"Karl, we're in code K" says my assistant, in his whites pressed so much that they appear to invade personal space.
"Code K?" the voice of Anna shouts, in the other room indulging in...oh, do I even need to tell you?
"Code K. It appears there's a demode one in our presecne."
"A demode one, hmm?" I let off- a mere wisp of refrigerated air from between my lips. My trademark "hmm?" sends shivers throughout the entire fashion world. Down their shoulderblades and into their soulless little bodies.
"Fire this man, Anna."
Oh dear, it appears we have solved who the demode one is in the first paragraph of this post! Oh no! And now I'm going all post-modern on you. I feel like Martin Amis. Maybe I am Martin Amis. Maybe, I have a split personality which does not remember a thing about the other. So during the day I am Karl Lagerfeld, genius. And during the night I am Martin Amis, writer. How ridiculous, hmm? Gosh- we'd better joke about the anorexics now. To loosen up the mood.
Knock Knock. Who's there? An anorexic!
Anna: Uh. You're meant to say "anorexic who?"
Karl: But anorexics don't have a last name. Well, they do but they're all different. It's not as if all anorexics are from the same family. So what I'm trying to say is, is that there's really no possibility for a "who" to go in there."
Anna: You just don't get it, do you..
Karl: Get what?
Anna: I'll try one on you: Knock knock.
Karl: Who's there?
Karl: Anna who?
Anna: No, Anna Wintour.
Karl: I don't get it.
Anna: If I explain it it won't be funny.
Karl: I think we should just go back to being bitches.
As I was saying, there was this assistant that declared "Code K", which as everybody will know is the Most Serious code in the entire arsenal of codes that I've developed over the years. I did it all in one night, actually. I got home from work- and this was when boys threw themselves at me. So there was this boy- all toned, his chest a masterpiece, his lips full of ambition...you, dear reader, may imagine the rest. He was on my couch, as this was in the 60's where locks had not been invented yet. Sprawled out on there like he expected me to make love to him or something.
"Now look here, young man. I have no love to give you! I have no soul! I eat souls!"
"You have no love to give me? Sounds like Leonard Cohen."
Ah, a boy who knows something.
"Nothing like Cohen. So long, Marianne."
"Oh come on now! That was a pointed reference towards Cohen if nothing else!"
"Yeah. The fact is: I'm just not interested in sex."
"What about your lover?"
"He comes into the picture in the 70's, really. I haven't met Jacques yet!"
"You know his name is going to be Jacques?"
"I've read the history books!"
"So no sex?"
"Non, no sex tonight."
Now- the reason young men don't throw themselves at me anymore is because so many young men have done this the governments of the world had to create a breeding programme to repopulate the world with Attractive Young Men. Once a man has thrown himself at me, it is as good as suicide. After all, if you don't catch them, they simply continue falling! And eventually they go splat, which in my mind is a very vulgar way to go. Anyway, now I have rations of Attractive Young Men: a Brad there, a Brad here, a Brad over there. They're all called Brad- I simply can't be bothered remembering names. (Yes, I do realize I am not with Brad anymore. And you sure realize it, don't you Brad! Slut. Whore. Chanelface. But I can't be bothered remembering the name of the new one.)
In any case, I let the boy outside where he proceeded to climb the building Batman-and-Robin style without the benefit of the building being on the horizontal. And of course, I heard that very vulgar splat not long after. Oh dear. I went back into my castle, and started to draw up the Karl Code list. Sounds like a bad novel, no? "The Karl Code." Imagine what other sort of novels you could create with that, hmm? "The Nabokov Code", "The Klimt Code", "The Da Vinci Code." I'm sure the last one would be hilarious- some half baked conspiracy book. "The Klimt Code" on the other hand would be made up of text made to resemble images by him; which are only fully viewable by those with Synesthesia. The text itself would be written by Thomas Pynchon.
"The Nabokov Code" has already been written. It's not called that, of course.
What the Karl Code serves as is a sort of defence plan for fashion. For example, last night I was at a restaurant with a few others at Pastis. Kate Winslet, Kevin Spacey (is that man famous? I'm not sure why he was there), Isaac Mizrahi and so on. A waiter came over and asked Anna if she wanted food. I'll repeat that in caps: "IF SHE WANTED FOOD." Anna "freaked" out, as the youth say, and rightly so. I was in the corner taking photos of everybody- all those disgusting fatties eating their food. It's kind of like a perverse sort of porn. Anna started shrieking: "CODE F! CODE EFF! CODE EFFF!"
And the team went into action: two assistants apprehended the culprit (ie. the waiter) and dragged him out back, for a little lesson. A waitress who looked very thin herself- she may have been going to a Halloween party with those bones- gave Anna an avocado, because Anna was shrieking "AVOCADO! AVOCADO! AVOCADO!". The chef made the avocado look nice, and less like food. Anna looked it the rest of the night: her eyes boring into the very fabric of the avocado. I took more photos. The night was saved, thanks to the Karl code, hm?