Those carping at Prince Charles’s adventurous mode of tribal dressing are losing sight of some very important facts: apart from the fact it demonstrates a bold and individual sense of dress, plus an appreciation of other cultures, his coat is one thread in a long fashion history that weaves, over hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, over more than half the known world, all the way from Northern Africa, across Central Asia, Northern India, Nepal and Tibet to China.
Charles’s coat, so my contacts in Pakistan tell me, looks as if it is hand-loomed and comes from the Hunza Valley in the north of the country. But it, or something exceedingly similar, could just as easily have come from Mongolia, from Turkmenistan or from one of the Emirates.
It’s a distant relative of the djellaba of Morocco or the dishdasha of Oman.
We in the West, with our throwaway chic and references to ‘retail therapy’ and ‘shop til you drop’, may think we’ve got this shopping lark all sewn up. But when it comes to shopping it is hard to beat India.
I got the lowdown from Nayar Balu of IMG, the international management agency which organizes Mumbai Lakme Fashion Week, my reason for being here in India’s cultural capital.
Private jets are in the news at the moment. We’ve had Sir Philip Green flitting to The Maldives for his stupendous 55th birthday party.
The details of Roman Abramovich’s divorce from wife, Irina, have inevitably thrown up mention of his TWO private jets - a Boeing 737 and a Boeing 767, for those who insist on detail.
The Bangalore billionaire, Dr Vijay Mallya, has been revealed to have decorated his with Impressionist paintings - well I suppose an Athena poster might look a bit tacky. And then there’s the endless column inches devoted to Lord and Lady Black’s commandeering of the corporate jet for a holiday in Tahiti.
Not for the first time, this last weekend, it occurred to me on several occasions: I need a man! No seriously! I’m not after a quick bunk-up, just someone who can lend a hand now and again.
The thought struck with searing intensity as I balanced atop a wobbling step-ladder, clutching a broom-handle and attempting to snag a particularly viscious rose branch which had grown to 15 feet in length and attached itself to the top of my magnolia.
I was continually reminded of Ayn Rand's great novel, "Atlas Shrugged" during this past week of catwalk shows at the Paris prêt-à-porter season. You know, that chapter towards the end when all the lights go out in New York?
Is there a John Galt hovering behind the scenes at the shows, I wonder. Day after day, show after show, we are plunged in darkness.
In one of the early pre-Academy Awards television interviews, the comedian Joan Rivers said celebrities had to dress very carefully for the Oscars "because you know that‘s the picture they’ll use on your obituary page!
"
She is so right. Because, despite the most meticulous efforts, Hollywood’s red carpet often ends up being a race between drop-dead gorgeous gowns and get-ups a sensible woman wouldn’t be seen dead in – Bjork’s “dying swan” and Cher’s North Sea fishing net, being two of the more frightful frock faux-pas that spring to mind.
The invitation was intriguing - and, typically, almost impossible to read unless you stood under a high beam light and tilted it at a precise angle of 23.
07 degrees. Maison Martin Margiela sought my presence at the opening of the Collezione Artisanal at the Carla Sozzani Gallery at 10 Corso Como, one of Milan's most fashionable addresses.
I was determined to go, not least because this might be a chance to catch a glimpse of the elusive Mr Margiela himself, one of fashion's most intriguing 'mystery men'.
The London Fashion Week catwalks are showing what we might be wearing come NEXT autumn/winter. But at The Brits last night, fashion was as raw, real and right-now as it gets. If anyone ever asks me what to wear to this ultimate rock 'n' roll thrash, I always say: whatever you like.
Because, believe me, anything goes - and comes off, too, as Anthony Keidis of Red Hot Chili Peppers showed as he abandoned his shirt for the gig, but left about a dozen sweatbands decorating his wrists. Casual, funky, glitzy, executive and eccentric, suits and sideboards, ballgowns to board-shorts; it's all on show.
While staying at the new London NYC Hotel for New York Fashion Week, it seemed churlish not to try out the Gordon Ramsay, the feisty chef’s first-ever American restaurant.
The £3 million restaurant, opened just three months ago, has not been entirely welcomed by the Big Apple’s food critics. As one of the staff put it bluntly: ”We’ve been a bit slammed”.
The generation gap is perfectly illustrated by this week's silver chic v.
shock-chic confrontation.
In the space of just two days, two news photographs amply illustrated two vastly different ways British actresses can make front page news. In one, Dame Helen Mirren was pictured smiling over her shoulder after a double victory at the Screen Actors Guild awards in Los Angeles - taking Best Actress for both her performance as Elizabeth II in The Queen and as Elizabeth I in the TV movie of the same name.
Whenever you are on a fashion location trip, it is the locations you are going to use that count.
And so it is, within an hour of reaching our hotel in Ras Al Khaimah, we are back on the road in search of the locations which will bring the clothes to life and, at the same time, convey a sense of the cultural, historic and geographical nature of the country. We set off in a mini van with George from Al Barari Travel Tourism.
One of my favourite presents this Christmas was a calendar called 'Noble Cats', featuring 12 different moggies dressed in the manner of Rembrandt, Frans Hals and Van Eyck etc. Being a fanatical cat-lover, I fell in love with it instantly, even though it is kitsch beyond belief.
Calendars are the new celebrity currency, it seems.
Footballers, like Freddie Ljungberg do them and so do pop stars and boy-bands like Westlife. Madonna has one and so do Ansel Adams, Daniel Craig, Kelly Brock and Johnny Depp, among hundreds of others.
I surely cannot be the only fan of Strictly Come Dancing who watches firstly, baffled, then mystified and, finally, annoyed and struck dumb by the peculiar and perverse choice of music handed out to the dancers.
Last Saturday, for example, as Matt Lilia prepared to take to the floor for the Viennese Waltz, the band struck up with that famous old-time waltz favourite popularised by the Blues Brothers, ‘I Go Crazy’. And then, to add insult to injury, the couple were expected to samba to George Michael’s ‘Faith’, a bit of classic rock-pop.
As fashion director of The Daily Telegraph, catwalk shows to me usually mean the front-row, twice a year, at all the designer seasons in New York, London, Milan and Paris, endless news stories, features and gossip columns and a slew of glamorous parties and openings.
It is fast-paced, glamorous and exciting and extremely hard work - and I love it.
My backstage experience is generally limited to joining the jostle of press and buyers queuing to give the designer an air-kiss and a whispered "faaabulous, darling" before rushing off to the next catwalk show.
It is so long since I have ridden around in a sports car that I had (almost) forgotten just how exciting they can be.
Years ago, when I lived in Hong Kong, an early boyfriend had a bright yellow E-type Jag and I remember the thrill of zooming up the winding roads to The Peak or out to Middle Gap and Shek-O. But that was years ago.
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