Forever Friends

So I  have a confession to make: on this side of the pond I am a bit of a Billy-no-mates.

I say 'bit' because I have some friends, but not many and the ones I do have are all British, which sort of feels like cheating, as if I brought them with me in my suitcase. I haven't made one American friend since I got here-unless you count the man that runs the fruit stall on 7th Avenue and gives me free bananas and a wink.

I would like to point out that I have tons of friends back home though. I want that noted in case you don't know me and you are judging me. Fine to be a Billy, but not on a international scale. 

As it is, I get to live in this amazing city with my demanding and difficult  wonderful husband and my daughter who's a pain in the arse  great companion, but I don't get to share it with many friends.

 

There has been some Yank potential, but they have all come to nothing. My American says all Americans are flaky, but I think he's either just being nice or simply judging his countrymen by his own low standards.

Most notable so far is my hairdresser, who I would like to be my number one GBF. He makes my endlessly disappointing hair look like a Loreal ad, so I loved him at first blow dry. He said he would show me around Harlem, but then he didn't ask for my mobile number to make the arrangements. He is quite shy, so I didn't want to be pushy (apparently I can be pushy? persistent I prefer) but then I found out he does Tyra Bank's hair and I became a bit frantic. I knew I would have to pay- in the form of many $100 a time haircuts- in order to foster this friendship. But that will take time, as both my hair and my wallet can only afford to see him every couple of months. Not ideal, as I am an impatient cow.

When I first arrived in New York I was so keen you could smell the desperation oozing out of my pores. I tried to pick up friends in cafes, shops, parks. I look back and I cringe. "I'm so 'ronery!" said my face "Love me! Love me! I am usually so popular!" It was like being single again, except I was way less fussy. Anyone who's knew me before I met The American will understand that means my expectations were really in the toilet.

Then I realised that you can't force something that should be organic. All my mates in the UK I have met through school, uni or work, these were friendships that grew over the months and years.  I never needed any more mates at home, because I'd been lucky enough to have plenty of them. Friendship came easy to me, fallen into my lap all my life. I love people and people have loved me right back.

But in my infinite wisdom I moved to another country and decided writing should be my full time occupation. A job where you work alone. This is the worse possible scenario for a social buzzy bee me. I am not good with solitude. 100 seconds of it is too much for me. Some days I go to Duane Reade just to be bitched out by someone and inhale the milk of human unkindness.

I blame my expectations on endless TV shows about how much fun it is to have friends in New York. And how they'll be there for you when the rain starts to come.

I especially blame (again) the show that we never dare speak it's name since it sold out and made an appalling saccharin big screen version. It was always like ''Blah, blah men uggh but girfriends are sugar sprinkles on the cupcake of loveliness la la la." Well guess what bitches? Your show was a croc. I said Ta Ta to heels (mostly) cos you can't wear them all the time in New York like you made out and I have hardly any mates, so what I am suppose to do? Drink Manhattan dry on my own? Or with my Teenager?  Let's be honest, she doesn't want to go out with her Mother and I would rather party with someone I don't have bat pervy men off all night.

So what can I do?

I could go to a million meet up groups. I could but I likely won't. I could get a proper job, except the US immigration service are using a snail they shipped in from India to process my work visa. Meeting people at the gym is not an option, I go to the YMCA, where many patrons are over 70 and wear jeans on the treadmill.

I could blame the problem on the big city, I could blame in on my age, I could blame it on boogie.

So what am I to do in this city where there is much closeness? You share tables with strangers, you squeeze next to them on trains, you cram in long lines with them. You are so close, but so far. There are a million me's as I was back home: people with enough friends, busy lives, no room for anyone else in the hearts or on their blackberries. So what am I to do?

What I am to do, I have decided- is to realise I cannot replicate 34 years of friendships in 8 months.  I am to relax and be patient. I am to know that New York friends will come. I am also to be glad my mates back home still give me their time and love through emails, phone calls and SKYPE. Hell, for now I am to be my own best friend, at least I know I'm not flaky.

Or I could just follow the advice of New Yorkers when I've asked "How do you make friends in this town?" They all say the same thing.

"Drink." 

Shitshine day

On Thursday New York basked in a freakish 70 degree March heatwave and out came the inevitable display of flesh. Stoops burst to life with lovers and smokers and The American and I strolled leisurely down to Union Square and felt the first heat of the year on our faces.

Then I saw a man trying to do a poo on the street.

I didn't spot it at first, at least I didn't catch what he was trying to do. I saw him from the other end of W16th street because he looked as if he was trying sit down on an invisible chair. Some kind of performance art I wondered? He was wobbling around a lot, so sitting on his make believe chair was quite hard.

It's not until I'm next to him that I see it's not so much a chair, than a throne the guy needs. Or a potty even. He is fiddling with his jeans zip when it hits me.

"Jesus Christ." I say under my breath to The American ''That man is trying to do a poo on the pavement."
"Gross." he says and walks on dismissively without looking back.
"Honey, look!" and I point back down the street.
"Emma, I don't want to look."
"No, you have to! Check him out, he can't even get his pants down."
"I am not looking!"
"Well I am."
"You are going to stand here and watch a man shit on the street?"
"Yes."
"You're grosser than he is"
"Just look! There's no poo yet, he hasn't even got his jeans off." 
"He probably went already in his pants."
"Oh. I feel bad for him now."
"Why are you still watching him then?
"Because... It is morbidly fascinating."
"Watch away, I'm going to get cigarettes."

He dives into the nearest deli and I stay outside to watch poo man. He is still trying to sit on his imaginary toilet. I wonder what you have to be drinking to think there's a loo right in the middle of the pavement.

I raise my head up to the sun, push my glasses back onto my head and breathe in the sun.  I hear a loud rattle and look right to see a lady coming up 5th avenue dragging a giant sack with hundreds of empty soda cans in. She stops right in front of me.

"Hey honey! I love your top!" she enthuses to me.
''Umm...Thanks"
"Where'd ya get it sweetie?"
"Oh, in the UK."
"Pretty!"

And then she clatters off down fifth with her bag of cans, each one worth a few cents rebate.

The American comes out of the deli, Malboro already in his mouth.

"A bag lady just told me she liked my top." I say.
"Cool!" he mutters, clearly not listening.
"Hello? A bag lady just complimented me on my top!"
"And that's bothered you more than that guy taking a shit on the street?"
I nod.
"You're a real New Yorker now honey."




*

For obvious reasons this blog has been somewhat difficult to pictorilise. So here is a picture of my new beloved Liberty London for Target lamp, to take your minds off poo. 

*

*

Joss Stoned

So this has nothing to do with New York or fashion or any of my usual topics-I just wanted to put it out there-Is Joss Stone just officially mental now?

It began in 2007 with that Brits appearance when the girl from postcard pretty Devon-land of clotted cream fudge-swaggered around the stage enunciating like a Ghetto pimp from the Bronx.

Fast forward a few years and it doesn't look like she found any of her marbles. Now's there's even stronger evidence that the 'soul sensation' is singing from a different hymn sheet to the rest of us.

Joss allowed her brother to direct this never released film for her Baby, Baby, Baby single which Marie Claire magazine thinks could the worst music video ever made.

Nepotism is rarely a good idea and never trust the mental sanity of anyone who doesn't wear shoes. I think those are the lessons we can take from this.

Style matters

This is it.

The last blog about New York Fashion Week-I don't want to seem like I'm clinging on desperately or anything. After all, NYFW is already so last week, all eyes are now on LFW and soon it will be MFW, then PFW and then we'll have run out of fash weeks and acronyms.  Meanwhile I'm left here thinking about the swirly whirlwind of it all and wearing my Fashion loves Haiti T-shirt like a sad twat. The party is officially over at Bryant Park- permanently. Next season it moves uptown to Columbus circle-where there will be proper toilets. No more watching ladies in Lanvin heels hobble out of the tents to use the portaloos.

So I guess I should be writing one of those summary pieces, that pulls everything together neatly and summarises the trends for Fall 2010? I should, but I don't want to get bogged down in the detailing of the what to wear-for reasons I will expand on later. If you're interested though- there was tons of high waisted peg legs pants, winter florals, classic American sportswear in the veil of loose blazer jackets and slouchy suits. There was also a (disturbing) dominance of real fur in the collections.

None more so than at J. Mendel, where even the Louboutins had a mink trim.  I was just worried for this lady in the audience, for fear her pooch might get turned into a handbag

I could focus this last fash blog on the lack of celebs, which was a big talking point. It started with Marc Jacobs banning stars from his front row and then undoubtedly the economy also played a factor. The few famous faces that did rock up were at the biggest shows- where I was not. The only spot I got really excited about was 'noted fashion photographer' Nigel Barker from America's Next Top Model front row at Carlos Miele. Am happy to report he is just as shaggable in the flesh.  So this is why I am picturing a celeb stylist like Philip Bloc to illustrate this, rather than an actual celeb.

Plenty happened during the week, including the realisation that NYFW is more than a week, it's actually 8 days. I covered the Bloggers v editors debate and terrified teen blogger Tavi's mum by bombarding her with questions when she sat next to me at a conference. I told you about all the other  kids at the tents.  I rambled on incessantly about getting a seat at a show. I networked, met some lovely people and also some right tossers. I shopped inbetween shows and experienced some super charged style serendipity, grabbing the best vintage finds of my life. I got turned away from Christian Siriano I had a superlative attack at Elisa Palomino. I got fashion flu, met some lovely female paparazzi and a Welsh intern. I failed to get snapped by any street style photographers and concluded only thin people make it onto The Satorialist.

I wrote every day and treated my blog like my own little fashion magazine. It's pretty exclusive, you're probably one of only a few hundred readers. Lucky you (this won't get me a book deal though, so please keep spreading the word). 

The most important lesson that NYFW has left me with is thus: What you wear is less important than you think. The best looks were always in the audience rather than the catwalk, confirming for me that street style leads where designers follow. I noticed the outfits I envied weren't the matchy matchy, but  more eclectic, considered, yet with that air of thrown together.  There's an anything goes attitude among true fashion lovers that's refreshingly lacking in elitism. There are a few exceptions though and they mostly centre around neon on pensioners:

How you wear it is the key as ever. And that has nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with style. Fashion week left me thinking less about this season's pants or heel and more about being creative and caring less.

So for Fall 2010 I say fuck fashion.

And embrace style for every season

Blog off

A freelance journalist at the tents in Bryant Park is telling me he's writing a piece about the influx of bloggers in fashion. When he says the words 'influx' and 'bloggers' he flinches as if he's being force fed a Big Mac.

I know what's coming: Bloggers are ruining the industry/There's always someone in the front row with a digital camera nowadays/ They're doing the 'proper journalists and photographers' out of a job. Blah Blah Blah. Blog Blog Blog.

Cut to six hours later and I am at a fashion blogging seminar in Chelsea. It's filled with lots of twentysomething girls hammering away on their laptops, tweeting on their blackberries or being horribly Luddite and exchanging actual business cards. There is some great outfit spotting, just like at the tents, except here it's more vintage than DVF.



Bryant Park bitchiness has been replaced by bloggers bonding. There's camaraderie instead of competitiveness. Of course- there is room for everyone on the internet; good, bad and mediocre.

We all await the arrival of a group of supperbloggers, including Bryan Boy and regular irritant of the traditional fashion press Tavi. She recently rubbed Grazia editors up the wrong way by not only getting a seat in front of them at the Dior couture show in Paris but blocking their view with her giant Philip Treacy hat.

I should mention that Tavi is just 13.



These nobodies turned somebodies are gods here-the equivalent of Carine Roitfeld and Anna Wintour turning up to address a bunch of 'proper journalists'.

My fashion week partner is the first to spot Tavi's arrival. She is standing unassumingly at the back of the hall with her Mum. They look similar and are wearing the same glasses, expect Mrs Gevinson looks like she shops at Walmart. They both have an air of Deirdre Barlow from Coronation Street, although Tavi with her blue rinse actually a bit more like Deirdre's mother Blanche. Or how I imagine Blanche would appear if she was styled by Patricia Field in Amsterdam on a bad acid trip.




Then, just before it all begins Tavi's Mum takes her seat-right next to my fashion week partner. We both dive straight in, confirming who she is and then questioning her furiously.

Annoyingly she doesn't say anything controversial like Tavi is really a midget granny in disguise or that she secretly shops at Walmart too and Joanna Coles is her ghost writer. She is even media savvy enough stop and ask at one point ''Is this an interview?"

It's at that stage I stop myself and remember that as a news journalist I used to interview cabinet members, police chiefs and pop stars and here I am getting excited about a possible scoop with the mother of a tweenage blogger.

In the hour Q and A with the panel Tavi turns out to be sweet and articulate and disappointingly lacking in pretension. Bryan Boy makes everyone laugh and keeps his wraparound star trek glasses on the whole time. Susie Bubble is passionate about the politics of it all (She's a Brit so I wonder if she has any Dairy Milk in her bag). Phil the Street Peeper sees himself as more of a photographer than a blogger (he is, his pics are beautiful) and Lauren Sherman from my personal favourite site fashionista.com reveals she is in fact a 'proper journalist' and use to work in news. I knew it. She wrote a great piece recently on the fact that designers actually pay celebs to be in the front row.



The biggest topic is the Editors versus the Bloggers debate and how it's a fight perpetuated by the media. I'm not quite sure which media they all mean, but I assume they mean the one that's not them. The one that is still printed on actual stinkingly un-hip paper.

As a journalist and blogger, I'm not quite sure where I stand. Or sit. Which is usually what it all boils down to in the fashion world. Right now I sit next to Tavi's mother. Earlier I sat in a row with New York Times writer Lynn Yaeger and the head buyer for Harrods. As I may have mentioned (several times, possibly becoming a bit obsessed) it's all about where you sit, not stand in fashion.

Now the bloggers are getting into the front row it's got some of the cognoscenti pissed off. Who can blame them? After decades clawing my way up the shit splattered gilded fashion ladder, I'd be pissed off too.

The bloggers claim the editors are scared. They've shaken up the hierarchy and were gauche enough not to ask permission. People that read the blogs feel they might be able to be the next Susie Bubble, but they're not so sure they could, or even want to be the next Anna Wintour.

It's all about accessibility. The industry wants to stay elite, because it sells aspiration. But technology is forcing fashion industry change; several shows at NYFW have been streamed live on the internet and London is doing the same at every show- so now we can all have a seat in the front row. And in the midst of this is the cold hard finance-Magazines are struggling while everyone reads blogs for free. Which gives the kids more money to save up for a Tavi Rope scarf.

On this issue I'm not sure exactly where I sit. Or stand. So my stand is that I would like to sit on the fence.

If I remembered to RSVP properly.

I am at a show and I know who the designer is

Security is really tight at Carolina Herrera-a show I am particularly excited about not only because I know who she is, but I can also pronounce her name (just about).

The strict ticket and bag checks gets me all excited and my journalistic senses tell me there's huge names inside awaiting the veteran Venezuelan designer.

But in the tent is more than Miss J from America's next top model and I've seen him twice already.

More exciting is the third row seat I've blagged myself into; next to legendary NY writers Lynn Yeager and Judy Licht. Unfortunately I don't know who I am sitting with until they get up and leave and I read their seat signs, but I sensed they were somebodies. They, in turn, sense I am a nobody. They also know I am not Dee Poon- the person assigned the seat. She is a chic Chinese boutique owner, so quite a hard one for me to pull off.

But thanks for being a no-show Dee-you made my day. I have a great view of the brush stroke print dress that's opened the show and makes way for a whole host of English inspired Lady of the Manor looks; Floppy wools hats, super high waisted belted wide leg pants, high necked ruffle blouses, big shoulder pads and swing wool coats in a palette of rich red, chocolate and camel. Oww, it's yummy! High end daytime glamourama. I am even more excited now as I already own a floppy wool hat.

Herrera is showing us the kind of lady who drinks Claret the colour of the collection's palette at midday and likely has a rampant painkiller addiction. She also wears metallic brocade in the day.

And here comes the fur. Oh. A lot of fur. In capes, as a trim and on it's own in vests.

When not showing us unapologetically what she can do with fox or six, Herrera gets back to her Latin roots and throws in flamenco ruffles on skirts and on bolero jackets over washed out watercolour florals for her eveningwear looks.

Back to the fur and I just realised why the strict checks. They were clearly looking for anyone from Peta with a pot of red paint. I do not have any paint, but I do have a deep need for the red trouser suit and matching hat in the collection. I'm adopting the bonkers lady of the manor look immediately.

I'll just be leaving the fur where it belongs... on the estate.

Tight fit

In fashion, being small is not just a prerequisite for the models.

Turns out you also need to be pretty skinny to fit in the chairs at the shows. On the occasions I've been lucky enough to upgrade myself from fashion pond life and actually snag a seat, I've spent the show spilling over onto the people either side of me.



I've developed a technique of hunching my shoulders inwards so that I take up less space. While doing this I watch clinically underweight models strut the runway. Occasionally a girl even thinner than her rake-like contemporaries, sticks out. Because her razor sharp collarbones do.

Shrinking women and the desire for us to comply is the ugly side of fashion. Clothes can empower and boost esteem but the demand for thin is how fashion diminishes females. Less space, less importance, less impact.

But there I am apologetically making myself smaller, partly out of propriety, but also for fear of judgement. Worry that the person next to me might see my womanly curves and deem them irritating fatness.

Bolder than me is the woman who flaunts her larger physique without apology.

By Georges...

...I think I'm having a fashion moment.

As soon as this luxe mohair and metallic slouchy sweater opens the Georges Chakra show I am feeling something. It's the polar opposite of the apathy that's accompanied some of the other show starts I've witnessed. It's a definate excitement, it's the instant hit of grown-up glamour, but it's more than that...it's more like... desire.

Now it feels like I'm playing with the grown-ups. Watching a designer who knows women, not girls, want clothes that flatter. I'm looking at pieces that stand out for their luxury, that would make a room sit up and take notice. I'm taking notice, because I want that sweater in my life.

Maybe my novice sensibilities need finer tuning, but from there on in I'm impressed. I see myself in the back to front tuxedos that become a running theme of the collection. I can imagine certain dresses working perfectly on the red carpet. I can see the high street ripping of some the edgier silk pieces with ruffle detailing.


Chakra is a night owl. His collection is almost entirely eveningwear and the fabrics run the gamut from silk to chiffon via lurex, crepe, lace and satin. Like a wise bird he knows how to cut and fit to create something that feels new yet seems classic.



While I may not have a lifestyle that demands a ton of gowns, a girl can dream. And in mine I'm receiving an Oscar for the critically lauded script I wrote. And I am in this red dress.


And I'd like to thank Georges Chakra.

No room at the in-crowd

So Welsh Alien is locked out of her first Fashion Show. Welsh Alien is now referring to herself under this moniker and in the third person.

This is because Welsh Alien is being extra fashion today, wearing an asymmetric dress, wedge lace up ankle boots, an ironic necklace, a fash pack oversized scarf and cherry red lipstick. Maybe Welsh Alien needs to fash it up even more like this lady in order to get in?


Her effort today did not prevent Welsh Alien getting denied admission to Christian Siriano due to what we will refer to as 'Lazy RSVPing'

In Welsh Alien's defence, organization is not her strong point and the whole rigmarole of getting a ticket to a fashion show is multi layered (to use a fashion acronym). It involves you applying to attend to a show and then if they say yes, you an invite, but then you still have to RSVP-even though you said you wanted to come in the first place.

So Welsh Alien sits forlorn in the reception area of the tent drinking her limited edition fashion week Diet Coke watching the former winner of Project Runway's clothes whizz by on the small screen.



Welsh Alien's cherry red lips are pouting.

Can I offer your giraffe a biscuit?

Toni Maticevski.

No, I've never heard of him either, but from the line outside The Altman building on W18th, you'd think he was the next coming of Christ.

When I finally get inside I am shoved a ticket with 'ST' on which I assume is industry abbreviation for 'standing'. I trudge over to another line and accept my fate as bottom of the fashion feeding chain. At the shows, who you are depends not just on where you sit, but if you get seated at all. Those given a standing position are pet food.



But 20 minutes later I hear the golden words from a PR- "Grab a spare seat if you can" I forget my Britishness and scramble frantically over a line of tightly packed fash people to claim my place in the second row. If there was room I would do the running man in celebration.

The show begins. A freakishly thin giraffe necked girl stalks down the runway in a full chiffon dress. Kinda grey. Then another giraffe in more grey. Not understated good grey, just dull, not invited to the party grey. I am fascinated by a model who is doing a kind of Monty Python walk in her 8 inch heels. The skinniness is breathtaking.

More heart stopping is what follows. Somehow the clothes have mutated into a incomprehensible mess. Stretch transparent Lycra with unfathomable sequin embellishment. Knickers on show at the back, more chiffon in a dollar store floral with a bunched up grandad jacket.




It's like boudoir met punk in a pub and had a one night stand...in 1986. At one point a Madonna-esque sequin bra floats by in a haze of my disbelief. It all screams cheap, market stall tat. Is anyone else thinking the same?





Right on cue the man next to be lets out a gigantic yawn.

''Oh god!" he laughs "Am I that obvious?"
I smile and put my hand over my mouth to address him "What do you think of this?"
"Do you know the designer? he whispers
"Fuck no!" I say
"It's a mess!" he tells me "It's like a student show. A bad one."
"Oh my god! I think the same! It's like a customising project gone wrong."
"It's a horrible miss match and only two of the models can even walk properly."

I smile at my partner in bitchy crime and then when the horror show ends we chat and introduce and shake hands.

I have made my first fashion friend.

Snowmageddon

If frenzied local TV news reports are to be believed New York is on the verge of becoming a real life version of 'The Road'.

"It's a big time storm people!" NY1 has been screaming for the last 24 hours.

If Ny1 had pants it would be wetting them right now. This week they've had a City councilman charged with fraud (Larry Seabrook claimed $170 for a bagel), the last fashion week at Bryant Park and snowmageddon-all in one week. There is even the possibility of these stories colliding-should the accused decide to turn up at the tents and become trapped by a giant snowdrift while trying to get a receipt for $120 for a can of coke.



The fervor was fed by mayor Bloomberg who called a press conference yesterday about the snow, which he kicked off by declaring the closure of all NY public schools on Wednesday. After that annoucement from the NY Department of Knee Jerk Reactions came this advice from The Mayoral Ministry of Stating the Frickin' Obvious:

"Wear hats, scarves and gloves"

Bloomberg then looked serious before decreeing:

"Don't shovel snow if you're not in great shape, we don't want anyone having a heart attack"



This all smacks of British weather panic and brings back memories for me of sitting at news desks writing headlines like "Batten down the hatches", even though I was always pretty sure no one had hatches and I remain unconvinced 'batten' is a word. I expected better of hardened New Yorkers.



Meanwhile on the lovingly low budget NY1 there's some more advice for the advice frenzy machine. Just to make sure you get the message they are running them over some cheap snowflake graphics:

'Find your snow Shovel'
'Plan your parking'
'Be ready for airport woes'

Telling New Yorkers how to deal with snow is a little like telling Brits how to deal with rain.


As I write this evening Bloomberg is doing another press conference live on NY1. He's telling us all how well he's dealt with the snow and how justified he was in closing schools.

Just in case anyone should think he's making a icy mountain out of a snowy molehill he's chucking in a serious news angle. New York blood banks have lost 1500 donations today so Bloomberg is urging us all to go and donate.

Then for viewers bothered by the serious tone, there's some light relief from the Mayor-Fear not fans of musical theatre! The likes of Jersey Boys and Wicked won't let 10 inches stop them! Oh no!

"All Broadway performances will go on as planned."




The show must go on. Thanks Mike.

That's more like the New York I know and love.

Slobbing in is the new going out...

New York is an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Problem is, when faced with a smorgasboard of choice, if you try and eat everything it just makes you really sick-best to have a little nibble now and again.

So last week I didn't leave my apartment for three days. Not as tragic as it sounds, although I was wearing sweatpants for most of the time. This was a real treat for The American, who no doubt wanted to jump my bones every time he caught site of the grey marl fabric caressing my unexercised backside.

There are many thing I should be doing in New York. I should be going to musuems and exploring Harlem and jogging around Central Park. I should be finding the perfect cupcake and getting to know Brooklyn. I should be, but very often I am not.

Asides from the sub zero temperatures I have another justified reason for my hermitation and that is "Getting serious about my freelancing" because now I am now "Freelancing full time". This is a phrase I will repeat over and over until It becomes actual reality. I do this in accordance with the advice in 'Six Figure Freelancing'-a book written by a former lawyer who approaches her writing with the organisational skills of a Whitehouse press secretary.

The thing with New York is that as well as facilitating a great social life that means you need never need be home, it also facilitates you never leaving home. I mostly blame delivery.com where you can order everything from Thai curry to a pack of toilet rolls.
Why walk to the corner shop in minus 2 degrees when you can get a man to deliver you a pint of milk and a loaf of bread right to your door? Or as delivery.com puts it 'Why cook when you can click?'. Even though I love to cook, it's a sentiment I find hard to disagree with.
On delivery.com you can even get bars of Dairy Milk delivered. They should use that as their advertising slogan.




In any case my corner shop's not much cop. It's a Yoga health food supermarket that sells Acai berry smoothies and tortillas made of sprouts. The receipts say "Om Shanti" at the bottom in place of "Thanks for your custom". It may as well not be there for all the good it serves on weeks like this when I'm hormonal and would step over human flesh to get at chocolate. They don't even have anything with sugar in there. The closest is Agave Nectar, which is something to do with a cactus.



But it's not as if staying in means I have to become an unhealthy slob. This is what I tell myself on day one of not leaving the apartment as I order a new diet book from Barnes and Noble online while inhaling a Hersheys Cookies and Cream bar. The only flavour that doesn't taste of vomit.

I then go on Fresh Direct to order food required by the new diet book and begrudgingly some other stuff for The Teenager and American to eat. I work full time now, they should shop for their own dinner.

Next I open the box to the Davina workout DVD that Paul sent me for Christmas. And they I shut it again. And open. And shut...

On Wednesday while procrastinating some pitching emails I buy myself a vintage coat from Etsy. It's for Fashion week, so technically purchasing it is 'work'. It will serve the function of keeping me warm on days when sweatpants won't be part of my ensemble. Days I look forward to with mixed emotion.

That night I realise that I don't even need to go to the video store as I can order films from the tele or from the 'Roku', which is one of 657 unfathomable technical gadgets that The American has bought into the apartment-the result of which is a kind of electrical version of Day of the Triffids.

On Thursday The Teenager sends me an I.M. from her bedroom next door and when I get up from the sofa I realise my arse has gone numb



In the summer I will take myself to parks. In the spring probably even coffee shops?

On Friday I am forced to leave the house to go to Connecticut to work with my NYFW partner. That's short for New York Fashion Week. Did you like that acronym? It's amazing how quickly you can become a wanker when fashion is involved. Anyway, I get out of the house super early (well, before 8a.m.) and I am like a newborn blinking into the daylight.

I skip around to 8th avenue and hail a cab to Grand Central station in 3 seconds flat. When I get there I come in through one of the second floor entrances I am greeted with the sunshine streaming celestially through the floor to ceiling window ahead. I stop. It makes my breath shorter. New York buzzes it's business around me. It's how I imagine heaven would look, well a busy heaven anyway.

I breathe it in and it tastes all the sweeter after my enforced starvation.

Now eat me New York.

How to get a free drink in New York

Last night I watched four strangers get naked...at Bingo.

You don't get that at Gala back home in Wales. I'm sure the most torrid thing that happens there is some Tena lady leakage. Although Mum says there are occasional fights over blobber pens.

The Teenager and I and some Brit friends sit agog at the back of a Lower East Side bar as these audience members proceed to do a fan dance with some paper plates. It is 8.30 p.m. on a Monday night.

The quartet in question had earlier introduced themselves as an opera singer, a political consultant, an erotic party organiser and a go-go dancer. So you might not be hugely surprised at the last two, who no doubt spend their nights watching arse humping away. However I can't imagine there's that much cock on show at Madam Butterfly and I would guess the Republicans like to keep the tits to a minimum. *Insert your own George Bush joke here*

What is most surprising about this impromptu flesh show though is that all of them are doing it for just two drinks each. I have previously blogged about the fact that two drinks is enough to get you hammered in New York, especially vodka Martinis, which seem to be pure Absolut, with an olive for the hell of it. But isn't the point that you would have to be smashed before you got naked? I wouldn't take my clothes off for all the booze behind the bar. In fact, I would probably only just about consider it for the deeds to the bar.

You might ask what do you expect at Drag queen bingo? Well I expected some good clean family fun like I had at Lips in my West Village hood. There I enjoyed fisting jokes and a fake orgasm competition in the company of my mother and daughter. But real life nakedness? I remind myself I'm on the East side now. There are no trees, Armani gays or overpriced cupcake bakeries but there are young 20something hipsters, lots of entertaining crackheads and really good drug dealers (allegedly).

It's edgy. Yeah. I can do edgy. I watch the odd indie film and have fake ray bans.

Later that night I am in queue for the toilet wading through a piss leak on the floor and reading the obscene graffiti on the walls. Next to me is a loud girl in American Apparel lurex telling her friend about a film that's "...really, really really old". Turns out it's from 1989.

Taxi back to the West Village.