Girlfight

Well! It appears Fashion Week ain't over 'til the fat lady sings (or throws a glass of wine).

The Eighties is definitely back in style! We have the clothes, the models, now Dynasty-style girlfights. Normally I wouldn’t approve of such unfettered hurly-burly, but given the high-profile nature of the participants, I have obviously missed out on a hot new trend. I fully expect fashionistas and society mavens to be throwing glasses of wine and punches at every opportunity from now on. The sign of a successful party will be the number of guests who go home with blackened eyes and bleeding noses. How utterly thrilling!

So kids, whose team jersey are you wearing?


I have turned off the restriction of one vote per person, so feel free to cheat and fight dirty.

I am off somewhere fabulous for the week. I'll be back next Monday, so occupy yourselves with the poll until then.

Harsh

My goodness! Now there are some interesting questions!

Fashion Finale

Having spotted Chloe's fur sleeves, Kate cried, "Right on!" and with a few deft snips, she cut the sleeves off her mum’s old rabbit fur coat.

Left - Chloe, Right - Kate Sylvester
Has Eighties revivalism gone too far? We have the leggings, the shapeless silhouettes, the fluoro palette – now the models? Brigette Berger and Geeling Ng were wheeled out of the Withered Rose Home for Aged Models but should have been promptly wheeled back in again.

However, Lorraine Downes and Rachel Hunter still scrub up very nicely, although the curtain call came a bit too soon for La Hunter, who had to rush from the shower, in nothing but a towel and unshaved legs.

Scrub up nicely
I went to the public day on Friday, despite the shame of not having any leggings or satin circus tents to wear. I bought a Kagi cocktail ring at the designer garage sale – reduced from $480 to $95! Although, when I got home, I noticed that two of the pave diamantes had fallen out, which was mildly depressing.

I got to see a couple of current season fashion shows. The Lucie Boshier event was fun, although I was faint with altitude sickness, with my seat being 8,000 feet above sea level. There were familiar faces amongst the models, but with deep-vein thrombosis setting in, the only name I could recall was Amanda Peebles. My god, her breasts! Astonishing they were. I hope they are not couture, because I would like to get a pair just the same. There were a few technical difficulties with the music – but who cares about such things in Boshier-land! Here, women are beautiful sylphs in maximalist multi-hued polyester, with diamante-studded eye-lids and perky breasts, who look like they do nothing all day but eat cupcakes, have loads of sex, and bathe in champagne, possibly loads of sex while bathing in champagne. One of the models even stopped mid-way down the cat-walk to pash a handsome young man in the front-row.

Next up was Annah Stretton. Stretton-land is a more sober environment, populated by pale private-school girls as icy as the blue-grey palette. No cupcakes and sex here. In Stretton-land, the models are en-route to a polo-match in rosette-laden silks, where they would coolly fend off the Trust-Fund Charlie’s grabby hands, strangle him with their multitudinous ropes of pearls, and stow the body in the back of daddy’s Range Rover before going off to stamp in divots and pat the ponies. One of the girls, however, had an alarming gait, that made a few front-row people giggle. One wondered if she had a wooden leg, or a stone in her hoof. Another looked so thin and tired, one thought she should be promptly returned to the stable and given a big bucket of oats. I was close enough this time to confirm that yes! Models do get cellulite, although in a pretty, pleated organza kind of way.

Deja Vu

Is plagiarism the new black?

To those of us (cough) who aren't on any guest lists to Fashion Wank, it doesn’t look like we are missing much. There is insufficient novelty to stave off the over-whelming sensation of deja vu.

Juliette Hogan's show started in reverse to the usual order, with all her models sent out together instead of at the curtain call. Innovative? Not so much. Marc Jacobs did the same thing for his Spring show.

Deborah Sweeney looks like she is channelling her inner Denise L’Estrange-Corbet, while her gold leggings/leather jerkin outfit looked like a cheap, shitty version of Balenciaga’s S/S 2007 offering.

I don't really need to point out which is which, do I?
Yvonne Bennetti – patent-leather trench coat? Seen it already with Lanvin, Valentino, and a host of others. Fringing? Prada. Stifled yawn.

Left - Lanvin, Right - Bennetti
There are many other outfits that have a distinct air of familiarity, but I can’t remember where I might have seen them.

Our local designers are coming across a bit like school-girls on a budget, who, thumbing through an old issue of Vogue, exclaim, “I could make that!” and whip out their mum's Bernina. While I am not saying NZ designers have been deliberately ripping off other’s ideas (actually, I guess I am), I think this is a bit embarrassing with regards to overseas buyers, who will also, surely, be suffering the same “Haven’t I seen this already?” malaise.

Additional Notes:
Everyone is doing leggings. And smocks.

Designer Salasi wins my prize for ugliest clothes ever.

Holy crap, is that a unitard?

Whoops!

Liar, liar, XL pants on fire!

Plagiarism may save time, Glucina, but it's awfully embarrassing when you are caught doing it.

Answers

Now for the answers to some of the questions received. Firstly, a few brief responses;

Evad – Yes, but don’t tell anyone.
Mark – A resounding slap for your impertinence.

Now for the more challenging queries:

I have one I have thought about from time to time but never asked anyone.
Butros Butros Ghali.
I mean, why? What was his mother thinking? Is he brother to Butros and Butros Butros Butros?
from Laughy Kate

Dear Laughy Kate,
I googled Mr BBG, and discovered that his grandfather was Butros Ghali, hence I imagine that a repetition of a name is the Egyptian version of 'Butros Junior.'

One hopes then, if this is true, that the Egyptians are imaginative with their name selection, as while eight English Kings called Henry can be readily distinguished by a Roman numeral (e.g., Henry VIII), the equivalent in this case would be Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Ghali.

Which is silly, but I would expect no less from shifty foreigners.

Dear Mrs Smith
Please tell me what answer to give when people ask "so, what will you be selling?" Not knowing is making me look decidedly unprofessional.
Chur,
Martha Craig
Babylicious

Dear Martha,
With a business name like ‘Babylicious’ you could try replying, "Baby-flavoured sandwiches." It may not be a very professional answer, but that’s what you get for asking me.

Kia ora, Smithy
Here is my question pour vous:
Legendary Hollywood slutpants Tallulah Bankhead once said, "It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time."
Substituting "blogs" for "diaries", do you find this is the case with respect to how often you update your blog?
Chur,
Robyn

Dear Robyn,
I kept a diary until I was nineteen, then didn’t resume jotting down my daily life until I started mon petite blog. Suffice it to say, by observing my own life, it appeared Miss Bankhead was right.

However, to further explore the Bankhead Equation (wherein Goodness correlates to frequency of diary/blog entries), I did some research, and found that in August, I wrote sixteen posts, while in the same month, Cactus Kate wrote fifty.

So I think that explodes that theory.

You didn't answer the question two posts below:
"I heard you like a cock sandwich?"
Well....?
from Seamonkey Madness

Dear Seamonkey Madness,
A good girl would say "no," a bad girl would say "yes." However, a wise girl would just evade answering.

Fog

The seasons are turning - and mornings are wreathed in fog. Fog is like a good foundation, it hides the unpleasant blotches and spots, and makes the city look soft and pretty. I couldn't resist it on the weekend, and ran out the door for an early walk.

What a different world the city is before everyone else gets up! Ponsonby Road was almost deserted, save for the delivery men, the dairies opening, and an unusual number of women wearing Juicy Couture trackies out walking small dogs. People called out hello to each other, and smiled at those they didn't know - it was like being a member of some strange club that closes down as soon as the late-risers start to get out of bed.

But try getting a coffee! It wasn't worth trying the Dida's deli - I had once called in at 6.55am, only to be sternly told that I "should come back in five minutes, when we open." Five minutes! Go fuck yourself. However, the 'One 2 One' Cafe (at - surprise! 121 Ponsonby Road) was open at 6.30, despite a sign saying 7am. Now that's service.

Random assortment of photos I took along the way;

Questions

I shall now open the floor to questions. I may be able to provide sage advice on all sorts of life's pressing problems. Go on - email me (link on the left).

If I am so inclined, I will post my answers tomorrow. Or perhaps next week - I'm very busy and important, you know.

Anonymity is assured, if so desired.

Disclaimer: It seems a good idea right now, but the truth is, I am quite unreliable. Answers cannot be guaranteed. I may have gone off the idea by tomorrow.

Spiky Red Thing

The sculpture by the Nelson Street off-ramp doesn't do much for me. The yellow tips light up at night, which is slightly pretty, I suppose. It is meant to be a representation of a pohutukawa flower, but rather reminds me of a primary school art project involving pipe-cleaners.



Known locally as "The Spiky Red Thing," it even has it's own My Space page. Spiky Red Thing has 1952 friends! That's more than me, so it just goes to show that there is no accounting for poor taste.

Note: Spiky's friends include Rodney Hide, Aja Rock, and Robyn; shame on you all.

Text

Received an odd text yesterday evening. "I heard you like a cock sandwich," was the message. I didn’t recognise the number. "What?" I texted back, with no reply.

In a rage, I rang the number. A man answered. He sounded young, Polynesian.
"Why did you text me about a cock sandwich?" I demanded. "Who are you? Where did you get my number?"

He laughed. "I don’t know what you're talking about, lady," he said, sounding genuinely surprised, then hung up.

It’s very curious. For no particular reason, I suspect Mrs L is behind this.

Fashion

Tickets for Fashion Wank have gone out, and there has been much gnashing of porcelain crowns from those whose letter-boxes have remained resolutely empty. But not me. My teeth are au naturel. Also, I never expect invites to anything anymore – I have made far too many enemies to get invited to the good stuff, and have far too much pride to go anywhere that does stoop to invite me. "One gets what one deserves," as Mother would say, the frightful cow.

Mrs N was parading the contents of her goodie bag, and mentioned that she had an extra ticket. I perked up. Trelise has really picked up her game lately; no more lurid circus tents with mutton-leg sleeves – last season she made some things I would actually wear (and do). But no – she is taking her husband. This is quite unfair. His suits are shiny with age and he probably thinks Costume National is what the Maoris wear.

Still – one must be gracious. I understand room is limited, what with all the space the front-row will need for their walker-frames and colostomy bags.

Online, one can find out what one will be missing. Nom D is using loads of black (Quelle surprise!), and Deborah Sweeney is channelling ZZ Top (large ginger beards on all models, I assume).

Meanwhile, State of Grace has been stirred by Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ (bloodied eye-sockets are to be the Next Big Thing), and Karen Walker has been inspired by racing jockey attire and maternity wear – so expect lurid circus tents with capped sleeves.

Sun

Yes - I saw blue skies yesterday!



My retinas were scorched, not by the blinding glare of the sun, but by the acres of porridgey flesh on display, as many Aucklanders hit the streets in t-shirts and (in most cases, inadvisably) shorts.

P.S. Advice to all - when consulting with one's doctor, have discovered it's not advisable to ask if he can prescribe an alternative to BZP. Perhaps also, should not have referred to Slimfast as one's "happy pills." I got a half-hour grilling, and a referral to a psychiatrist.

P.P.S. Anyone know if Ritalin is any good?

Funeral

I'm back. Forgive the unheralded departure; an elderly great-aunt did me the disservice of dying suddenly. This was annoying – I missed out on a really good shoe sale at Sybella.

Anyway, the Smiths thus shuffled forth from their various nooks, crannies, and snake pits for the funeral. I do not like funerals. One is expected to cry, and try hard as I might, the best I can do is make my eyes water a little, but the main reason I dislike them is the assemblage of the elderly. There, but for the grace of God, go my genes. There are an astonishing number of women of la famille in various stages of going bonkers. Really – I am not just being unkind. Fully-fledged, diagnosed dementia. Dementia is, I think, the cruellest thing.

One spinster aunt, having led a perfectly respectable and charming life (decades ago, she used to make babies christening gowns for Smith & Caughey’s), is now in a home, where she wears a stetson hat (not sure where that came from) and thinks other people’s closets are her toilet. Another seemed fine, and untouched by any mental malady, until one Christmas her nearest and dearest were surprised – to say the least! - when her carefully wrapped gifts contained certain items removed from her own body. I shan’t say anymore about that, but it was utterly disgusting.

Also went to a house auction that Mr and Ms W were keen on. A complete dump it was – probably one strong breeze away from falling over – and it got passed in at $1.6 million. Even I was surprised. Someone asked Ms W about the Baby Jesus (she is looking very large now), and she started talking in a loud voice about passing wind. Why do pregnant women always want to talk about such things? Several men within earshot moved away, so perhaps it was a clever technique to put off the other bidders, and not really a hideous lapse in propriety.

I see the rain has continued, unabated, in my absence. I am sick of it, and am going to go on holiday, somewhere nice and warm, free of deranged elderly (counts Parnell out!) and gaseous women. I just have to nag convince Mr Smith this is necessary.