Well that's it. Left on the platform as the last train pulls out. Clueless. It seems the must-have accessory is not a mui mui bag costing the same as a small car but something I already have in spades and I didn't see it.
I'm not one to lead the way, style wise. Not exactly cutting edge. Gok Wan won't fret that I fancy his job.
Yet, here, right next to me, is the latest trick. All four feet, smelly breath and very shaggy hide.
A dog. Bang on trend. Paris Fashion Week delights in sweet-smelling pooches snacking on thinly slices chicken during cocktail hour at the Hotel Costes. They are everywhere, tucked into the fragrant armpits of the rich and frivolous.
Nothing fragrant about this lad. He lies like a log for the unsuspecting to fall over and is always on the wrong side of a door. Tuck him under your arm and a look of faint surprise will come over his features as you haul yourself off to casualty with a hernia the size of a bowling ball. And he sheds. Enough to stuff a king-size mattress and still have some to spare for a duvet.
Suppose they are all the same under the skin. lets hope the fashionistas have the poop bags handy. Could take the shine off that fabulous new handbag.
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