about overcoming it. There are so many ways to get help when one is ready, and when one is not ready, well, you just cant force anybody to do something they don’t want to do. You just cant. And blaming anyone for anything is pointless.”

Phew! That sent shivers down my back, reading that last bit again. The moral of this story, dear reader, is: you never know what’s round the corner. Or even what’s going on under your nose.

Did you enjoy that? Comments, please. Especially welcome since I typed this all out, didn't save it, lost it all and had to start again...

Post # 2: Out takes from a recent interview with Marc Jacobs

So I interviewed Marc Jacobs recently. And droned on in my copy about how fit and healthy he looked. So HOW RETARDED do I feel now, upon hearing the news that, seven days after our meeting, he admitted himself to rehab?

I like to think I have sufficiently honed powers of observation to tell when someone has a raging banana habit.

Not that Marc Jacobs has one of those. Oh no.

It's oranges, actually.

I can't type the words I actually want incase he sues for libel, obviously, but in truth I honestly don't know what particular drug - sorry, fruit - drove Marc to rehab: all I know is that he has "battled" (newspaper always say "battled") orange and banana addictions in the past, and that this is on record, ergo me repeating it isn't libellous. I am not suggesting for one moment that Marc Jacobs is a banana or orange addict. And anyway, for all I know, he has moved on to raspberries instead. Or even pears.

Even so, I do feel a little bit cheated. Like, why didn't he confide his problems to me, a perfectly trustworthy human being who just happens to work as a journalist on a newspaper? Why did he sit there and tell me that he went to the gym seven days a week and was (and I quote) "in the best physical shape that I've ever been"?

In common with all the other fashion editors who scrape a living writing about slouchy trousers, I have a total soft spot for Marc. Marc, if you're reading (yeah, right), WE ALL DO. WHY DO YOU NEED TO FIND LOVE IN ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES WHEN YOU HAVE THE REAL, GENUINE LOVE OF SEVERAL HUNDRED LOUBOUTIN-CLAD LOVELIES INSTEAD?

(I love writing in capitals but I'm not allowed to in the Standard because it is not House Style.)

Here, on my blog, I feel FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

I was going to post some out-takes from the Marc interview that there wasn't room for in the Standard, but then I thought - hang on. Why would I, when I don't know if anyone wants to read them? So you have to tell me if you want to read them before I post them. That's the beauty of blogging.

But wait. What if nobody wants to read them? Will I fall into an existential crisis about my writing and question the very nature of my career choice? I never thought of that. If nobody posts comments about your blog, does that mean you shouldn't bother writing one?

Tell me what you think.

And dearest Marc, please be aware, wherever you are (Arizona, I think, among the cacti), that thousands of fashion folks just love you, want the best for you and want you to get well soon. At least before you have to design your next collection. We want a new Stam, for chrissakes.