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?