DIARY DA MILANO

I used to park my spoiled editor-in-chief bum on the backseat of a purring taxi. Not to say the least about that period in which we were aided by Andrea, an exquisite Italian work of art who picked us up from the airport and brought us to the shows and dinners in his mother’s car. Now that I’m an entrepreneur, I take the Easyjet to Malpensa (=cheap), and I take a shuttle to another terminal to take the train to Milan. I didn’t feel like going to station Milan Cortena and take the tube to my hotel (which would be more low budget, sorry), so I got in a taxi. But the driver headed into the wrong direction and so I managed to haggle over the taxi fare in my finest Italian. The taxi fare, I’d rater spend on something else. A Prada bag, for example.

Upon arrival at the hotel (which was the same location as where the Gucci show was going to take place), I dove into the restaurant. A good wifi connection, a glass of Chardignon (or was it Sauvignay?), a salad, my Macbook, and I felt intensely happy. I got picked up at seven for pre-dinner drinks at Chateau Monfort (the place to be in Milano) by Ilaria Scaglia from Gucci. One of the sweetest and most fun PR ladies I know. My dinner was a tower of Pringles in the hotel room. Too tired to eat, I soon fell asleep.

On the day of the Gucci show, I was woken up by my luv. They couldn’t find my daughter’s library book. And her teacher gets really angry when someone dares to forget the book. Or lose it. Give us deadlines and a million viewers (my husband makes TV programmes), and we won’t break a sweat. But an angry teacher, that we can’t deal with.

We weren’t able to distance-locate the book and after breakfast from the kind bartender, who used to work for Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana, I went to my appointment with Valentina Maina. Another great press lady. Valentina received me in the gorgeous, classic (what else did you expect) Tod’s office on the Corso Venezia. We caught up, and I always, always, swoon when I see her jewellery that, every time, she turns out to have made herself.

The step to do some serious serial speed shopping is small when I’m at the Corso Venezia. Not to say: nonexistent. Some shirts for my hubbie at Vittorio Marchese (we ordered them last fashion week, and they were ready now, I felt like a genuine Milanese), a spherical skirt at Cos, and some hairspray and elastic bands at a small hairdresser’s salon. The bobby pins I got for free. I almost forgot to write down that the window of the Prada store managed to suck me in. I left the building with a chihuahua bag. A small version of the Prada Saffiano. If I didn’t take any taxis anymore and ate simple, I’d probably have made up for the money.

Whilst the taxis honked their horns like crazy, I’m changing outfits rapido for the Gucci show. It was such a chaos outside. It rained so hard that all the paparazzi and bloggers disappeared under a wall of umbrellas. I shot a couple of photos and dashed inside. Anna Wintour was already waiting on the frow. This time not dressed in Prada, but in Gucci, as it should be. I nodded and got treated to a smile. I’ve got an Anna crush. I can’t help it. The Gucci show was amazing. From glasses to snakeskin boots, and everything in between. I want it, I need it, I’ll have it.

After the show it was time for a quick bite. I installed my laptop, checked in on the wifi and yesterday’s recipe repeated itself. A glass (it was already 16:00, for crying out loud. During Fashion week you should practically start the day with a glass of bubbles), a salad, a quick internet connection, and a Mac that sent all my stories to the editorial board.

Opposite me was John de Greef (Elsevier) and Michou Basu (De Telegraaf). It was an honest, loud, Italian place exactly what fashion folk sometimes need. After half an hour, all the Gucci people entered. “Where did you buy that?” the one asked the other. “Was it on sale?” she asked before taking a gulp of red wine and a bite of her pizza. Fashion folk. Sometimes they’re so normal.