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...