Black on black

I had the afternoon off so I met up with the model scout from the masquerade under the giant bronze Freddie Mercury at the Dominon Theatre. The last time I saw him, he was drinking a triple-thick strawberry milkshake in Oxford Circus to prepare for the night of orange juice and vodka table service at Maddox and Movida. While everyone else is making themselves look important, we'll lurk in a corner talking about art and other people's outfits. He wears a leather jacket, an alias and a diamond in his tooth and I have the best time when I'm out with him.

Today we stopped by Hannah Marshall's A/W 2008 preview in Soho for some free drinks, a passing canape and a gift bag filled with USB-port accessories and Vitamin Water.





Black is the new black, it seems, a few brass knuckles paired with a leather-accented lace dress and some inappropriate shoes. I appreciate anyone who justifies my lust for black dresses and irreverant accessories. The crow feather headdresses are unbelievable and I think Robert Louis Stevenson will be my ultimate inspiration for autumn.

Following Soho, we hopped to some boutique openings, an underground record store and an art show in Hackney. I wasn't really feeling the large-scale guitar frets in the middle of enlarged b/w prints of houses but I had a great time at the Bistroteque afterparty. I spent the evening with the model scout, a hairstylist for V magazine and an installation artist with whom I spent an hour discussing modern mythology under the bar's oversized chandeliers and sombre colour scheme.

I ended the night at a party in Old Street at a designer's showroom with the model scout and a gang of Alexander McQueens, the most awe-inspiring and intimidating type of women in London. They dress in skintight structural black with bondage boots and spiky airs, and while some bottles of red wine and Edith Piaf will loosen them up, their burgundy-red lips and blunt black bangs keep me riveted from afar.