Speaking of imperious. I know he is central to your heart, but what extreme spirits was Andre Leon Talley sipping during Couture Week. The very conceit of Prime Time American Network broadcast bought out the worst in him. All that trilling, all that drawling, a shtick that is so entertaining in private grates severely in public. I was hoping that Madonna would have stopped him mid-stream (and girl was he streaming) with a strict "Oh Behave!" But I have to give him props on his blow by blow re: the Viktor & Rolf. I was in tears at his hysteria. It was too entertaining. I mean he restored my ruined faith in fashion, he truly did! ("The house is in an uproar, the house is rising to is feet. This is Couture 2000. This is Avant Garde. This is NOT a Mess. I would wear this.). Oh Andre he is the most fabulous mess but he ain't no Maggie Rhizer.

As we well know messy can be a good thing (in the right light). I mean one does not associate Paul Smith with messy but the bash he tossed avec Dazed And Confused was really, really good and sticky. That was the second shot that began to reinvigorate my dessicated mind. I went to politic and land some more work for what has emerged to be the most vital youth culture style rag of the moment (slurp-slurp). Convened in the severely climate controlled offices of some new Brit advertising agency the evening was highlighted by one of the boys from Pulp banging away on the DJ decks and the crowd was giving you Notting Hill trustifarian, DOWN. I mean the little Louis Vuitton bucket hats. The Agnes B’ suit twisted by that Puma trainer. The Jimmy Choo heels with the flea market knee skirts. It was so.....that, I got thoroughly homesick. Who was there again, let me try to summon it from my shattered short term. Uhmmm. Photographers Chris Scott and Micheal Stryder were in the house. DJ Timaj with that Indian model who wrote the cookbook featured in the Styles Of The Times was there with DNA's Jihae. Margot from Paul Smith was there and we were comparing our ear piercings when I was graciously introduced to the legendary Malcolm Beckford from Trace. And H, I swear I turned a blind corner and who did I occur upon by them Scottish rudeboys Craig McDean and DJ Mal with the super - beautiful McDean muse, Nikki in tow... It had been years. There were tears. I mean it was so eerie when they all looked at me and howled Manque! How long I have not heard that nickname!. Craig totally was feeling my signature canary yellow Adidas T and I swore I'd send him one except he doesn't know, I pretty much cribbed it from the showroom a season ahead of store availability.

In fact the best dressed artist named Maxwell tried to coax the very shirt off my back when I styled him for this shoot previewing his Live 99 tour. He’s a strange one, perpetually polite but the brutal ambition that glitters in his eyes. He is not the sweet, fey little dandy you would imagine, I mean he's simultaneously so charming AND controlling it's terrifying. It's too Bowie. I had to slog 14 bags of gear over to his building for his approval (he lives right downstairs from Kirsty and Donovan. Wotta coincidence!) As you well know, I style based on my personal loves and loathes and of course he had to covet the very same Yves St Laurent pieces I was stocking away for the sample sales. That said I must assert he is really brilliant on camera is quite cognizant of his labels and his taste is sincerely his though that tossing-red-wine while wearing white Helmut Lang trousers was not a great moment for me. You must come to the dinner at The Independent that Eamon, Sally and I are throwing in September for him as his tour just happens to co-incide with the next New York Fashion week.