Murder, death, Kiehls

The American comes home earlier this week and tells me he spent an entire subway ride staring at a girl's arse. Before I clip him over the head, he explains it's not because it was peachy and desirable, but because she was wearing the wrong style of jeans for her figure.

My husband is now a raging metrosexual and it's all my fault.

When we met back in 2006 he used Axe underarm deodorant, the American equivalent of Lynx-(under International Law chav body sprays require single syllable names with an 'x' in them). He wore nylon sportswear, some days head to toe, until I pointed out this wasn't the most suitable fabric for someone of such manly build living in the heat of L.A. So I got him some linen shirts. He had never used moisturiser, or eye cream, so I got him some of those too.  I was just in time, there were fine lines appearing.

Three years later and he's dropped 40 pounds, insists on using the entire Kiehls Facial Fuel range and won't step out without 'product' in his hair. He has rejected all but natural fabrics and he even plans his wardrobes ahead of time.

"What are these?" I enquire picking up a pink trainer from a pile of new purchases.
"They're my new spring sneakers honnneeee"
"You don't need trainers."
"No, I do, cos they are spring sneakers."
"What is wrong with your winter ones, or the summer ones you have in storage?"
"I needed some in lighter colours to take me into Spring!"

Need. The man says 'need'.  The fashion obsessive's classic get out of jail card. I didn't want it. I needed it. The pupil learns fast.  And the talk of seasons,  not just summer and winter, but Spring and Autumn too. This is how far down the rabbit hole we've gone.

Living in the West Village has likely aided his transformation from hairy Alpha male to groomed gay. Saturdays on Greenwich Avenue are like an Armani catwalk. If I owned any, I could polish my silverware in the glow from the local men's skin.

When I complain that he has taken things too far he says "You made me honneee." like he's some kind of reverse Frankenstein creation who has manlicures.

I guess none of this matters, as long as he doesn't start looking better than me?

But then the passport photos happen:

I am in a scruffy camera shop on W14th street staring open mouthed at the third attempt at my portrait. That cannot be me. The camera must be on a setting that makes everyone look like a 250 pound moustached convict who's just had a stroke.

The American looks good. Like, really good. Great even. If I was to be mean, I'd say at worst he looked like an applicant for the new series of Jersey Shore, but I would still say he was chanelling Mike 'The Situation' which is the one all the girls all fancy. At best though, and to give him dues, he looks...really good looking... kind of... smoldering even... like an actor.

"Honnneee, look at me! Look how good I look!"
''Fuck off" I snap at him
"Seriously, I'm hot."
*Silence*
"Let me see yours honneee?"
"No."
There is hysterical laughter as he snaps it away from me "You don't look that bad."
"I look like a 250 pound escaped mental patient."
"Aww, well I love you baby."
"Piss off. How the fuck do you look that good in yours?"
"I did a look."
"What?"
"A look!"
"What kind of look? Like Blue Steel or something?" I mock.
"Smirking drugs bust actually." he says, without a trace of irony.
"Jesus Christ."
"I can show you how to do it if you like?"

Stop. Right. There. Show me? SHOW ME? I invented the pout. The pose is mine. I was an amateur teen model for god's sake! In Cardiff! If I had been able to lay off the cakes I could have gone far. Me and Campbell and Crawford would have been besties.

I pay the bemused photo man $18 for photos that will never be used and stomp off in search of a British style photo booth that let's you do multiple attempts for a fiver. 

Show me how to look good?

When the pupil thinks they can teach the master things have gone too far.



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Where's Naomi?

Is it 20 years of constant hunger that's made Naomi Campbell so bloody angry?

As I write, the supermodel is 'on the run' in Manhattan after supposedly socking her limo driver in the head. New Yorkers will empathise. I want to smack cabbies in the head most days, especially when they insist on getting the cross street before you've even sat your arse down in the back seat.

So where is Naomi right now? Where do you go when you're the world's first Supermodel fugitive? I suggest the following:

1) In a branch of Foot Locker-finding some more suitable shoes for being on the run. She can't leg it from the cops in Prada platforms.
2) TopShop in SoHo-Every good fugitive needs a new outfit. Naomi could get a little slice of home and some leggings from the Tall section of the British high street favourite.
3) Natural History Museum-at the cavemen exhibit asking them why displays of anger were acceptable in their day, but so frowned upon now.
4)A branch of Crumbs Bakery-They have the biggest and best cupcakes in NYC. Even supermodels need to comfort eat in times of stress.
5)On a train to Queens. No one will look for her in the boroughs surely?

Oh poor Naomi. We shouldn't judge her, she's just a down to earth Laaandan gal who got pulled into all this glitz and glam craziness from an early age innit? She don't know no betta'. All she really wants to do is help the people in Haiti and Chile too. I don't want them to suffer anymore than they already have, so if you're reading this Naomi, you can come and hide out in my apartment-I have Rescue Remedy.

Just don't even think about losing your shit with me-I'm a Cardiff girl-we fight back.




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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

Blooming lovely

When I was 17 I took half my first pay cheque into a boutique in Cardiff and spent £375 on a Moschino Cheap & Chic suit. The jacket had sewing thimbles for buttons. It was the most unusual, beautiful and expensive thing I had ever owned. It spoke to me, it spoke to others:

"Are those...thimbles?" people would ask.

16 years later and that jacket hangs in my wardrobe in New York.  It's lasted longer than any man in my life and I can still just about fit into it.  That in itself is testament to the miracle of Moschino.

With this sentimental connection proceeding, you can imagine my anticipation at an invite to Elisa Palomino's debut collection-this is the woman who started Cheap & Chic.

After that Palomino went to work at John Galliano, Dior, Roberto Cavalli and Diane Von Furstenbeg. Not to mention that she started in the fashion world by attending Central St Martins with Hussein Chalayn, Antonio Berardi and the late, great Alexander McQueen.

This all adds up to the fashion equivalent of a thorough bred racehorse. With all that pedigree, you know you're in for something special.

Excited, I persuade The Teenager to come along as my 'intern'. That I have to persuade her at all says a lot about the apathy of youth. She is even less keen when I tell her she will actually have to do something, like take notes or pictures. But after a hissy fit about what to wear, she tags along, in her BCBG heeled boots and we cab it uptown.

The General Society of Mechanics on W44th Street strikes me as as odd location on paper. In reality It's like walking back into the 1920's- an elegant old library, stuffed to the gills with hardbound dusty books and oak chests. Oriental lanterns have been strung all over the ceiling and the room is lit with a warm, amber hued glow.

The show begins.  Three singers who stride balletically to their mics and begin to sing something operatic and enchanting.

The first model emerges from a backroom and teeters precariously down a small set of stairs looking like a geisha turned Oriental party princesses. The girls come out one by one with the same huge messy birdnest hair topped with giant flowers or bows. They balance on sky high heels and the music turns flapper to match the drop hem dresses.

Modern mixes with vintage as satin puffas are teamed with Japanese floral print bias cut dresses. There's an abundance of chunky knits with giant gardenias. Fur stoles come with floral embroidery and there's tons of ruffles and ruching. A gold sequin dress shimmies by and I notice it is embellised with yet more flowers.

The palate is rich orange, bright fuschia pink, creams and shades of gold.

There's lots of black too, but rather than severe in contrast to the colour, it's silky, seductive and surrounded by yet more flowers.

As in love as I am, I still want to be objective. I don't go looking for flaws but it strikes me that a few pieces in the collection are just a tad Per Una at M&S- the black knit with flowers and the orange silk skirt and matching cardie (below) in particular looks pretty middle aged Surrey housewife.

My Mum would like it, but that's no disparaging comment- my Mum is a pretty stylish sixtysomething and actually owns a few Moschino pieces herself.

The real litmus test is in the mouths of babes:

"What did you think?" I ask The Teenager
"It was amazing. I loved the clothes, they were soooo beautiful. "

I can see three generations of women wearing something by Elisa Palomino, unlikely her intention, but certainly the result. That has to translate as something that will become infinitely sellable.

More importantly is The Teen's reaction.

She never uses superlatives.



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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.

Your name's on the list but don't bother coming in

Wide eyed, expectant and wondering if we can get away with sunglasses at 11 p.m. The American and I headed off to our first fash party last night.

As our taxi makes it's way to SoHo I fantasise about sharing a (free) drink at the (free) bar with Lady Ga Ga. I imagine how we'd talk of the genius of Armani Prive and she would compliment me on my asymmetric dress and I would laugh and reveal it was "...only from H&M." She would then introduce me to Anna Wintour who would find me side splittingly hilarious and sign me up for a Vogue column charting my acerbic take on the fashion industry. Did I mention the free bar?



We arrive to find an unmarked door-great start, everyone knows the coolest parties are hard to find. Then we're ushered into a goods lift that takes us to a corridor that smells of fish, that takes us to another corridor so dark I can't see my hand in front in me. We open the door in front of us and BOOM! Heat, people, sweat, small space. The clamber for the bar is 6 people deep.

"What is the point of a free bar when you can't get to it?" I wail.

I scan the room for Lady Ga Ga. I scan again for any celebs who might be drunk enough to do something stupid enough for me to get a story out of. I scan for some outfits at least interesting enough to write about, but everyone is too tightly packed in for me to even see. And it's fucking dark.

And there is nowhere to stand. If I weighed 100 pounds less I might be able to slide into a space between someone's armpit.

''I want to leave." says The American.
"Me too."



We head out and get a taxi over to the Tribecca Grand Hotel to party number two where there's a great DJ line up and Little Boots is playing.

My heart sinks when I see a line of at least 200 outside.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck"

This is my fault. I told The American we should be fashionably late. Turns out would should have been unfashionably early and then we might have been fashionably in the party rather than than unfashionably at the back of the queue.

We agree that we're too old to be standing in line for parties in zero degrees so instead we go to a nearby bar and pay fourteen bucks each for cocktails. When we get home where I read on twitter that Peaches Geldof was at the party. I watch in disgusted fascination as she conducts a hyper Z list post modern love-in with superblogger Bryan Boy.


"What are you doing?" says The American.
"I am at the party without being there." I say
"I don't understand." he says
"Virtually." I say

Virtually. Nearly. But not quite.

Night Night.

Best fashion friends forever

Today was a total fashion fuck up.

Locked out of Christian Siriano. Then trekked over to the Waldorf Astoria for what was billed as a 'Red Carpet Event' but was more like something that resembled a suburban sewing circle meet up. I noted that the hotel is like a Grandma who stills wear red lipstick at 90 even though it bleeds into the cracks. My fash week partner and I stopped to have a glass of bad Champagne while taking advantage of the free Wifi. I stroked a fake palm tree before I left and clocked a few mafioso types in the gift shop.

We then hopped over to Chelsea for Alexander Berardi and lined up for 30 minutes in the freezing cold for a show that was then 50 minutes late. At this point you need to be really impressed by the clothes. Let's just say I was more enthralled with the new fashion friend I made when I snagged myself a seat. And this man's legs (yes, man).


On the positive side, in addition to new friend at Berardi I saw my cohort from the Toni Mess-o-rama show at the tents and met two charming Californians who're starting a menswear design company. They'd just got a plane to New York and blagged it into the tents and were pretty convinced they were getting into the Naomi Campbell for Haiti show. It is for the best we didn't have tickets for this, I've always known that if I met Naomi, I'd be tempted to goad her to see if she'd attack me with the heel of her shoe.


When I left the Left Coasters they were about to start enjoying the free bar in the tent. Why not? This is the land of faking it till you make it after all. And fashion is all about fakery.

And when you live in this make believe land they called America, a good business card is essential. My new ones from moo.com were waiting for me when I got home today. If it wasn't for the parties I blagged new invites for tonight, this would have been the most exciting thing to happen to me today.



Tonight is two fashion soirees. I should probably not call them soirees, that sounds like something a Southern housewife visiting the city would say. I have styled The American so he can look a bit fash too. He says It was like having Rachel Zoe in the apartment. I said if Rachel Zoe was here, I'd probably eat her. He said that was just silly, as there obviously wouldn't be any meat on her.

They have a free bar at these parties. I don't know that the New York fashion scene has experienced the combination of Welsh girl plus free booze.

It could get messy than a Toni Maticevski dress.

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