In Milan seasonal fashion is religion.

It not so much worn as OBSERVED. And often it makes me laugh a snorty superior laugh, then the influence starts to trickle in.

For example, PRADA. How long will it be, actually, before I actually succumb to the windows I studied at (in the rain) and steal James' football socks in an attempt to capture the zeitgeist. I mean football socks are within reach and I can update them in fashion colours. He will be irritated but possibly relieved that I resist the chunky make-do and mend uber platforms that go with.

I think the essence of real luxury is creating a seasonal design that can't be copied quickly, or at least properly. No one does eccentric rich person like Miuccia Prada. And few can actually wear this look without looking like Bjork. Socks are sexy but bizarre. Beige people can't wear them, Gywneth won't bother. They are awkward and if they don't match they are just tragic. But I still have a twinge of desire for them. Possibly because my own definition of luxe is rarely art school freaky. I love quirk, on other people, in other labels...or possibly on the opposite sex. Watch out boys I want your SOCKS.