I have just finished reading the May issue of British Vogue. I do that sometimes. Read stuff. Not just May though, I read all the months. Not all at the same time obviously because then I would get all my trends mixed up and I would fail to be the stylish lass I am. At the moment pantaloons are in. And cowboy and metallics and...colours. Wearing colours is HUGE for summer. Mark my words: you shall wear a colour before summer is out. Also, layering sucessfully is the key to eternal happiness. That and having loads of cash to buy designer handbags. I have one rule about handbags: If it cannot hold a nagen of vodka it is no good. I'm a simple girl with simple but heartfelt principles.
My favourite bit of Vogue is the Miss V column, where two anonymous fashion editors exchange gushing emails about all the star-fucking parties they've been to and all the free loot designers send them. It's brilliant:
'You were so wrapped up in James Purefoy that you missed moi, wrapped in my Preen bandage dress, plotting with Sandra Choi, Jimmy Choo's creative director, and Alice Temperley's husband Lars for tennis doubles at the Hurlingham. (Must pick up that flirty Stella for Addidas dress to distract from my nasty little drop shots.) Roland[Mouret]'s on a roll: tonight it was Natalia Vodianova, Bee Shaffer and Felicity Huffman he had deep in conversation before the artichoke salad was cleared.'
You will notice that Vogue kindly highlights all the big names here for you so can fume in envy more efficiently. I don't quite follow their order of significance though. Me, I would have highlighted moi, creative director, tennis doubles, artichoke salad and money-hungry, social-climbing knobheads to properly get the message across. The last one is more implied than actually said.
Apparently it was Camilla Al Fayed's 21st last month. Get over it: I wasn't invited either.
'A hundred guests gathered in an Egyptian-themed tented room to nibble on chicken skewers and truffle risotto. A sarong would not have passed muster...'
You're less crushed about not being invited now, aren't you? I don't know about you but I don't hate one hundred people badly enough to make them come to my Egyptian-themed birthday party. Also my party themes are usually more basic. Like drunkeness.
'The D Squared twins buzzed about their new collection, describing it as "gowny" (the new edgy), while Paris Hilton could not stop her Blackberry buzzing.'
How shaming. Paris was ringing me on her Blackberry, telling me all about the vile looking white chocolate sphinx cake and all the ugly fashionistas fannying about. 'Lucy,' Paris said to me, 'you should see this party! It's totally wild! And you thought I was trashy!'
'Camilla made two entrances, first in a Dolce & Gabanna crystal-spangled black gown, then in an ostrich-feathered Julien Macdonald number. The sweet hostess even performed a rap with Daddy Mohamed before a giant iced Pyramid cake arrived.'
Does this spell 'good times' to you? To me it spells 'vomitous'. I don't even think that's a word but there you go. How gowny I am.