Affairs

Welcome to the Roaring 30s.

You know what was chic in the 30s? Not dying was chic, although with World Wars flying all over the place, sometimes it was difficult to avoid this. It is still chic to be not dead, although while I was well known to be dead it briefly came into fashion. People would turn up at parties all the time looking like death. But what was really chic was affairs. Torrid, vapid, rampant affairs right across groups in your social strata*.

I imagine a lot of you down there exist in small towns so there really only are three or four people that you could have an affair with whose ancestry was far enough away from yours not to be considered incest.

Even then you would run into the problem of people always knowing your business, or being related to too many people. Or even worse, being forced to become a swinger - which was only coined, popularised and desecrated much later.

You say swinger to a Danish person and they'll think it's someone who dances well. I remember the scandal erupting in Copenhagen where someone walked in on passionate the love making of a man and his wife.

- HOW ODD! - People sent by silent morse code to each other, wondering what their own wives would be like in bed.

The Danes are so beautiful they can get away with this, though. Someone with my nose needs to be more careful with how they perceive the world.

No, it has always been chic to have affairs. I had one in the 30s that lasted 3 years. Just the one affair, one tryst that just never ceased. 3 years to the day I decided that red heads would not be chic again for another 70 years.

How glorious it was in those days. You would see your husband or respective partner with hislover and have a great big row - despite the fact you were on your way to see yours and your lover had just come from seeing theirs. Alcohol and torrid affairs - champagne for breakfast and lovers for lunch.

I guess what I am saying, my dearest readers, is that the imminency of life and the departing of this world has been taken from us and as a result we are forced to live dull, unexciting, quiet lives. To add insult to injury, with the abundance of education on offer, we can be acutely perceptive of this dullness to the point of articulating it perfectly.

I say "we" but I assume you understand I mean "we" excluding myself. The vaults of the museum I had purposely perfectly preserved a party from the 1930s so as I never get un-lived. Every museum has one, although the Natural History museum preserved a dinner party from the 1950s and that one is a gods-honest bore.

I say, might I ask, if one doesn't live in my perpetual party, what is it that one does these days to live up there?

D

*So long, of course, as you kept to your social strata. Scandals are so unabashedly un-chic.

D's Arc

Dearest Readers,

I am creating an Arc. I say Arc because it will be far more akin to a Corbusier chair than the monstrosity Noah created. It occurred to me that with the imminent and exponential expansion of populations across the world (people do insist on breeding so voraciously, don't they?), the increase of unlookers may, too, exponentially increase.

More to the fact, with this large expansion in population, clothes from Chanel, LV, Commes de Garcons, will all rise sharply in price. Good clothing is like any precious stone or metal, there is only a set amount of it and the higher the demand, the more the price. This means that more and more the unlookers (sometimes confused with the Unwashed - though I fear for the inter-breeding of the two) will become more and more Unlooked. But also there will be a greater margin of them.

Those who can afford to float like the cream of the ever expanding population - and our numbers will dwindle slightly, too, for not everyone has the stamina to maintain such wealth - will be the only ones who can afford such style.

Eventually the waves of unlookers will become a sea of unwashed hair and dowdy blouses that will rise up against their Fashion Gods with a vengeance to rival that of a Napoleonic sneeze (I'm told, they too, are voracious). Their attacks on their beloved Fashion Gods have already commenced with the susurrous around Model weight (which is ridiculous, because a good model don't have a weight) and body image (which is also ridiculous as everyone knows that ones body image exists only in photographs and thus can be altered).

I am collecting Worthy People to join my arc. K will be first on board, he will be blessing everyone after who boards with a Chanel logo in No. 5 upon their forehead. Anna Wintour will be next, who will thusly judge everyone, silently, on what they wear. She will whisper to me the rumours or sightings that anyone has seen of those who wear Track Pants or clothing made from mixed blends. These people are spies for the unlookers. Only an unlooker could be fooled into buying something so cheaply made and highly priced as Juicy Couture.

Once inside, they will be met with collections from all the designers onboard. They will be provided with internet so as to be still in touch with the world at large, if only to remind unlookers of how much less privileged they are and to erase the trails of how they became so privileged.

Then, not unlike cream on the top of fresh milk, we will float away on this sea of unlookers in search for the Promised Land. Once arrived, K will place a single flag made entirely from silk so fine you can only see it when the sunshine hits it at 9am. It will be declared New New York.

I do hope you can make it.

D

neo-Trenta

Unfortunately for myself, I am acutely aware of the un-chic.

If I were more civilised, like my good friend, K, I would neglect to even recognise the existence of the demode - except to post about them. Even this, I believe, is a theoretical dismissal because he has swarms of models and PR wolves around him like body guards to prevent the attempted assassination by demode. Can you imagine what would happen if there were a picture snapped of him in the immediate vicinity of, say, little Terry Richardson? Not that this would happen easily as I understand little Terry spends most of his time outside high schools where he frightens small children with the size of his glasses and salivates on the shoes of school girls as they go past.

It appears to me, more and more as the days go by, that this swarm of people that K has (and often lends to me when I emerge from the vaults of the Museum) cannot protect me from the un-chic that exist outside the world of fashion.

Let me give an example.

A girl with entirely too much stomach for her jeans kindly informed me in the street recently of what Starburkes is soon to be releasing.

For one curious but horrific moment, I suspected they had blended an entire town - Houses, Town hall and inhabitants alike - which would make sense in that they were only serving them on ice. For you see Trenta is a town in Italy (or Slovenia, depending on your expenditure).

Secondly, I was out with my good friend Mr Colbert and after a pot of green tea and miniature cupcakes decorated and sculpted solely from Eggleston photographs I was informed that trenta is also Italian for kidney failure. How parfait. I simply cannot envision a world where something like this were to happen by accident. It is clear to me that there is some sort of usurper in the P.R. company of Starburkes. He/she is working undercover for all that represents sanity in this world.

This is not the most delightful component of this whole affair. Not that I would hastily call it an affair per se, as it is as gormless as a hagfish. The most delightful component of this situation is the comments that you might notice at the bottom of the post on the neo-Trenta. Their logic is clear on the matter. Let me set aside my intellect and paraphrase

- The stomach EXPANDS, duh. Don't you know ENYTHING. How ELSE do you eat all that turkey at thanks giving or drink one uf thoz 2L buttles of cok?

It seems that the proles are actively trying to out-macho each other in the limits of their stomach stretching. Needless to say this is delightful. Why on earth would Terrorists attempt to attack our way of life when our way of life is institutionally self destructive.

Oh! Before I forget, if you happen to be a terrorist, try not to attack New York again. We are most definitely not who you are looking for. We are, in all honestly, slightly mortified to be a part of the United States. Picture us as the cerebral and aloof cousins of a very po-dunk obnoxious family.

Much obliged,

D