JFK Campaigns for Omega

Have you ever wondered what makes luxury luxury?

I have been reflecting upon that recently, and I came to the conclusion that it is not platinum or diamond, and it is not the price you put into it, whatever pression the consumer society might put on all of us to think so.

The main focus in terms of luxury is exclusivity. If you acquire a luxury item, be it a painting, a jewel or a piece of cloth, you can be confident you will not see it on other walls or other people in the street like the next Kate Moss design for Topshop.

Making something available to a few gives it more value: because the luxury item is scarce, it almost necessarily has an iconic dimension to it. It has an intrinsic power to represent something wider and of greater importance.

It only comes to sense that James Bond would devote a few lines to Omega in Casino Royale, they know what luxury is.

The new Omega campaign is a strike of genius: choosing JFK to relaunch the Omega model that went to the moon with Armstrong is marketing at its finest. The former US president is, after all, the man who said: “I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him back safely to the earth.”, “We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.”

Luxury is not easily attainable, it represents an achievement and is a goal you have to thrive for. It represents an accomplishment. It is hard work. It means something, which is probably the main reason why it is looked jealously upon and easily discarded. An Eames chair will not be sitting in everybody's living-room.

Omega took it to an extra dimension: I hope luxury is more attainable than the moon, because if I am honest, I want to be able to surround myself with it one day. Far from me the idea I will need £6,000 Alaia alligator boots, a 30 carats diamond or a Chagall on my bathroom wall to be happy, but I do want to earn enough money to not live in an Ikea house, wear beautiful clothes and sit in the orchestra rather than the L shaped corner behind the Third floor security fence when I go to the theater.

I want to believe that luxury is not quite the moon to reach, but maybe the moon is a lot more affordable than we think? The moon might be only a state of mind...

Champagnista V

For Laura Miles, an obscure Fashion star

Michelle Obama in a Thakoon dress, colours by Laura Miles.

Fashion is all about names: Coco Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Miuccia Prada, Emanuel Ungaro are more than designers, they are immortals who shaped the world of fashion into the million star firmament it is today. Their names shine in golden letters on the fashion skylight.

Sometimes though, I wonder who Yves Saint Laurent would have been without the elfic talent of embroiderer Francois Lesage.

Suppliers are little spoken of in this brilliant world of shapes and artifice, but they are really the powder within the firework rocket: where would be the new Ungaro collection without the vibrant fabrics Esteban Cartazar used to energize his silhouettes?

For them all, for the forgotten, for the ones who work in the shadow and make magic happen, I want to celebrate Laura Miles: she is not champagne and black ties, she still takes the suppliers entrance instead of the red carpet one, but the fabrics she creates are some of the most inventive and flamboyant on the runway, and she puts life and character in designer clothing. Jonathan Saunders, Carolina Herrera and Issac Mizrahi have been inspired to create strong designs out of her rainbow of irridescent fabrics.

When you see Michelle Obama in one of her designs, you know the girl has some character, and she is just in the right place: colour for colour, warmth for warmth, Laura Miles is an obscure North star who will guide fashion to its North.

Champagnista V

What should I wear to please him?

It is 7pm. You are standing in front of your mirror, knickers on, maybe not the right ones because you have not quite figured the math. The wardrobe is open, wide open, full of clothes, from the grandma half calf high-waisted black ample velour skirt to the tiniest denim skinny shorts. At 8pm, he is going to ring at your door and take you out.

If he is a gentleman, because let us be honest, nowadays chances are that he will have called you and set an hour to meet up at a cozy/elegant enough pub (meaning if you don't have your ass fondled by the first beer drunker after 23 minutes in you will be lucky).

Point is: what should you wear?

You like him, you like the both of you together, and you want him to look at you. You want him to want to be with you really: you want him to enjoy your appearance, to be proud of having you on his arm, and to desire more when he sees you.

Question is: short skinny denim shorts or not? Will he think less of you for daring the really sexy oufit? Will he think more?

This is probably the most frequent dilemma a woman will have to face (sadly enough) in her life.

There are two things you should be thinking of at this exact moment: first, what goal do you have closest to your heart? Is it really about a man? Second: what will you feel more empowered wearing?

You want to be yourself! You want to remember who you are and what you are thriving for on a personal basis, however much you like him. But also, you want to feel good in what you wear, because this is the way you will feel most confident and attractive.

Seducing is not about the length of your skirt or the decollete of your top. Sure, men will enjoy both, but does it mean they will appreciate you more for it? And more importantly, will you enjoy wearing an outrageous outfit you chose for him, or will you be concerned the whole night (in the typical womanly narcissistic way) with the shape of your upper thigh?

My very patriarchal (and very smart) grandfather once told me: I like women who leave a little to imagination.

I will rephrase his piece of manly advice this way: do not go for what you think he will find sexy, go for what you feel confident in. t is not about what you want him to see you in, but what you want to be seen as. What do you want to exude? What outfit will work best for you? You do not want to wonder what goes through his head when you are having a great conversation with him. You want to be able to be yourself. You also want to intrigue him: tease him, but not necessarily in an 'in-his-face' way.

Yes it is about the cut, fit or/and length of your dress, but more for you than for him. If you feel confident, you will project a strong image, you will feel sexy. If you hide a little, he could imagine more.

Seduction...

Champagnista V

Family trip

Is family in fashion?

I had a lovely day with my father today, whom I had not seen in eight months, and it urged me to write a family post.

Yes, I know, talking about family in a fashion world that is supposed to be so unattached and cool might not seem all that trendy and glamorous.

I like to think of fashion in a social way. The big fashion community is very much like a family in the sense that it has a common appartenance, it has a hierarchy (my family is very patriarchal), and there are lots of rules, which are meant to be broken.

I find clothes wonderful. Colourful heels are always a pick-up that will give you just this extra hight when you feel down. Put on the right dress, and you will suddenly feel beautiful, confident and appraisable. And it can feel magic, and these might all be feelings that you will be left to crave for in your family, however wonderful.

I love waking up in the morning: I am incredibly interested in my (fashion) job, and I am part of a (fashion) team that I love, a team that is diverse, a team that clusters very different characters: open-minded people, rich people, individuals who have an often truculant personality and a horizon that goes beyond the walls of London and the shores of England, and so much further. And if I have never been much of a morning person, I know that when I arrive at the office early without having had my wake-up coffee, my colleague miss G will always come up with the most unlikely morning conversation and it will make me smile. How good is it to begin a day's work with a smile?

You are probably thinking: she is digressing, what the fuck is she getting at? Well, this is my point: I believe that everywhere you can find circumstances, persons, art, landscapes, things -be they friends, be it light in the million blossoms of a cherry tree, be it the explosive pink-mandarine cocktail of s Sinha-Stanic dress- that will give you a sense of beauty, that will inspire you emotion, that will make you feel happy, even very happy indeed. Family does not necessarily get you in this state of mind.

What family does, with its traditions and memories, with its open gossip and judgements, with all its heartaches and storms and crazy reprovals, is to give you a sense of belonging. They might drive you nuts, but they also remind you that yes, you come from somewhere, yes you might not abide by their laws, you might worry them and get them to disapprove of you, and behave in a way that will get you harsh comments and make you feel inadequate, but you will always be a part of them. And maybe I am wrong and there might be a line of no return, but I think family you can always turn to, whenever. They will always be here for you.

I went back to France for Easter, and as every time, I was quite scared about it because I am not the closest to them I could be. I went back to the family holiday house in Brittany. A very old romantic house that sits on a beach in a bay, in a small village where the post office is open only in summer when vacationers come over.

I have incredible childhood memories from this place: I remember a storm that took away a meter-deep of sand on the beach when I was 8 or 9; my brothers and I went prospecting and we found amazing treasures from a hole-punched Napoleonian coin to a world war II mine. The cliffs that hem the seascape make you feel like you are in Brontee novel, covered in purple grey ferns beaten by the cold Channel wind. The air and sky can be so clear it gives you difficulty breathing.

Civilization please, might you think.

It is not 'civilized'. It is not a place to go to if you want to sunbath topless on the sand and party in the evening: the locals would most likely track you down and beat you up.

On Easter day we were 25, from 2-year-old (oh beautiful) twin girls, the latest offspring, to 80 year old hypochondriac grandparents. Like all beloving mothers, the twins' mum came to me at some point in the middle of lunch because I had one on my lap and told me, candid: 'oh, i can see you are having such a great time, would you not love to change their nappies'.

Quite ironic from my point-of-view, but in a way, so pricelessly loving!

I did go of course, I found it funny if a bit scary.

Took the nappies off.

Ha.

Post-apocalyptic poo of the century.

Baby norovirus.

I was pressing down on one of the baby's bust who was lying on the changing bed while trying to get rid off the nappy in a way that would allow me to touch it with the most minimal part of my nail tips, when suddenly, the baby starts peeing on my new Paul & Joe silk blouse.

Aha.

Hmm.

I kept holding her to make sure she would not fall from the bed.

Can I confess this on a fashion blog? Even if I would not confess it to a family who consider it a disgrace that I am the age I am and unmarried?

...

It made me feel a tad maternal.

So here is to spending £100 on a plane ticket to go back to your family rather than on the latest Tiger-printed Ferragamo silk scarf.

Champagnista V

Barbie Hedren

Did you know that Barbie was celebrating her 50th birthday? well-conserved isn't she? I suspect Bottox, she has always been so keen on artifice.

The feast, which takes place in no less established a fashion address than Dover street market, has been extended until April 25th. The space has been decorated in Henry Holland's fancy, who has turned the room into a crazy colourful candy box of the funniest taste.

I am still shivering at the thought of the giant Barbie head welcoming you when you enter... Glamorous Chucky, I am now trying to lock it out of my mightmares. However, some pieces on sale are truly mythic, like this limited edition of a Tippy Hedren Barbie fighting Hitchcok's Birds.

Barbie is growing smart! Would she have reached the age of reason?

Champagnista V

A little something to share on a dull and grey friday afternoon

A bling-kini really? Fashion surely does not fail to surprise us!

Priced at £2000 the limited edition swimwear is swathed in over 5,000 brightly coloured Swarovski Austrian crystals and costs a far from skimpy £100 per square centimetre- need i say more? I think not!!!

Champagnista M

Dancing to the beat of my own drum

I am not what one would call a follower. I dance to the beat of my own drum and love it. So when my eye fell on the latest uggs I found myself turning into a fashion lemming. I have never been an Uggs follower, preferring my sky scraper heels instead, but I am like 100% in love with the latest uggs. The print on the boots is pretty and flirty, just like me, which is just superb right?

So any who what are your thoughts???

It was whilst I mulled over my shoe dilemma this weekend, that I ended up purchasing the following bad mamas. I ordered them on Sunday and they where delivered today at work by the rather yummy DHL man. As I screamed “my shoes” out loud and proud, the whole office gathered around my desk so they can be the first to take a peek. Feeling like a proud mama I pulled them out of the box with love, and suddenly I heard a shriek. It seemed that the girls (and the one guy) where completely shocked, and following the clearing of their throats one of them muttered “they are certainly different”, as they shuffled away. I love my new shoes with the lust only a fellow shoe lover can relate too; I will just try not to do a Naomi.

Champagnista M

French Hope!

There is hope for Mr Burlington.

I am withdrawing all my bad thoughts about French justice: I exiled myself 5 years ago because I felt that Paris was becoming too constricted and conservative; however, once in a while, I experience a rush of emotion for my land and for my countrymen.

If Paris can seem slightly stuck up and static compared to London in terms of fashion and art, the revolutionary spirit is always in the air: we French are blunt, we are 'fanfarons' (boasters?), we are always 'en train de raler' (complaining? these are such French traits of character that any attempt of finding a British alternative will be lost in translation), we are touchy and always engaging in political and philosophical disputes as if our lives depended upon it. Ballsy, proud and bloody annoying sometimes. We have been raised with the concepts of 'liberté, égalité, fraternité': they are principles dear to every Frenchman, and they are principles we will always stand for, as a people and as individuals.

France is, after all, the country that first came up with the idea of the modern man, the democratic man, the man who, to paraphrase Pasternak, is 'unthinkable' without these two ideals: 'free personality' and 'life regarded as sacrifice'. The idea is that as an individual, you have the power to make a change, you have the possibility to interact with others, and as your life gets interwoven with others, you have the chance to make a difference. There is no group truth, there are only individual quests, and individual impacts on Life: searching for the truth is a life sacrifice, it is a sacrifice to life itself.

This is a concept I find incredibly inspiring, and that the French -I believe- hold close to their heart.

At any point, the French government are now taking Mr Burlington under their wing: as it turns out, he does not face 12 years if he gets extradited to the US, but 25 years in jail.

For the offence Mr Burlington committed he would have had to serve 6 months in France: when noticing the discrepancy, French justice thought there had been a mistake in his file, some kind of typo mistake explaining the harshness of the American government.

No such thing, American Justice is unforgiving.

Seeing as he was not involved with a criminal organization, seeing as his criminal record was otherwise spotless, France decided to make a case out of it and fight to keep him as a political refugee, all the more considering he is from Italian extraction and had applied for Italian citizenship. He would have to serve a short sentence in France, but he would not be taken away his whole life like in the US.

So there it goes, for the first time in years, I feel patriotic, and I want to say: Vive La France!

French Champagnista V

Matthew Williamson's Easter Magic

Do you remember getting so excited on the morning of Easter when you were a kid, because you would start the day with the traditional egg hunt, and then spend the next 15 hours stuffing your face with chocolate? Chocolate for breakfast, for lunch and for dinner... and chocolate indigestion for bed time... Ah, the simple pleasures of childhood, magic for the kids, nightmare for the mums, how I miss them!

It is a bit sad, but chocolate doesn't get me excited anymore, apart from this critical moment when I am craving to go back home with a boy and noone is available: no better palliative than a kinder surprise then!

This year however, I find myself excited like a 5 year old all over again... No chocolate in my near future, but a very special designer Easter treat, and let's be honest, designer is so much more gratifying than Lindt bunnies!

A mere few days before his high street collection hits the rails of H&M on 23rd April, Matthew Williamson releases two Easter surprises as colourful as his SS09 collection: a faceted glass brooch, and this wonderfully elegant silk square. I am not as versed in accessories as in clothes, even if I will confess I love statement earrings, but this scarf is the prettiest thing I have seen in ages, and the print reminds me of Klimt's dreamy paintings: slipping it on would be like wearing Le Baiser around your neck. Sensual.

Even better, for these 2 items' pre-Easter release between 8 and 10 April, the Bruton store will treat everyone who passes their treshold with champagne and Hummingbird Bakery cupcakes ornate in the rainbow colours of Williamson's SS09 collection: Matthew knows how to make Easter pop!

Champagnista V

Topshop makes its move...to NYC!

It has been a long time coming and finally it has happened- Topshop has opened in New York City- yay!

It is located on Broadway in the SoHo area of lower Manhattan- a fabulous location by the way for all you New York virgins. With four fabulous floors selling fashion must haves it is ceratinly a shopaholic's dream.

The floors include three for Topshop and a basement level for Topman. With its new-look interior designed by London Consultancy Dalziel + Pow it certainly has a strong reference to the UK, and embraces the Britishness of the brand with the exterior displaying punk-style Union Jack posters on which a black and white image of Kate Moss has been super imposed.

With other images that include the London Eye, red buses and signs for Regent Street it certainly screams "london fashion has arrived, and is here to stay".

Continuing on, the ground floor carries clothing and accessories, and there is the DJ balcony at the rear of the shop and a lounge area with white leather sofas that trades upon the brand’s UK heritage with liberal use of the Union Jack.

With Topshop NY comes the usuals that we have at our very own London store- the Kate Moss boutique, the Moto denim shop and the “Shoe Lounge” and ingerie department. They have even bought the well known shoe shop Office along for the ride.

Topshop NY is tempting shoppers with promotions galore such as the “limited edition Cool Britannia” t-shirt for shoppers spending over $100 (£69.50), as well as the chance to win a trip to London Fashion Week- wow wee right!

So it seems that finally a little something from the small island known as England has finally managed to come across the pond and be loved and adored by the hard to please Americans. With yet to be confirmed US expansion plans for more stores to open in Miami, Los Angeles, Las Vegas and Boston, I feel that it is a fair trade for all the American stores that we have gracing their presence in London, except for Madonna, they can have her back- we can't be any fairer than that right?!?

Champagnista M

G20, whats that? The new mini skirt?

With all the drama of the G20- protesters vs banker/city folk, I ask you which side of the fence have you perched your pert gym bottom on? because i have come to the conclusion that us fashionista's (well at least 90% of us- the other 10% who probably do care are those hip alternative fashion sort who worship more Pop [is it even around anymore???] rather than Vogue) do not really give a flying Jimmy Choo who gets wacked by a flying dustbin or a bowler hat. As long as we are kept in next seasons clothes and sipping free champagne (not brute dahling) we will continue to be oblivious to what the G20 is all about- then again maybe i just speak for myself [sigh]!



Champagnista M

Mr Burlington is in trouble...

Mr Burlington is in trouble...

It is a habit of his: he is quite the adventurer, which is probably why I was so drawn to him in the first place. Strong-willed and ambitious, he has made himself against all social predicaments: both his parents were Sicilian immigrates in the US and still do not speak a very good English, and Mr Burlington rose through society like Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, supporting himself through business school and penetrating the sacro saint sepulchre of the American capital’s high society on his own.

I don’t think I have ever met such an intelligent man, and he is one of the persons I admire the most: yes he is feisty, yes he endeavours to break into the closed circle of the high and mighty, yes he can be frank in a brutal way, but he is also one of the most genuine persons I know, smart, free-spirited, courageous and reliable as a friend.

To break through life when you come from nowhere, you must have some balls, you must not be scared of breaking social rules.

This is where it went wrong: it is an Icarus’ tale really, if you are too impatient and want to high fly too fast, you end up burning your wings.

Mr Burlington went to Paris some time ago to sponsor a fashion week party at Neo: after a couple of weeks without news, I started wondering why he had disappeared from the London party scene. I was half thinking he might have decided to stay in France and take Paris by storm, when his boss contacted me by email regarding work, and dropped in our email exchange: ‘Dave is in prison in France’.

In prison? How?! Why??? All I could think is that he had managed to pick a fight with someone, the police had come over and they had found out he did not have a European working visa.
Unable to shed some light on the whole situation, I ran over to his club, then contacted half our common database, and ended up getting his address in France: ‘maison d’arret de Douai’. How French people have the good humour to call a prison ‘a home of arrest’, I cannot begin to fathom, it really makes me mad! ‘Maison d’arret de Douai, letters, photos, no packages’... no phone calls.

How isolated can you be when you are secluded between four walls, in a country where you don’t speak the language, incapable of talking to your friends or family? Really, the idea of a prison where you would keep criminals away from society has become so common that you would probably not stop to wonder how cruel the concept of depriving someone of their liberty of movements truly is: can you imagine suddenly not being able to walk where you want, meet who you like, see what you please, see life around you? Have you ever considered yourself in this kind of position? Is this really the best solution we could find? Because it seems not only like torture, it seems like you cannot get out of such a space if you spend too much time in it... You must go mad in this kind of place.

Yes he fucked up. He ran away from the US when he was 23 because he was about to serve a 2 year sentence for some drug-related issue. He is not a dealer, and for I know him well, I would say he just tried to make enough money to get ahead as fast as he could. But what would get you a slap on the wrist in the UK, where everybody has tried coke, will have much graver consequences in a place like the State of New York which applies a no-tolerance policy.

At 23, he decided to make a run for it: he probably was old enough to know what he might risk, but are you not a kid at that age? Are you not a boy? Do you ever think of the consequences of your actions to their full extent? Do you ever imagine that your life could be taken away in a snap? It is an age when you feel immortal and invincible. And what of punishing someone for dealing with a substance in a recreational way while it is common knowledge that 80% of the New York youth has tried it? Isn’t it slightly hypocritical?

Mr Burlington’s passport was flagged and he was arrested on his way back to London. He is now facing 12 years for running away 5 years ago. He was 23. Today he is 28 and if he is deported to the US, he will be 40 when he gets out. For a boy’s mistake.

Do we call this justice?

Champagnista V

Bitnik Champagnista

Are you a globetrotting fashionista?

Dear all,

All is well in the fashion world again, but I feel like i am coming back from the grave. I hope you didn't miss my posts too much (so presomptuous I know).

I find it funny how easily one can go off-balance, given the circumstances: a touch of family problems, a pinch of emotional trauma, a little moving out stress, a tad of worrying about friends, and 'bam', you suddenly end-up self-pitying in your sofa on a thursday night, eating only grapes in the hope that it will help you regain some control over your life.

As if.

Although I will say that for my 2 day grape detox: it felt good to avoid alcohol for 48 hours. I believe there is something slightly vicious about wine, in the sense that it can become quite easy to have a couple of glasses in the evening after a hard day, but then you feel weak and tired in the morning, so you need self-medicating the next evening, and before you know it, you forget what it feels like to wake up after a good alcohol-free night, because this odd tiredness that sticks with you has somehow become your natural morning state.

Yes I know, I need to register to AA.

Anyway, let me update you on this wonderfully interesting life of mine in the flying world of high-fashion and the dark abysses of personal drama.

When I came back from Lebanon, i found myself in a bit of a pickle: the landlord decided to refurbish the flat, so everybody needed to move out, and as you must know, finding a nice place in London in a good area on a fashion salary is pretty much like finding a zebra in a henhouse: very very rare.

However, after a few visits, two of my girlfriends and I unearthed the hidden pearl: a small three-bedroom flat on the second floor of an old Georgian building with white walls and moldings on ceilings. Okay, the floor is a little slanted and you feel like you're on the deck of a board (especially after a girls' night in), but it is quite pretty and cozy, there is hot water and pressure in a shower, and it in in the heart of bustling London, in-between Soho, Camden, Angel and Farringdon, 5 minutes away from the new Brunswick center: I am happy.

Happy happy happy but what price did I have to pay to get there...

All my fault I must admit: after my Middle-eastern experience, i started reading 'Into the Wild' followed by 'On the Road', and next thing you knew I felt quite the romantic and endeavoured to have the true bitnik experience, to test myself against the original elements of nature.

Yes, yes, you can laugh all you like: I still think I will do it for real at some point, trade my Zanotti stilettos and Prorsum jacket for cargo trousers and hi-top shoes, and go back-packing into the wild. Well, my real plan is to go across the US on Route 60, walking, hitch-hiking and sleeping outside or at the bon vouloir of chance acquaintaces all the way from Virginia Beach to Arizona. If I survive it should make for interesting posts.

In the mean time, I had a bit of a preview when I had to move, because I had 12 days to spare in-between flats: 'no problem', said my dear little colleague Miss G, 'I know just the place, my boyfriend is living in a houseshare in Finnsbury Park, and they have an attic that can be occupied'.

Intrigued, I go and visit the attic with her, and where i might have gone wrong is that I was just coming from the House of Holland after-party where there had been ... ahem... some champagne and few nibbles, so I arrived there in a very 'arty' state of mind: the attic looked very much like an attic, but through the prism of fashion week euphoria, I fancied seeing a wild space, decorated in a totally esoteric way, piano in the center of the room, one of these places where you could withdraw from the civilization for a little while and explore a million possibilities.

'Beautiful', said I, 'this is just what I am looking for', and handed them £50 for the stay.
Of course after a few days in there, reality did not miss a beat: the piano did not work, the electric heater gave out after 36 hours, and I will not mention the nightly rat and spider visits because really, i do not want to traumatize you with my nightmares.

No what was truly difficult to handle was the cold: the mattress was on the floor, the ceiling was not insulated, and when lying down, you could see a fine line of sky between the floor and the starting point of the roof: you could hear passer-bys' heels clicking on the pavement, and feel the air crossing from one side of the room to the other.

Of course, this is precisely the moment when British weather proceeded to break massively, so temperature dropped to zero degree, wind started blowing like mad and I woke up one morning in a cold sweat and with such a splitting headache that I could not turn my neck round. I am ashamed to say I cried a little...

Anyway, the 12 days were long and painful, and I was not too far from going completely mad when the deliverance date arrived and I moved to East London: but this was not the end of the adventure.

My new landlord is an interesting character, and he is not precisely what I would call 'charismatic'. One thing he cannot stand is people being late.

Fat chance: I nurture the French 'quart d'heure de politesse' (you can arrive 15 minutes late, it is still polite), to me it is one of the most beautiful inventions in French culture.

At any point, I ended up leaving work at the precise time I should have been signing my contract, and 10 minutes later while still in the cab, received a panicked phone call from new flatmate K saying ' the landlord won't let me in unless you and flatmate N arrive and we sign the contract.

... and I have all my stuff with me!!!'

Sure enough, when i got out of the taxi, she had boxes spread out from our street to Kings cross station.

Deep breath, I get in the building, enter the flat, sit down in the living room sofa (marking the territory), and apologize profusely for being late, big smile, flick of the hair, firm but the short skirt might have helped, and I come to an agreement with him: he will let flamate K put all her boxes in the hallway, and we will wait in the pub until Flatmate N arrives and we can all sign the contract together.

In the mean time he will go and see other tenants.

Finally N arrives almost an hour and 10 minutes late, when we are already half way through our first bottle of wine, and all is well that ends well.

Blessful heating!!! I have never appreciated it so much!

So now we are in, and there are no boys around, and no fights, and no flatmate coming back drunk and trying to climb a pipe because he forgot his keys, so no stories just as yet.

I love stories...

Surely they will come though.

I will get back to fashion soon, I have to update you on another tale in the mean time, which might be the beginning of an online campaign for Mr Burlington, who is a dear friend and who is in trouble, like only he can put himself in, dear adventurer.

Champagnista V

CHAMPAGNISTA JOB WHISPER OF THE WEEK

Looking for something different? Why not apply for this fantastic sounding fashion job working at Diane Von Furstenberg.

DVF are looking for an Account Executive Assistant-so here is the nitty gritty...

Need someone who will be overseeing existing wholesale accounts in Russia and Eastern Europe and expanding the territory with new ones, includes travelling to all the major fashion weeks in New York, London, Milan, Paris for the sales campaign and maintaining the accounts (customer service, liasing with headquarters in New York and with other departments in London etc) throughout the year. Part of a team of 5 people reporting to a Sales Manager.

Requirements:

Russian speaker is a must along with the permission to work in the UK. The candidate should be computer literate, able to work with budgets and an interest in fashion is crucial.

Hours: 40 hours per week

Salary: From £20,000 per year

Website: http://www.dvf.com/

Interested? Well apply by email to either Tatiana Putilova or Hillevi Gillanders

tputilova@dvf.com

OR

hgillanders@dvf.com

Closing date: 9 April 2009

GOOD LUCK....XX

CHAMPAGNISTA CONTRIBUTOR- London through the eyes of an American Intern

It’s rare to hear a student claim that there is nothing in there life they wouldn’t change, but I honestly believe I have the best of everything right now.


As an American student studying in London, I have the opportunity to see this glorious city through the eyes of two people—as a tourist and as a Londoner. This unique view of the city allows me to see the small quirks that tourists don’t have the time to see and at the same time gives me a reason to try new things all the time because, unlike someone who lives here full time, my time is quickly fleeting.


This is the reason that when a flat mate of mine told us all about a man called Horton Jupiter that she read about in the newspaper that makes you dinner at his house for a small price, we were intrigued. He calls his business The Secret Ingredient. None of us had ever done, let alone heard of, anything of the kind. Sure enough, the tourist in us took over and we made reservations.


So when we headed out to Dalston Kingsland, as Londoners no doubt because very few tourists ever make it past Zone 1, we had absolutely no idea what to expect. When we arrived, there were already two other tables of people sitting in the living room and he was bustling away in his kitchen preparing all of us what we were sure would be a delicious meal.



The first course was already on the table and immediately we realized our night would be taking on an Asian-inspired theme. I was with 4 of my girlfriends and we had decided to try everything and not ask questions—talk about being adventurous! And so, on went the night, as we ate our way through 5 delicious courses and a 6th and final dessert course.



Feeling completely satisfied and thoroughly full, we sat for a bit and chatted, but we knew it was time to leave when guests from the second dinner sitting of the night started arriving. We left our very reasonable £15 on the table and stopped by the kitchen to speak with our incredibly nice, incredibly eccentric chef and host of the night. Between the guests leaving and the guests coming, there were about 20 people standing in his very small hallway, but we all had a brilliant time.



The five of us headed out along with a couple we had been sitting near at dinner. We had a very pleasant chat with them on the way back to the tube and just like that, we were headed back to our very comfortable, familiar home in Kensington. But it was an incredibly fun evening and definitely something I’d recommend to anyone stuck in a dining rut, and probably even those who aren’t! See, sometimes it’s not a horrible thing to let the tourist in us take over and be a little more adventurous than usual!



By Jaimie Hart