The night of the dragon.


One stormy night in Zurich, I couldn’t sleep, storms make me nervous and expect the worst, floods, fire and being smashed to death by branches, like Ödön von Horvàth was on the Champs-Élysées, I, however, would be smashed to death in some way more modest street, completely unknown to the rest of the world, and nobody would ever quote my way of being one of mother earth’s lesser loved children, one of those that made it on her list of people to be made extinct by bad weather, or, if I should survive this storm, one of the ones that made it on the list of people to be made cranky by severe sleep deprivation. To put it in a nutshell: I was wide awake that night, went online, visited Mr Porter and ordered a shawl by Balmain, the very last they had in stock, object permanence does not occur reliably at Mr Porter, a black and white and, well, mostly grey, cashmere and silk mixture, made in Nepal or Tibet, showing some sort of dragon, which would protect me against all these formerly specified odds of dying in bad weather. How ironic that mother nature made sure I would get that last shawl, maybe she does like me after all…


The hot days of winter.


Winter is a tricky season. Outside it’s cold, inside it’s not. It’s a perfect dilemma. You’re never dressed appropiately if you don’t care to carry a suitcase with you at all times of the day which I don’t. I frightfully remember one evening, a frosty winter’s night in Frankfurt. I was visiting my oldest and best friend Miriam and I was taken out to dinner at a Greek restaurant, her neighbours, the consulate general of Australia and her husband joined us, and I had the best dorado of my entire life there, which actually means a lot as I was brought up by a fish enthusiast. I can’t recall what we had for starters but that was when I started to feel hot. Very hot. I was wearing a woolen turtle neck sweater with the thickest turtle neck possible. Yves Saint Laurent, ordered at Mr Porter at the time when Stefano Pilati was still in charge. I might have looked cool in it, but I didn’t feel cool. Just hot. And not in the good way. The wine wasn’t cooling me down either, although I was starting to be thankful that white wine is served cold. I was considering ordering ice cubes with it but Miriam wouldn’t have approved of that. Surely she wanted to come back to that place. The easiest thing would have been to just take it off, but I couldn’t as I was wearing a totally torn t-shirt underneath. Old as dirt. It was hopeless. At dessert I almost fainted, little drops of perspiration dropped from my nose which at least was in top shape, as I had used Moritz’s Clinique For Men Face Scrub in the shower. This was actually the place where this night ended – in the shower. Washing off the woolen fuzz of my fluffy forest greened throat.



Freudian slip.


I really don’t know what I had in mind. But on one of my Mr Porter nights, I obviously felt quite kinky and thought that red would be a nice colour to wear, why not look like a coke can or a stop sign gone wild, no more blending in with the crowd, floating raspberry juice, look, it’s me, aren’t I swell? I still wonder if I should have mentioned that sudden need for attention in therapy, or better yet, worn these pants while in session, let them scream while I was reminiscing on the couch, my mostly bored psychiatrist might have seen me in a completely different light, she might have put me on tranquilizers right away, instead of insisting that I should live a little more, although, who was she to tell me that, she wore nothing but beige and navy, but whatever her reaction might have been, I will never find out, I have left her to her own devices, started to live a little more, but this fashion statement is one I’ve never made, yet. I really must have them stitched up some day, walk the streets, draw attention, big time, and give my thanks to Jil Sander later in the day.

Made in France.


I just saw a clip on Nick Knight’s Instagram account, giving me Olivier Rousteing talking about people forgetting the quality of his designs over all his fame on Instagram, and his good looks. I looked to my left, and over my chair I saw what I was wearing yesterday, a pair of jeans, biker style, with the iconic zipper fly that practically screams Balmain, you don’t need a logo to recognize the brand’s signature style, only few designers have achieved that, and a blue t-shirt with a serigraphy on it, an almost abstract screen printing of a lion’s head, some years old, still in shape, as back all those years ago it was beautifully made in France, imagine that, a t-shirt made in France, not in China or Malaysia, no, fabrication haut de gamme, delivered by grown up people, not by underpaid workers or even worse, by children, politically correct craftsmenship worthy of the old haute couture label, although looking quite hippiesque, meaning inexpensive, at least when you don’t give it a second look or thought. The moment Mr Porter delivered the first one, in a tiny flat white box, I ordered another one, in another tiny flat white box. The most beautiful and most expensive t-shirt I ever purchased twice, so no, Monsieur Rousteing, I always think of you as a good designer, even when I have to look at Kanye West.


Bad influence.


Mr Porter and I meet mostly at night. Actually, I cannot recall having met him in broad daylight. Not ever. He seems very nice. Very reliable. And he’s got such nice mates. Ms Sander and Mr Balmain for instance. Perfectly suitable company for a gentleman. But truth be told, he’s not a good friend at all. On the contrary. He steals my money, really, he does it each time we meet, he just grabs it out of my pockets, right after putting me off guard with some smooth fashion talk, taking advantage of my vanity, it’s an easy task actually, he just has to wait until my defences are down, he’s waiting for me when I come home after working long hours, he’s right there, in his little stylish app on my home screen, and the very moment my frustrations set in, caused by deadlines, cranky clients and even crankier creative directors, when the alcohol starts to work, these soothing 13.5 vol. of a good Château Whatever, when I’m ready to be distracted, ready to think a pair of trousers might change it all, that’s when he strikes, that’s the moment when he’s hitting me and my bank account, leaving me with nothing but another pair of trousers. But there’s no way of getting rid of him. I wonder if you know him, too. I cannot be his only victim, can I?