I've been thumbing through my notes (or rather, listening to them), and wanted to mention a few shows I forgot to Blackberry to my assistant until today. Pardon my unforgivable laxness.
The Michael Kors show on Tuesday was THE show to be at, dahlings, so naturally yours truly was there, in the front row, resplendent in a quilted cream velvet trenchcoat, carrying a large lacy cream-colored chocolate box of...what else?...chocolate creams. My dears, I plan these things to the tiniest detail. Matching stilleto-heeled cream glove leather boots. I would have worn gloves, but one needs to be able to lick the chocolate off one's fingers in order to get the maximum suffering from the catwalk girls.
I sat in the front row, quite near Sarah Ferguson the Duchess of York, who politely asked for a chocolate cream. But as soon as she took it, she had to stuff it in her mouth lest the photographers see her eating it. It must be such a bore never to be photographed eating! It quite undid any semblance to royalty, watching her chew the candy like a cow chewing its cud.
Seated next to us were Donald Trump, his hair, and his latest wife, as was a security guard to keep The Donald's hair from moving whenever there was a stray breeze from outside the tent. Amazing how fast the man could move! Plus every fashion editor of every magazine, dressed in an array of fur, leather, and various warm things. As usual, it was the actresses and the lower-paid who were shivering in sleeveless dresses. They don't have health insurance, what ARE they thinking?
As for the collection itself, it was all about luxury, which is my bread and butter. Once again, the models were dressed more warmly than many in the audience. Even Coco Rocha was completely swathed, which is a blessing. One does wish Kors would use more than a splash of color here and there. However, the fur dresses--a mink shift!--did make me feel a bit wistful about my decision not to wear fur during this particular Fashion Week. I have such lovely things at home--but then I saw some more of those idiotic Russian hats and my self-esteem rose to its usual high level.
Back to the limo!
Elisa (who still doesn't dare bring Bucky the Wonderdog, who is sulking)