I'm eating at Anna's hotel room. God, I hate the smell of food. It's almost as bad as eating it. So I'm not really eating, but you know what I mean. Other people are. Well. Other people, being one person. And he's fat, hmm? The others- a bunch of models, editors and such are all hunched up like they're those poor African children who for some reason aren't modelling (they'd be perfect, wouldn't they?).
Amy Winehouse is knocking on the door- can someone get rid of her? She is so demode. So so so demode. It burns my skin. It burns my powdered hair. So hot.
"Amy, you are demode dear. Bye"
"I can't hear you!"
"demode demode demode!"
And now it's turned into a sort of dance with Anna and Plum and the Italian who makes clothes dancing around in a circle, going "demode demode deeemode", "demode demode deemodde".
"Gosh, I hate the demode" says Anna.
"Isn't beige a great color?" says the Italian who makes clothes.
"What does demode mean Anna?"
"I will withdraw advertising from your magazine if you say that again, Anna" says the Italian who makes clothes. "
"Nobody buys my t-shirts", I say
"Do you want me to buy them, Karl dahrling?" (you can guess who)
"Oh, okay. Lovely, hmm?"
"How much are they"
"Since when were you selling that cheap, Karl?"
"I never did H&M!" says the Italian gleefully.
"I wonder why" I say.