Frost on the Heath, dogs breathing steam, and tonight Blackheath sets the whole sky on fire. This coat is barely doing its job out here. Come warm up with me, baby?
Frost on the Heath, dogs breathing steam, and tonight Blackheath sets the whole sky on fire. This coat is barely doing its job out here. Come warm up with me, baby?
The V&A's new Istanbul show opens tomorrow and here I am planning outfits instead of sleeping — the shirt won and the rest of me didn't argue. Come help me pass the hours, baby.
Zaha Hadid opens in Clerkenwell today and here I am, up with the kettle, nowhere near dressed for architecture. Tell me, baby — is this an outfit or a starting point?
Nobody warns you how good a hard session makes you feel — and the changing room mirror agrees. Come help me stretch out, baby?
Last day of the Schiaparelli show and I still haven't picked anything to wear over this — the shirt's winning by a landslide. Come be my stylist, baby.
The fireworks over Alexandra Palace are lighting up the whole hill and my coat is doing none of the work tonight. Come sit behind me and block the wind, baby.
Ghost tour at the Tower and I got here early enough to be the most dangerous thing on the grounds. This coat is only just winning the fight with what's underneath. Come stand close when the lights go down, baby.
The cape was meant for the party but I couldn't wait — it looks far better bunched underneath me than it ever will on. Tell me you'd take your orders from a woman who opens the door like this, baby.
Found the devil horns for Saturday but lost absolutely everything else somewhere between the bedroom door and this mirror. Tell me what you'd sell for this, baby.
Three bags of new lingerie on the floor and I can't bring myself to put any of it on — this is how I look best and we both know it. Tell me I'm wrong, baby.