Titles are so bourgeois, don't you think? It is what it is.

Sometimes I find it excruciating to write. It’s not so much elaborate Emu quill plume to paper so much as writing that doesn’t make my skin try to escape off my bones. When I get the feeling of a hag fish nestling in the cavity of my chest, I know that what I am about to write will not be good. It will not have pizzazz, as they say. Then when I pause to think, the only genius that springs to my tongue is that of other peoples. My word, I think, surely there must be some left of my own somewhere int here.

The prospect of writing often daunts me. I suppose that these days it might be called stress. Once upon a time it may even have been called hysteria and diagnosed as wandering body parts – this has always been my favourite Victorian diagnosis as it makes me think that my insides are like a dark forest and my body parts some small girl in a cloak.

I dislike the word stress. Stress is not elegant. Stress is always frizzy hair. Lopsided (lopsided is my current favourite word) glasses and frantic hand gestures. Move slowly, readers, always. In your car, pull out like it weighs nothing and is carried like a skein of silk on the breeze – you will never have a crash because everyone will stop in your presence. Use your hands slowly, like you are moving through molasses. Elegance is slowness, patience and eyes that could shoot a whole room dead if they wanted to. Go slow, speak quieter and hold longer, then people will listen.
Have you ever tried speaking quieter in a chatty group? Everyone gabs louder and louder and as soon as you open your mouth their silence and rapture.

Oh – I must mention. I saw something recently that discussed the word Rapture. It seems that it has been misappropriated to an odd cause. The Second Coming, that of Mr. Christ and his cronies, will come down and take away (vanish, evaporate) those worthy to heaven – Leaving their clothes behind. My word, I thought, the only reason this might be possible is because there would be new wardrobes up there waiting – which almost made me convert but the fine print mentioned nothing of it. Even then, though, to leave behind my museum, my clothes, my photographs – surely I can pack a little overnight bag, Mr Christ? I shan’t take any of the champagne as I’m sure you are well stocked. Or perhaps I should, as you are better prepared for the middle class with your water to wine party trick.

What I mean to say, without diversions, is that elegance is knowing you have freckles, ginger hair and buck teeth, but knowing full well that these are precisely the reason you are not tanned and working for InStyle. I was never a face woman, but that doesn’t mean it’s not exactly what worked in my favour. You’d be able to pick me out of a line up blindfolded in the thickest wool.

There, D, that wasn’t so hard to do, now was it.

K, Darling, it’s asking me if we link Amazon to the site. Does this mean I can purchase a new species? I would quite like a petite, highly poisonous and brimstone red frog to be called the D frog, would you like one too? Perhaps we can order in a jaguar to use as a throw rug in my studio. Shall I talk to one of the assistants?

Marie Claire Preaches Against The Fatties

Dear Maura,

I was alerted to this piece of fine journalism by one of my assistants, and wish to congratulate your courageous efforts against the hordes of fatties that plague the world in These Dark Days of Walmart and McDonald's. I only have one suggestion: instead of exercising to lose weight, why not simply not eat? A friendly tip from your be-gloved uncle, you understand.

Love,

Karl

Magical Fashion Island

A lot of people have been asking me why The Magical Fashion Island in Dubai isn't going ahead. "Lack of funds", I said. "People aren't made of money these days."

"They were before?" said the people.

"Some of them. The Rothschilds were- that's why that had umbrellas, to stop themselves getting soggy. They always had umbrellas, those Rothschilds. Now they use plastic money."

"Does Bill Gates use plastic money?"

"Ah, well, he's not the sort to have a melting cesspool of credit cards all over him- he uses imaginary money. It works just the same, if everybody believes in it. It's like that Tinkerbell person, you know."

"-Off Peter Pan."

"Quite. If you believe in anything enough it'll be true. That's why I'm still alive- because I don't believe in death."

"Oh?"

"I don't "do" death. It is not for me. Other people, maybe- if they're into that sort of thing. The problem with death is that it's very hard to undo once one has done it, and what if death goes out of fashion?"
"..."

"Well, then one would be demode. You can't reinvent yourself either. Elvis did- he lost weight. I didn't have to die to lose weight. In any case, why The Magical Fashion Island didn't work is because people didn't believe in it hard enough."

At this point the people were escorted outside by my butler, and I sat down to read the newspapers. In The Guardian there was an article with the words "Are women hard-wired to enjoy cupcakes?"

"Stunning journalism", I muttered to myself. I called Anna. "Do you like cupcakes?"

"No," she replied. I called Diana. She did not like cupcakes. I called Carine and she vomited on the mere premise of cupcakes. Finally, I talked to my friend Gertrude Stein, who pointed out that the article was as ridiculous as saying "are men hard-wired to enjoy meat?"

"The article asks that probing question too", I said. Gertrude rolled her eyes. I wondered how on earth anybody would come up with the assumption that Women Enjoy Cupcakes. What about staplers, hm? Are office-workers hard-wired to enjoy staplers? Are pizza-makers hard-wired to enjoy pizza-slicers? Why is there so much wiring, anyway?

I threw The Guardian on the floor and stomped on it with my one-size-too-small shoes. Hard hitting journalism indeed. I asked Helmut if he wanted to take a photo, and I asked him how death was working out. He mentioned an orgy.

Above: Artist's rendering of Magical Fashion Island.

I do so enjoy it when people take me to heart

The Guardian- The fussy eater: Why eating in public is a no no

If you would handkerchief F the word "nonplussed" in the article above, you might notice that the lovely Ariel Leve seems to have read my post.

I find this delightful.

D

Karl, where do you keep your recliners?

I was speaking to Karl recently when he mentioned that he would send me [Helmut] Newtons remains. I was of the understanding that he would be sending me a book he had on the topic of Newton (as that was what the discussion was on), but when a package arrived in the post last night, it turned out to be his actual remains.

I am not entirely sure what to think of that, but it will make a darling centrepiece on my mantle - a turbulent conversation starter - like a small plane in high winds.

That got me thinking - why do we bother with such beautiful coffins? Ever since Iggy Pop and Keith Richards, dying has been so out of vogue. No body does it anymore. I know what you are thinking, some people don't know who they are and coffins are supposed to be your eternal resting place. But after the likes of Palin and Beck are having an unprecedented growth in atheists-- these things compound you see, eternal resting places have far less importance. I imagine that if heaven were all white, then it would smell like crisp sheets. However, if there was a heaven, I doubt that it would be white. It would be champagne coloured.

On this particular immortalisation bent, why don't we bring back death masks in the fashion of Ancient Rome? How glorious. Perhaps there should be a resurgence in urns - I wonder if Lalique is available for a chat and a champagne. I do so adore his brooches.

Of course people would still continue to use coffins, as not everyone is privy to the style of the times. We would need to start some sort of trend against them.

We could throw a party!

At a tennis club -- or a funeral parlour.

A funeral parlour could be fun, we could all dress up like we were going to a wake then climb into the coffins when we needed a little Champagne Nap. One might suggest that this wouldn't help our cause, but I'm not for putting people out of business and I think that if Funeral Parlours got into the Bed Business, then they would be happy and far more profitable.

I never use my bed, personally, I find the whole exercise tiresome. Changing out of your clothes and into clothes that not even you see - because you sleep in them. The poor clothes! Bed clothes must be the most lonely of clothes as they don't even get to go out and meet others. Whenever I get tired and have to take a Chapagne Nap, I lie on one of my sofas, put my eye mask on and nod off for a while.

But Diana! You might say - when do you change? When do you shower? To which I might say - don't be silly. I always change before an event and shower after. All those socialites, they leave powder on my cheeks from their air kisses. I wouldn’t need to put make up on myself if I weren’t such a stickler for hygiene.

Anyway, if I get tired at an event – I suppose I just pop off, have my little naps on a recliner sofa, then back to the event. My beds are only really there for bedspreads, which you may know I have a particular fondness of.

O! and to give some people something to do -- so they don't go rob some other people, which I understand happens when people get bored.

Isn't it grand what you learn over breakfast!

A Victory For Edith Head

I should shoot down those tiresome rumors about me retiring, again- they seem to crop up every six months or so- the same rate as Cher farewell tours and Neil Young albums. This time the rumors seem to be being dispensed by anonymous news sources, as opposed to Ms. Pernet, who I actually like. It is a lot less interesting when the rumor is being whispered by greasy bits and blobs. Do the bits and blobs have a vendetta against me? I asked my butler, who was sewing up the back of my head- it needs to be tightened daily to keep me looking as I do (I almost wrote "young and fresh" there, but I am under no illusions- I do not pretend to be the fresh lamb of the day).

Anyway- I am not retiring, and I intend to design Chanel until the end of time. Even then I will carry on, because time doesn't affect me. Time is relative, and I have no relatives. Well- all my relatives that I'll admit to liking are dead. Anyway, this means I am free of time itself. You can ask Einstein if you don't believe me. Of course, Albert ended up marrying and thus died. If you want to live forever have no relatives. Everybody these days is too concerned with starting a family or getting married. I see men and women carrying engagement rings down the street on their open palms, running in that fashion that you only see in black and white movies. Colour movies don't do it, because colour changes how people move. This was the main idea for the last Chanel show- to change how everybody walks by using a black and white set. I once had a whole house in black and white, too- even the butler was in black and white. Edith Head designed it. Skin tones look a lot better in black and white. Ms. Head once told me that she wore her special-black-and-white glasses (which made everything black and white) all the time, especially when heading out into the general public. "Otherwise, darling, it is hideous!", she would say. This is my tip of the day, in the style of children's television programs.

Karl's Tip Of The Day:

Why don't you wear black and white glasses all the time?

I realize I'm stealing from Diana here- my apologies, D. I couldn't help myself. I urge all my readers to go out and try it- if everyone did it, everybody would look at least 50% more chic than they do (or don't). I imagine this situation would work in a way similar to the emerald glasses in The Wizard of Oz. Except, of course, black and white is a lot more interesting than emerald. When you go to see your lawyer, or your private detective, it will be as if one is in film noir, or a Raymond Chandler novel. Streets will be like a Cartier-Bresson photograph, or something out of Breathless. Everybody would look far more attractive, and the Wal Mart Generation would be neutralized.

This internet thing, Karl

Attachments, that is-- attachments to emails, are so chic. Attachments are like lace envelopes. Heaven forbid one would just throw an image or some writing into the body of an email, how awfully common - lumping it on in there.

There is nothing like a physical letter (some day I would like to get a letter in a lace envelope). I love how tactile they are, how you can see the person slaving for hours over every letter. It’s like blood, ink. Letters are love labourers.

Emails lack this tactility. You just whizz one off and one whizzes back. It makes the world one big spiderweb. And if there is one thing that this spiderweb has spawned, it’s an awful use of language. Where have these youths put all their vowels? How can they not love their vowels? Have they not had enough alphabet soup? The whole business makes them sound so awkward and haphazard, which I suppose is rather fitting -- considering.

Dear Readers,

I think the letter O should be used more. E is highly overrated. O is the most beautiful letter in the entirety of the English language. All that space in the centre means you can put so much into it – O, Diana! In a greek tragedy, or a champagne accident. O. Disappointment. O. Revelation. O. Loss. O. Lust. We could all speak only in O’s, swimming around like gold fish.

I have never learnt Finnish but despite the apparent similarities in the lack of vowel use, I strongly suspect that the Fins just hide their vowels. Like dragons. All their vowels will be hidden in mountains across the country. Clever, the Fins.

The French are clever, too. And they like their vowels. They like them well enough to give them couture to wear when they sound different. Everyone sounds different with a couture hat on. Perhaps I will talk to Treacy about making hats Acute, Grave and Circumflex. Acute will be rose pink (the Canadians will buy them up, aye?). Grave will be grey and Circumflex – well, I will talk to Phillip.

The Brits have always had this class-related love of the French language. I say love, but it has probably just been bore into them since boarding school. It’s a status thing. I am of the impression that the Brits – the British, “Brits” sounds like smut – have this secretly widespread belief that by learning the French language they are somehow Conquering it, like it is a Colony. Like its vowels will be somehow Enslaved to the British – which I guess they are, most of the time, with the accents that are produced.

Secretly, though, the French are pleased to have tricked the British into speaking their language. They are clever, see, and this is all they ever really wanted in the first place.

I do so admire the French.

My word my thoughts are all over the place today.