It was a Monday in February. I remember because it was cold. A cold that no longer exists, a polar cold. It was snowing heavily. Paris was paralysed. At the time, I was working for a major shoe brand created by a man who has now disappeared. Not in a magic trick, no. He was well and truly dead, well buried, well decomposed. Far, far away.
That's it, the big show has begun for two weeks that promises to be as limp as a septuagenarian's penis without Viagra.
Now that we've entered the month of November with its full force, it promises a whole host of twists and turns, like Flamingo Road or a Colombian telenovela with Mexican roots.
First and foremost, and also because this is about fashion, I wanted to invite you to take 2h30 of your time to watch House Of Gucci.
I'm sure you're dreaming of me telling you the story of the Higgins.
While I'm eating my salmon sandwich that tastes like an attic, I'm not forgetting you, because you're the sunshine of my life (and now you're humming Cofidis in your head, remembering that it was Sacha Distel who covered Stevie Wonder).
You've got to admit, sometimes things are just meant to be. And today, the day your favourite spine-tingling newsletter is sent out, is International Women's Day.
Before each new collection launch, like a monk, wearing my most beautiful pumps, I set off with my team in search of the holy grail, divine inspiration, hoping to be struck by lightning like the tree of life split in two by the gods of Olympus.
Patricia, is it true that you're thinking of starting a bag line?
It's as true as my metro line project. Even if the one you're talking about is more likely to come to fruition than a possible Line 15 of my own devising.
We're just five days into a presidential campaign that's as boring as reading the phone book.
