Beauty notes

My role at work has diversified somewhat so I'm currently working on a big beauty project. It's brilliant fun - once you get over the weirdness of spending 45 minutes talking about dry hair treatments. Beauty folk seem a little less intense than their fashion siblings and it's amazing realising just how much effort goes into the tiniest detail - like the 2,000 plus fake talons a nail specialist made for the McQueen show only to see them ripped off as the girls came in from 2 minutes on the catwalk. Plus, come on, what girl wouldn't love to be sent home with a bag of creams, glosses and gels to try out? But it's also surprising what challenges it has thrown up for me. I spent a good two minutes today figuring out what was the right verb to use to formally describe static on hair. (I went for 'attracting' in the end?!).

The technological revolution

Dolly Jones makes no secret of the fact that when she launched Vogue.com ten years ago, the fashion industry looked down their noses at all things digital. Oh, how that's changed - never more so than this season where it seems like the common denominator between designers isn't a 1980's reference but an obsession with all things technological.

Burberry did it best in London, streaming their show live from fash-cams in the venue and allowing users to post comments direct onto the footage. (It probably helped that their fans are the type to write things like, 'So beautiful I want to cry'). At the after-show party, too, they tried to encourage people to monopolise cyber space with Burberry messages by having a blogging room set up with Apple laptops and twitter screens around Horseferry House that people could tweet into.

The trend continued in Milan, where Dolce & Gabbana not only instantly upped Bryan Boy's kudos by seating him three seats down from Anna Wintour but opened up their show to 16 million users watching from home via YouTube. Alexander McQueen did the same in Paris - and his live stream was so popular ShowStudio's website crashed because of the demand. Add to that the competitive tweeting that's been going on from the front rows - 'First season with full on Twitter - it's like Gossip Girl on crack' as Henry Holland so eloquently put it - and it's clear this is a trend that ain't going anyway.

Given the fashion industry's endless layers of dictatorial behaviour and political machinations at Fashion Week - you're allowed to move a row forward if your superior's stuck in the office and take her seat unless it's on the front row, let's say - I'm all for this new sense of fashion democracy. And it totally makes sense commercially, in my opinion. If luxury brands want consumers to spend four-figure sums on a new season coat, they're going to have to let those people in - make them feel a sense of heritage, of personality behind that piece of fabric.

But at the same time it opens up a conundrum for fashion houses - and the authority of fashion reporting. As International Herald Tribune legend Suzy Menkes noted, within an hour of their respective shows Balenciaga had been tweeted about 41 times and Balmain 75, despite the fact the former was a much more 'original and inventive' show. Part of me is tempted to say it shouldn't matter - that Balmain's managed to infiltrate into the mainstream better so deserve their techno success - but the other side of me sees challenges ahead if a fashion house is going to have to focus on conquering cyberspace as well as producing cutting edge designs going forward.

The Anna Wintour effect

I reckon the world needs a 'fashion baddy' - someone on whom they can pin the snobbery, obsession with skininess and anti-ageing, as well as all the other things they don't quite get about the fashion industry. Because otherwise I can't really explain the falsehoods that have been printed about Anna Wintour's exploits at London Fashion Week, none more ridiculous than this story that she 'shunned' Alexa Chung and Pixie Geldof for behaving like teenagers in a sixth-form common room than true front-rowers. Now, let's be honest, who'd blame Anna if she did behave like that when confronted with London's annoying-young-things, but I was there sitting directly across from the trio and it didn't pan out like that photo suggests. In reality Anna took her seat on time - she's been punctual throughout the shows - and waited patiently, albeit utterly alone, for the show to begin. When Alexa was ushered to her adjacent seat she smiled and shook her hand - let's not forget by the way that the TV presenter is a new editorial consultant for UK Vogue - and even shared a rolling of eye moment when the show sponsors Samsung tried to shove new phones into both their laps for a quick photo opportunity. Then she concentrated on her job - watching the clothes come down the catwalk. So if you can read anything into her distaste it should be the fact she was the only editor-in-chief at the Twenty8Twelve show (no doubt due to the fact her current cover star is co-designer Sienna Miller) and the collection included Alice Dellal in a denim on denim jumpsuit.

Of course I've read Front Row and lapped up every moment of The September Issue but the one time I met Anna Wintour last time she was in London for Fashion Week she was nothing but professional and courteous, shaking my hand before delivering a well-thought-through and humble speech to the British Society of Magazine Editors audience. In fact, it wasn't her who behaved inappropriately at all, but rather those people who'd come to fawn over her who stepped away from the lift they'd been queuing for because she got in it and circled taking sneaky pictures on their BlackBerry of her half-eaten plate at lunch. If anything, it makes me feel a bit sorry for a woman who, sure, cultivated a myth around herself, but now has to live with it every day.

It's all about VB

I've often wondered why magazines and newspapers still insist on putting Victoria Beckham on their covers/front pages. Surely after almost a decade milking publicity, the general public has grown tired of the Beckham antics? It seems not. The question I've been asked most by my friends outside the industry about London Fashion Week is... 'So what was Victoria like?' This, despite the fact she flew in for a day, took in two shows and stayed, oh at least, eight minutes at the Burberry Prorsum after-party.

The answer, in case you're wondering by the way, is that she was actually surprisingly sweet. Bumping into her in the bum-fight that was backstage after the Burberry show, she seemed as overwhelmed as the rest of us by the bodyguards surrounding her. Ok, she had caked on the fake tan/make-up because her skin wasn't looking that hot, but she didn't look as skinny as those screaming headlines suggest. I was also impressed she brushed off her 'protectors' to make sure she answered the questions we were throwing at her about the show - even if her answers weren't exactly inspirational. 'It was fabulous. I loved seeing colour. And the accessories were brilliant,' she told me, looking directly in my eyes and smiling. Which, I've got to admit, left me somewhat starstruck. She's got it.

You know it's Fashion Week when....

- You can't remember what day it is, only what show's next

- There are 36 taxi receipts in your bag

- You start the day with a punnet of Blackberries and a sugar free Red Bull

- Your entire call history on your BlackBerry is filled with work contacts

- You can't feel your little toe any more

- You can pinpoint the colour palette everyone will be wearing in six months time (frosted pastels btw) but you haven't got a clue what happened at the Global Warming convention... Or even the Oscars

- 'Dinner' means a bowl of nuts and olives at a hotel bar

Fashion's 'homework'

When will I learn? Every season it's the same. I tell myself I don't need an entire new wardrobe for London Fashion Week. Remind myself that I have a fully stocked cupboard heaving with lovely clothes most of which I never wear. But then, with alarming regularity, the pre-FW fear hits five days before. First the frantic scramble to book with your hairdresser, then the obligatory pedi (for you will wear open toe shoes even if it is freezing outside) and finally a bulimia-style trawl through the shops buying up anything that 'could work' even when knowing fully well it'll go straight back unworn next week. It's not done to show panic to your peer group. When asked if they're going shopping the weekend before fashion week, the answer's usually a nonchalant, 'Oh, I might pick up a few vintage bits from Portabello.' But come that first - no second, when it all gets serious - day it's always clear that's fashion's famous fakery because no one can look that good on three hours sleep, stiletto burn and a champagne hangover without careful pre-wardrobe planning. And Bobbi Brown's under-eye illuminator. So here I am trying to do my best preparation. A shoulder-pad dress from Zara, a few cheap jewellery steals from the fashion cupboard, some vintage jackets stolen from my mum's still pristine 1970's closet, sister's borrowed Gucci sunglasses, a new Smythson notebook - and my Wang of course. I'm ready. Well at least I look the part. Inside, I still feel a bit like the girl who stayed up until 2am the night before a new year at school to get her summer homework done in time....

Toting the Wang

After months of well-versed agonising, I finally bought The New Bag. Behold! Alexander Wang's Coco Duffel!

It actually happened unbelieveable quickly. An email from Net-a-Porter telling me the item I'd put myself on the wait list for was in and I had 24 hours to purchase. A conversation across the desk with my colleague which included the phrase 'You can always send it back' at least four times. And a click of a button. Next thing I knew it was on my desk.

Now whilst I love internet shopping, there's always something a little weird about it isn't there? That rush of excitement you get when it arrives - child-like, almost Christmas Day esque - followed by a surge of disapointment when it doesn't quite feel the way you expected it to. Isn't as large/small/heavy/light and doesn't hang off your arm in quite the same way. It's almost like you have to spend the first day learning to fall in love with the item you've already paid for, convincing yourself it's right, much like you would before actually buying it in a shop.

You'll be pleased (well unless your my bank manager) to read I've convinced myself I love it - and there ain't no chance of it going back. The only strange thing now is that it's changing the way I dress: my until now adored white 1960's style swing coat for example looks totally wrong with the Wang. I'm entering a whole winter of biker boots, black and winged eyeliner, I can just tell...

Slight hiatus

After months of really committing, I've suffered a blog hiatus. There's been a fair bit of work-related turmoil going on. A ridiculously lengthy job application process, a day spent making what I knew was a 'big career decision' (God, I never thought I'd be saying that) and a lot of hours spent anguishing about the whole thing ever since. Helped by seemingly endless bottles of wine. Add to that moving house, swine flu and weekends packed with weddings/festivals/or whatever and there's my justification for letting the blog lapse. But I'm back. New job, new house, new bag - new me. 

My week in numbers

Remember those chain mail emails that used to go around back when logging onto the internet, required you switching on a modem and watching those twinkly lights flick back and forth for five minutes? The ones that had questions like: crutons or bacon bits? Well this is my modern day version of that indulgence...

Press Gifts: 3. Tiffany necklace, French Sole ballet pumps, Calvin Klein underwear (wrong size - gone to charity shop), 

Eateries visited: 3. Bob Bob Ricard (tea with Arcadia), 11 Cadogan Hotel (tea with D&G), Cafe Boehme (breakfast with Freuds), Starbucks Westfield! 

Alcoholic drinks consumed: Don't-even-want-to-think-about-number of units. Half a bottle of wine post work drinks, half a bottle of wine tapas with old journalism school flatmates, glass of champagne PR tea, glass of wine screening of September Issue. 

Exercise sessions: 0. Big fat one. Been ill. Seriously. 

Number of items of clothing bought: 4. Vintage Marc Jacobs jacket £50. Vintage Philip Lim dress £70. Zara black trousers £25. Zara basic white over sized tee £14. Zara stuff might go back though! Shopping bulimia...

Ready meals eaten: 1. M&S Chicken Thai Red Curry.

Real meals eaten: 1. Pasta and sauce. That kinda counts...

Things crossed off to do list: 19

Things left on: 5

OK, maybe that exercise was not quite as fun as I had first thought. Slightly chaotic but hey, this weekend to sort it all out...! 

Internet eyeballs

Reading New York Magazine in the bath tonight, came across one of Emily Nussbaum's as-usual genius article, Class of '09. Essentially a survey of a generation of young Americans - the equivalent of which here in the UK have, in the past, been branded binge drinkers, laddettes, graduate divas, Generation Y  (as if they're like some scientific experimentation), internet narcassists and disillusionhed. The results make interesting reading. They are optimistic about the future, engaged in politics, concerned about riding out the credit crunch but ultimately think it's going to make the world a better place, they earn on average £25,000-£30,000 and 72% want to get married. But the most telling part to me was the 'Keeping Contact' section. 44% of them check their email instantly on their phones. 89% have a facebook page. 39% of them watch TV on the computer - only 35% watch it live. And half of them read a newspaper daily - though, it doesn't specify whether that's online or in print. That means our eyes are basically pretty permanently focussed on our computers. But perhaps I should have known that by the fact that the first thing I do when I come home from work - where I've been pretty much staring at a computer screen on and off in between meetings all day. That I check my BlackBerry after I've cleaned my teeth and before I go to bed. And that I'm writing this at 22.26 on a Friday night! If I'm in the house alone, I can't resist logging on. Exciting for the future online. But a worrying development for everything else in modern media? Certainly, I would say. 

Tea at The Wolsely

There are a few things you have to know about tea, or, come to think of it, coffee, breakfast, lunch or dinner at The Wolsely.

It's perfectly acceptable to be open about star spotting: when Lily Allen strides through in her Russian white fur hat and chats to Damien Hirst over scrambled egg then moves on to Giles's table for orange juice, it's open season. 

If you want to get scones without currants you have to call 24 hours before your reservation to have them especially made. 

One nervous waitress always seems to drop something, usually a glass of orange juice, on the floor. The marble makes it resound all around. 

There are two tiers for tables: the ones on the gallery, reserved for special clients. It's like the sky - where you can oversee the minions and be seen by them in return; and the ones on the main body of the floor, where it's perfectly legitimate but also strategic where you sit. Central you want to be seen, to the side for a more discreet dinner, and at the semi-circular table by the door - not cool. 

It's the most fun ever...

The best part of my job...

...absolutely, seriously. These shoes - that I have lusted after since seeing them in the Philip Lim show and even considered buying the Topshop Boutique imitations - I finally own. And for £180. I love Louboutin. That's all! 

Ok, not strictly fashion related…

…but everyone needs a night off once in a while. Tonight was said night. Went for a run after work (how virtuous!), ran past ex-boyfriend (less virtuous thoughts spent wondering what I’d actually have said if I’d talk to him), made warm summer salad – asparagus, rocket, blue cheese, avocado, crispy bacon and toasted sunflower seeds – and settled down to night with the girls. Cava, cigarettes and an hour of Hot Chip. I’ve been semi-fighting/feeling weirdness (the way you do) with usually most-reliably-fun-flatmate for a while and it’s felt a bit like fighting internally with a boyfriend. ‘We don’t spend enough time together,’ type. But how much easier is that to solve with girls? Planning next big night out (Late of the Pier gig at Corsica studios), pre-beauty treatments (false eyelashes at Illamasque at Selfridges), wondering if we should be feeling guilty for not voting in the European Parliamentary Elections on Thursday, reminiscing over (even more) irresponsible days gone past, swapping ‘I’ve just bought…’ tips (Dorothy Perkins it seems is on fire at the moment) and talking race relations because we’re in the middle of Barack Obama’s first autobiography. Fun times. Now back to planning what to wear tomorrow – press appointment and interview in town tomorrow evening – require an outfit. Stressful! Pondering whether to risk blisters for new Louboutins whilst hearing tramps outside screaming the night away. That’s SE1.  

Photoshop scandals

Never mind not believing a word you read, never believe the picture in front of you is real. Or at least undoctored. Pretty much every picture in a magazine will have been photoshopped. Sometimes just to readjust the contrast, or alter the levels of light - most often to smooth skin, take out an unsightly logo/cab/person standing in the background and sometimes flipped around entirely to fit the necessary space. Which is why I'm confused by this s0-claimed anti-photoshop crusade at the moment. Whilst I totally agree with the statement from photographer Peter Lindbergh - who has just made his own statement by photographing supermodels without make-up for French Elle - that 'heartless retouching should not be the chosen tool to represent women in the beginning of this century', a few bare-faced pictures do not a campaign make. A token three pages of People magazine's Top 100 Most Beautiful People in the World issue dedicated to Z-listers willing to be photographed wearing 'just moisturiser' cannot count as a revolution. Buy my personal favourite irony of fashion's whole fashionable anti-retouching movement? Conde Nast's new magazine, LOVE. Katie Grand might have picked Beth Ditto - yes, all 20 stone of her - as her coverstar and she might have written her entire editor's letter about not airbrushing one of her bulging curves out in the images. But she failed to remove the 'Retouching Studio's' credit from the masthead. Oopsie. 

Status symbols

I received this little gift from Louis Vuitton for supporting them editorially on a story recently. It was totally unnecessary - the story was already done, dusted and published - but nice nonetheless to have waiting for you on your desk on a rainy Wednesday morning. Then someone told me how much it retails for. As in how much people will actually spend to get their hands on this wooden bracelet, carved with leopard print and the LV symbol. £250. Oh, and can I point out, too, that you can't wear this bracelet alone. It's made for 'stacking' with a series of other chunky bracelets that if you don't already have hanging around your house, you'd better head to COS to pick up before even thinking about debuting it. Now, this LV bracelet is divine. It's heavy and shiny enough to weigh just reassuringly enough on your wrist and spin around when you're bored in meetings. It's an amazing gift to be given. But the fact that people are prepared to pay the equivalent of a flight to New York on a status symbol that'll sit around their wrist for a season, I find frankly ridiculous. Because make no mistake that it's a status symbol. Something keen fashionistas - or should I say those that want you to know they're one and can afford to be - will buy and get a buzz of self satisfaction every time they wear it, beaten only when someone else recognises it for what it is. The tragic thing is that now I've got it, I'm sure as hell gonna wear it. Forget eBay, when in my world that half-glance-have-to-look-again type of accessory is too important (and ok, delicious) to pass up. Does that make me a fashion victim? Maybe. 

I've just seen the (first) Chanel movie...

... and even though reviews are strictly embargoed until 27th June, I will say this. I hadn't realised what a feminist that Coco Chanel was! She rocks. (Though her excessive smoking throughout the movie will leave you gagging for a fag - so maybe the French were right to ban the official poster?). The unbelievably gorgeous Audrey Tautou plays the fiercely ambitious young designer who founded Chanel at a time when men ruled the world and proved fashion rebels can be seriously chic. Because the costumes. Oh my god, the costumes. Overseen by Karl Lagerfeld, with some original pieces from the Chanel archive, they're deliciously and revolutionary austere. I'm in love with the white waistcoat, starched cuffs, strings of pearls and tweed suit.

Bag Ladies

I've been trying to buy a new bag for months now but I can't seem to decide on which one. It's an serious undertaking after all. You're spending the equivalent of a city break on a piece of leather, which, though justifyable considering you'll carry it pretty much every day, means it needs to be right. The problem is that in this day and age of 'It' bags/'Anti-It' bags (yeah, whatever...) every bag you buy comes with an association. Let's dissect...

Mulberry: I was at Bicester Village/the Somerset factory/another unnamed outlet store and it was either this Bayswater or Tommy Hilfiger. 

Smythson: Bond Street dwelling, Tory voting yummy mummy. Funny that!

Anya Hindmarch: Ditto above. Unless you're a fashion editor. Then it's a freebie. 

Prada: You don't exactly love it but it's Prada. And that's a serious label. 

Miu Miu: You can't afford Prada. But you'll pretend this is the cooler, younger, hipper version. 

YSL: Congratulations. You got yourself on the 4-yearly fashion editor freebie cycle. But as it's a black Downtown (aka. 2005) aren't you due an upgrade? 

Chanel: I spent my redundancy cheque on this 2.55 so even though it holds barely more than my BlackBerry I'm sure as hell going to make sure it dangles from my shoulder. 

Marc by Marc Jacobs: I went to New York two years ago when the exchange rate was still good and bought the shop. 

Marc Jacobs: Ditto above. Only I'm richer. 

I've come to the conclusion I only have two options. High street or Alexander Wang's just-launched and therefore not-yet-high-profile-enough-to-become-hackneyed slouchy tote. Now where can I find £650? 

Are you wearing trainers?

It's oft said folk in fashion stay skinny with bucket loads of cocaine and very little food. And though there are plenty for whom I know that's true, there are some who seem to believe in exercise too. Exercise, I hear you say? Like in trainers? Yep, really. Recently it seems more and more fashionistas are swapping their Alaia heels for Adidas trainers. Vogue.co.uk editor Dolly Jones did the London marathon this year, raising £15,982.48 for charidee with donations from designers Roksanda Illncic and Antonio Berardi as well as the British Fashion Council's Hilary Riva. Grazia's Editor-in-Chief Jane Bruton just wrote about her experiences, which saw Anya Hindmarch and Paul Smith digging deep into their pockets to help her raise £6,551. And I've just discovered the amazingly groomed and gorgeous PR for Louis Vuitton, Marsha, completed two out of the seriously hardcore Three Peaks challenge - where you climb Snowdon, Ben Nevis and Scafell Pike in 24 hours. Who knew sweaty wristbands and lycra were so fashionable? 

Sample sale scrums

It's rare that anyone in fashion pays full price for anything. Aside from the freebie whoring and gifting that goes on, pretty much every high end and high street store gives out discount cards (GAP and Topshop's are most coveted) and, over time, most editors will develop a 'special relationship' with a designer who'll give them key pieces each season. So you'd think sample sales would be oh-so serene; almost an afterthought. Not a chance! WWD has a report today of New Yorkers literally trampling over women (pregnant and otherwise) to get their hands on half-price Manolo Blahnik at the press sale and I've been in many a similar scrum this side of the ocean. 

By far the jewel in the crown of UK sample sales is Chanel's. It's the only way you'll ever get your hands on discounted Chanel as the fashion house is so protective of it's brand it would rather burn unsold goods than allow them to be sold to the likes of TK Maxx. (Tragic, non?) Invites are limited strictly to those who've heavily 'supported' the brand in the past six months, they're non transferable and you're expected to bring your passport with you to verify identification when paying. I'm entirely serious. Fashion assistants luckily enough to have made the list arrive at Claridges from 6am, dressed down in flats, jeans and as few layers as possible - essential when you're going to be trying on jackets in between cramped rails. Fashion editors and a few stylists get there at 9am to see the queue snaking around the block. No one dares queue jump such is the competition to pick up two-piece Chanel suits for £100, shoes for £50, jewellery starting at £20 and bags that would retail for thousands of pounds for a fraction of the price. When the doors open promptly at 9.30am, the first girls in the queue run - literally run - across the marble floors of the hotel's lobby. Bags disappear first, swept up by the first 10 people in the door, and jewellery's not far behind (it's not there every season so considered a luxury). Then you inevitably go on to buy at least three times more than you'd budgeted for - not necessarily because you love it, but just because it's Chanel. The majority will sit in your wardrobe unworn for years, but at least you'll have something to show and tell when you get back to the office that's been deserted for the morning.

Not all sample sales are as crazy as Chanel. Christian Louboutin - where you can get the famous red-soled shoes from about £100 - almost competes in terms of the queueing system. Stella McCartney always draws a crowd but is mostly famous for the hideous lack of anywhere to change. You're literally forced to strip down in the middle of a warehouse and fight your way through ten people to get a corner of a mirror if you want to purchase that £40 silk playsuit. Burberry only ever put the most obvious pieces from last season in their sample sale and it's not that cheap. By far my favourite, is the Prada/Miu Miu one. It's calm enough that you can get there at 2pm, have a cup of tea with the PRs, and still manage to get your hands on serious bargains. We're talking shoes from £40 and bags from £80. There's only one sacrosanct rule of sample sales: never admit that's where your amazing new purchases came from in the outside world... 

I wanna be a supermodel!

It's funny meeting a supermodel. First of all you don't give a damn about what you're wearing. Because unlike interviewing a current Hollywood heartthrob (where you obviously want to make yourself look your best just in case!) you know you're never gonna come even close to her. But you are near obsessed with how she looks and can't help but analyse everything she says, every move she makes and how many cookies she eats in an attempt to look normal. So I was with Elle Macpherson today. I'm ashamed to admit I was kind of pleased to see crows feet around her eyes, slight liver spots on her cheeks. Slightly smug that she might be a 45-year-old supermodel but she still applies a spot of powder (MAC, since you ask) in the corner before a digital camera is turned on her. And asks you not to zoom in too close. Things I liked less: the way she scoffed down brownies but still had a to-die-for figure - I'm resurrecting my J Brand Lovestory jeans and buying a sequined jacket tomorrow - and the way she clearly just turns it on for the camera/important fashion editor before reverting to sulking on the sofa glued to her BlackBerry. Mind you it'd be brilliant if she was on Twitter...  

GAP does it again

At the risk of this blog reading like planted viral marketing tool for GAP (that's more something DVF would do), they really are on fire right now. After presenting an A/W '09 collection that - yet again - had fashion editors thanking Gucci they've worked so hard in the past for their 30% discount cards, they're about to launch their annual collection with the winners of the CFDA Awards in America. In the past it's been white shirts by Philip Lim and the Rodarte sisters, but this year of course they've got fashion's wunderkid Alexander Wang reworking khaki. It shouldn't work. Wang is an edgy, 24-year-old famous for his model-meets-rock-chick designs and the man everyone in the industry, not to mention young Hollywood, wants to wear. How could he work with the fabric worn by the Oxford college 'Rahs' with boat shoes, a blue shirt and a signet ring? Exceptionally well, it turns out. He's designed a parka style khaki coat, with a utilitarian-style zip and the three buttons. It's perfect. I'll be wearing it thrown over floral dresses, with rolled up jeans, a white tank and last year's heeled gladiators, and mini skirts and brogues with colourful socks. That is if I can get hold of it. GAP are only producing limited numbers, cleverly making Wang's collection even more covetable. Still, I dropped enough hints - yikes, am I turning into a freebie whore? - and GAP are such prolific gifters that I might just get my hands on one. Fingers crossed... 

Tweenagers these days...

I've read all the Twilight books. I can sing you Vanessa Hudgens song from High School Musical. So I like to think I'm down with the tweens - heck, sometimes at work I'm frankly considered to be one of their kind. But today I realised my grip is slipping. I'm actually getting old. (I'd like to point out here I'm 25.) This was the emotionally scarring situation. 

I'm having a cigarette outside the Soho Hotel waiting to interview an American TV star at a press junket. A group of young girls, who looked no more than 12, were busy hitting their slightly overweight, staring-into-space mums over the head with rolled up posters and screaming at them 'When's she going to come out?' A blacked out people carrier backs into the hotel's driveway. Two bodyguards and the hotel doorman cause a commotion by shouting at the scrum of paps. In the meantime, 'she' has dived straight into the car and out of sight. 'Demi. Demi. Demi,' the kids - by now blocking the car's way out, their mums snapping into action armed with cameras and autograph pens - bay in unison. 'Please, Demi. Please...' One starts to cry, fighting through crowd to press her face against the mirrored window. Suddenly the door opens. 'Oh don't cry,' an American voice chimes. 'She' has relented and come out to meet her fans. 'It's ok, I'm here,' the girl, who can't be more than 14 and can't walk in her three-inch Louboutin strappy sandals, says to reassure the sobbing tween. (By the way, I've since learnt she's one of the stars in tween flick Hannah Montana). Cameras flash and A3 posters are unfurled as the rest of the kids crowd around to get what's bound to be their next facebook profile picture/eBay sale. Within a minute it's over and the over-protective bodyguards usher Demi back into the car. The 12-year-old wailer meanwhile wanders back towards us. 'I only cried to get her to come out of the car,' she snarls at us triumphantly. I'm speechless. And so, a new generation of citizen papparazzis are born... 

The £7k freebie

Pretty much the first question people ask me when I tell them where I work is: 'Do you get loads of freebies?' ('Is it really like The Devil Wears Prada?' comes next incidentally). 'To be honest, you do,' I tend to answer. 'But you're also expected to look the part so it's a bit chicken and egg.' The qualifying statement isn't exactly true. Of course you're meant to be interested enough in fashion you'll want to own a few designer pieces and follow trends, but the pressure to look perfect 24/7 is much less than you might think. But adding that don't-hate-me-too-much line makes me feel slightly better about the long list of freebies I'm then asked to reel off: beauty products by the bucket load, the odd high street top here or there when they've featured in a story, at least one designer bag a year, plus candles, trinkets and Hummingbird Bakery muffins ad hoc. And that's without mentioning discounts at virtually any store, and tickets to see Madonna from a box at Wembley. Though some might say these are the perks that make up for menial salaries, I say it's a privileged existence. Which is why I'm always surprised to hear the seemingly perpetual stories of someone taking advantage. 

At every magazine I've ever worked on there have been freebie whores. Some you'll only discover when they've left and a PR rings up to ask when that feature on their Bahamas beach side hotel is going to print. Others are so blatant in their freebie hunting it's amazing the PRs can't see through them. Or maybe they can but they know that by tossing them a scarf/pair of shoes/dress (delete depending on their rank on the masthead) they're guaranteed a place in print forever more. But the story I heard today was the most shocking yet. An assistant at a weekly fashion supplement had apparently scooped £7,000 free dental work by offering them a three page feature. Amazingly, she hasn't been fired. 

Guessing game

Apparently there is one, only one, person in the world who gets a 50% discount at Prada. She's a high-profile actress, who has supported (read bought) a lot of items there recently. 

But before you ask, I don't know the answer either...

When fashion lets you down

It's a high profile launch. A fashion legend was launching a clothing line for what's now a fashion establishment. And although the clothes were actually good for once and I can totally see the collection both being commerical and having fashion nous, the designer in question was out of it. I don't know if it was drugs. (First thought, naturally). A, somewhat pretentious, affectation. Or just a nonchalance picked up from years in the business. Sunglasses stayed on throughout. There were one word answers, mistakes identifying the pieces in the collection, and painful gaps between questions which I filled by somewhat shamefully fingering sleeves of the blouses and cooing over the buttons. Come to think of it, maybe the 'designer' just didn't have a clue about what to say because the collection was theirs in name alone. That's probably the sad truth. Sad both because I actually wouldn't mind knowing what such an institution of that ilk would bring to fashion today if fully engaged. And sad, because what sort of place do you need to have got to that you'll sign up to something that's nothing but caching in on a brand you spent years cultivating?

Overheard...

One editor at a press day today: 'Is work stress the new 'It' bag? Because it sure feels that way.' Oh dear...

Returning to the 'real' world

It's always weird coming back to London and working life after a holiday. It's especially so when you've been skiing - cocooned in a world so removed from reality. You've spent a week concentrating so hard on not killing yourself on the slopes there's no time for those niggling worries about an email that hasn't been sent and suddenly you're expected to deal with 643 unread items in your inbox. Your body is bruised, battered and burnt by vin chaud (not to mention your feet being red raw from always lethal ski boots) yet you're still expected to look glamorous in five inch heels and the rest. It's so silent on the slopes. The 29 bus is not. Anyway, day one back at work is over and it's time for a few random reflections about what's changed in the ten days I've been away.

Michelle Obama mania has hit the capital. You can't move for fashion commentators screaming about how her standout style is going to save the economy - and politicos from the same newspaper screaming they're turning her into a modern day Stepford Wife.

The boyfriend jean trend has suddenly broken into mainstream (well, sorta...) Five people in the office wearing them today. With varying degrees of success.

One girl has been made redundant. It's been coming for a while - and in a way I'm glad it's finally happened so people might stop the who/when speculation that rampant before I left - but it's very sad and unsurprisingly has set jitters off around the office. 

It's sunny enough to wear sunglasses. There's refreshingly a little bit of a break from the bug-eyed versions. It probably won't last. 

Denim jackets are everywhere I look. Some are even teamed with MC Hammer pants. I feel a bit like I've come back from France to a version of the 1990s. And rather worryingly quite like it...

GAP girl

PS: If you're actually interested in what you'll be wearing this autumn according to GAP rather than the model mayhem (gosh, aren't you the GAP PR's dream clientele) here's some things I am style jacking for long walks in the woods. 

- Slouchy knits layered over leather jackets

- Thick ankle socks peeping out of Pierre Hardy shearling heeled boots 

- Skinny chinos tucked into said boots 

- Grey accented with aubergine hues 

And a black shearling lined suede jacket you just know will be one of GAP's cult buys. How do they do that quite so well? 

Model Behaviour

Despite my best intentions not to judge, I'd always imagined modelling to be a doddle. Throw on a few clothes, throw around some poses, perfect a ridiculous walk. Perhaps it was an automatic reflex action. Insane jealousy over perfect skin had to be counteracted by a huge dollop of cynicism. Well if those assumptions weren't quashed during London Fashion Week - when I watched models cry with pain as hair extensions that had been glued for a show were ripped out less than an hour later, or saw 14-year-olds who didn't even know how to dress themselves (er, London requires a coat in September - especially if you're the size of a matchstick) let alone speak English struggle to find their way through the maze that is South Kensington tube station - they certainly were tonight. 

At an A/W '09 presentation for the high street giant that is GAP, there was a live catwalk. Dressed in (admittedly gorgeous) layered fair isle knits, biker jackets and shearling coats, 30 or so models were required to remain impassive whilst standing on a raised plinth under hot lights for over an hour. The fashion crowd, decked out in strappy Balmain/Zara (delete as appropriate for masthead positioning) on an unusually warm London evening, ogled their subjects as they wandered down the row, glass of wine in one hand, sausage roll in the other. The models looked miserable. Even the best were defeated. Tears streamed down Jourdan Dunn's face as she stoically tried to put up with the pain of a pair of Pierre Hardy shearling boots that were two sizes too small. Her neighbour, Jessica Stam, grimaced in sympathy as she had to be helped off the catwalk half way through. Ten minutes later, another girl buckled under the pressure. She fainted straight into the arms of LOVE's new Deputy Editor Isaac Lock, who came running to her rescue heroically. It was model mayhem. And made me wonder why these girls put up with the perils of the job - not to mention having to survive on a single floret of broccoli (apparently the new breakfast choice for top models)? Mind you, knowing GAP and their prolific gifting, I'm sure the Pierre Hardy boots they'll all leave carrying will help sweeten the blow. Somehow I don't think you'll see Jourdan wearing hers though... 

'Are you sure this is a skinny latte?'

Most of the time it's easy to believe you're working in a totally normal world. Sure there are the occasional insane remarks - 'Oh my god, I've just had an orchid injury' is still my favourite, which one assistant remarked when she brushed up against the flowers whilst wearing a white tee. But in general our office is relatively mundane. Working mothers  beat themselves up with guilt about failing to make Oscar a good enough Easter bonnet after working late. Single 20-somethings try to disguise their disgusting hangovers. (Tweeting about last night's shenanigans tends to give them away). 

But every now and then you hear a story that reminds you this isn't a normal 9 to 5, where the biggest concerns are whose stolen your stapler. The latest such tale doing the industry rounds today was a beauty assistant on a super competitive monthly magazine who every day volunteered to do the coffee run. 'Are you sure this is a skinny latte?' her colleagues would say each day as she returned from Starbucks. (Because you can really taste it). 'Well, that's what I asked for,' she'd reply, concerned. Until one day her ruse was discovered when, frustrated with, as she saw it, the Barista consistently getting her order wrong, the colleague confronted him. 'Nope, she always asks for full fat milk,' the no doubt super confused Starbucks employee insists. Oh dear. It's coffee sabotage. Now you might think said cheated colleague might think to herself, 'Wow, that girl has serious food issues.' But that would be forgetting that we're talking about the difference between a 100 and 350 calorie. For someone who measures out almonds as a snack, that's indefensible. 

Bitching over Balmain

When new POP Editor In Chief, Dasha Zhukova, failed to turn up at some of the major Milan Fashion Week shows, despite having been reserved a front row spot, she pissed off a lot of fashion PRs. Now it turns out they're not the only industry insiders she's irritated recently. Coming out of a particularly juicy fashion gossiping session today is the news that buyers at Selfridges have blacklisted her after she asked them to get her ten S/S '09 Balmain sequined mini dresses - we're talking an expense of over £90,000 - and then decided she'd actually only buy one at the last minute. Apparently she thought more might look 'too excessive.' Yikes. Still, at least we know where to head for bargain(ish) Balmain come sale season....

Fasharexia

'Not eating! God, that's, like, so 1995,' my fashion PR dining companion says in mock scorn as I tell her the latest gossip on the block - that interns at a newly launched magazine are told their lunch must be odourless and eaten by an open window. She goes on to order. We're at Gilgamesh - one of London's most buzzed-about restaurants - where she's taken me as a thank you for coverage we gave her brand's show during Milan Fashion Week. 'Oh, gosh. It's so hard. Um. I think I'll have a miso soup to start, and then some salmon sushi rolls,' she pronounces triumphantly. 'And edamame of course.' There goes my Thai green curry and sticky rice, then. 'Wine?' I tentatively suggest, gagging for my second glass. (I got there half an hour early just to pep myself up into cheery-happy-funny journalist-meets-PR mode with a swig of Pinot, but one's never enough). 'Oh, I don't drink. Haven't since I was 16. But you do go ahead.' 

The joys of fashion dinners, hey? To be honest, I don't know why the fashion world insist on meeting over food. They might call them Power Breakfasts, Celebratory Dinners, or Time out for Tea, but they might as well stick to saying let's chat business over a cup of hot water and lemon. It'd be more easier. And a hell of a lot cheaper, I'd imagine. Because it's not like you're going to Pizza Express. Fashion PRs, and therefore the journalists they are wooing, go to the top venues in London: The Wolesely, The Ivy, J Sheekey. Places you'd luxuriate over with a group of girlfriends or for dinner a deux. But places that are just painful with a workdate (so not the same as a workmate). Mind you, perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised. Especially considering the next sentence out of said dining companion's mouth tonight was: 'I honestly think they'd fire me if I ever went above a size 12.' 

Tittle tattle...

There's nothing like a Media Guardian interview to get the industry buzzing. It's the sign your appointment is taken seriously enough by the powers that be in the media that they'll send a journo down to nose around your office and take you, well, not very seriously at all. Introducing Catherine Ostler's 'It's a bit posh. OK, it's very posh' summation of her five days in charge at Tatler. Yes, I said five days. Because despite being appointed Editor In Chief of the socialite's bible over six weeks ago - over a quick breakfast with Nicholas (that's Conde Nast's MD Coleridge to you and me) - she's barely had time to be in the office. There's been the scrum of Paris Fashion Week to attend and a serious dollop of digging up the dirt on what Tatler's former Editor In Chief Geordie Greig is up to at her former Evening Standard offices - a worrying obsession, I feel. So preoccupied is she with the Russian intervention at Associated Newspapers, she's commissioning her first Tatler feature on how new owner Alexander Lebedev made his money and how his 20-something son Evgeny is ripping up the capital. [Note to self here: must make effort to track down potential billionaire whose daddy could give me a job at Raffles, some time.] 'It's all about shifting the mix and cast of characters to reflect the changing nature,' Ostler explains, before quickly realising she's made an error that inadvertently shows how wrapped up in the past she is. 'I keep saying London but 40% of readers are outside the capital.' Yes, Editor In Chief - most Tatler readers reside in the countryside. In big piles of bricks, or the hovels that surround them, where nowadays there's less shooting and more shooting up at the infamous after parties. 

If I sound bitter about Ostler's appointment, let me clarify. I have nothing against her personally. Never met her in fact. But she managed to make ES Magazine - the weekly glossy that should capture the amazingly diverse and cheeky irreverence of London - staid and irrelevant to all those who lived outside SW1.  And I worry she'll do the same to Tatler, a magazine that in the last eight months has pushed itself into my must-read pile of monthlies. (Yes, yes, perhaps not that hard). It's managed to recognise the shifting nature of 'high society' - where Sloanes go to boxing matches, Royals fall out of nightclubs and Pixie Geldof's a cover star - without loosing any of it's cache within that set. The features team especially, Ticky Headley Dent and Richard Dennan, are spot on at spotting a trend (from K&C, mixing Ketamin with Coke, to the rise of the after party) and expertly bringing it to life to make it accessible and amusing to those both living it and on the periphery wanting to look in. Surely that's the key to a successful Tatler? Let's hope Ostler realises that. 

Lost In Fashion

I never intended to be a fashion journalist. I mean, don't get me wrong, I've always been a bit crazy about clothes. Spending an entire month's budget as a student on a white fur coat, I'd mostly likely ruin by spilling chips, cheese and beans down it after a night out, say. Or trawling around New York for three days trying to find a pair of UGGs. It was 2003, ok. But my career was something different. 'I'm going to write for a women's magazine,' I announced to the scorn of my uber-feminist Oxford tutor in my first seminar there as a young, idealistic student. She didn't share my belief that as most women I knew obsessed over magazines, it was the best place to both represent and speak to them, provided you could find an intelligent, engaged version. 

Luckily, I did. And for two happy years I persuaded the woman at the centre of the news agenda who you just wanted to sit down and have a cup of tea with to talk to me, I interviewed the new TV phenomenon all my friends and I were obsessed by and I managed to put our rants in the pub into think pieces against some scarily well-respected journalists. I was living the real life of a journalist at a high-profile women's magazine. 

But what I would soon come to realise was that the core element to this, and indeed every, womens' magazine is, of course, fashion. I don't know why it didn't click earlier. After all, that's where the money came from. The freedom to go out and talk to the women surrounding Michelle Obama let's suppose, comes from that Giorgio Armani advert. Versace's sun-kissed images of Kate Moss pay for an investigative trip to India. And so, with a hop skip and a jump around the internal office career ladder, it has come to be that I am suddenly immersed in this world where shoe samples, ripped jeans and fashion show schedules are filling my days. 

There are certainly some clear advantages: endless pots of moisturers and make-up, access to sample sales and experiencing some mind-blowing beautiful clothes in the most amazingly orchestrated fashion shows. Not to mention meeting the people - and I mean everyone from designers to stylists and make-up artists - who have made me realise the enormity of this multi-billion pound industry. But being in fashion land has also been incredibly strange. Trying to explain to friends that you don't have a life in February and September when the shows are on, always thinking almost six months ahead and navigating the front row politics - that seem to last all year in different guises. Because we haven't even talked the uniform rules and air kissing etiquette. It's exhausting. And, for you to be the best in this world, it's all consuming. No time for non-work events or non-fashion friends, no money for non-office attire. As for a sex life? Forget it. The cliche about only meeting gay men is 100% true. 

So eight months and two seasons into my virgin journey into fashion land, I've decided it's time to take stock. This blog will partly be an attempt to chronicle the quite unexpected and insane activities my life now entails. (If you'd told me as a geeky, library dwelling student self I'd be blowing off drinks with friends with the excuse, 'dinner with Dolce & Gabbana' I'd have thought you were on study drugs.) And this blog will partly be an attempt to understand quite how to navigate my way through the choppy sea of an uber-fashionable life. Because when your mistake of going for a double cheek air kiss when you should have only done one is greeted with, 'Oh we're doing the European hooker thing are we?' you know you're in trouble.