Stalkers and Prada

Yestderday I flew back to Paris to evade Rachel Zoe. She began throwing rocks at my window, and then started singing a love song. Very badly. Outside, attempting to play guitar.

Now I'm in my house in the closet having tea with Anna, and it appears I have another stalker: Victoria Beckham.

She's banging, banging on my door. Screaming in that little faux-British accent (I know she's British. But the British are simply more chic that her, hmmmm?): "KARL! KARL LET ME IN! I LOVE YOU NOT MARC!"

I shall have to do something about this. I'm telling an assistant to ring Marc but Marc isn't replying. Doesn't Victoria have a husband or something? She's demode- that's what Anna and I are saying over our tea and (Chanel stamped) biscuits.
Anna: Oh, she is so demode
Me: I know hmm?
Anna: Oh, I spoke to some interns the other day. For that magazine I do.
Me: Oh?
Anna: Hilarious. The bowing, Karl, the bowing.
Me: I hate interns. So demode.

I'm sorry- actually I'm not. But I have to go anyway since that horrible homeless Prada person is ringing. "She's intellectual" I hear the voice of the so-called fashion critics. No, she simply steals homeless people's clothes and clothes out of those bins that you put your old clothes into.