Mademoiselle

I was all fashioned out (all cried out more like) by the end of the Paris shows, but I’m back by popular demand (I made that bit up) – and on more than a weekly basis from now on! HURRAH / oh no!!

The lovely PR from Calvin Klein watches invited me to join her on a press trip to Istanbul way back last December but what with the pre-show prep, the actual shows and the post-show meltdown, I’d totally forgotten all about the trip until almost the day before I was due to fly. Istanbul has been on my hot weekend hit list for a while but due to afore mentioned melt down (think Britney on Red Bull) I had no time to get excited about it – that was until the itinerary fluttered its way into my inbox. Glamourama-dot-com-dot-co-dot-uk!!!

Arrive at Heathrow and spy a friendly face from another women’s glossy – phew, it’s always such a gamble going on these trips with other mags, just in case it’s with somebody who is REALLY dull. There’s nothing more horrendous than taking a flight to Snorsville with somebody who works for Snortastic magazine. It’s a good sign… looks set to be a good trip.

Istanbul bound

Arrive at the hotel in Istanbul and it’s a modern and rather austere looking place – all shiny, sandy marble and pillars. We have to walk through a metal detector upon arrival at reception – it’s just like the one that used to be on the door at the Hacienda in Manchester - although thankfully I can’t see the Happy Mondays smashing up the bar. Speaking of which, the bar is all low lighting with views over the sea. At least the PR will always know where to find me.

There’s a dinner being held at the museum of Modern Art tonight and Calvin Klein have planned a private guided tour of the gallery where one of Turkey’s most famous modern artists is having a special retrospective of his work. Opt to wear my nearly new Marni, almost painterly floral print dress, Miu Miu long cardi and those chunky almost unbearable / unwearable, Marni wooden clog super wedge things I bought in Milan. One has to suffer for ones art dear.

There’s around 200 press from all around the world on this trip and one by one we have to traipse through a metal detector and have our bags checked. YIKES, security is so tight in this city. Up in the gallery, I can barely hear what the guide is saying but I swear she said that Turkey’s most famous artist is called Borat. Feel giddiness rising. Have a mental image of Borat painting in tight Speedo’s, which is only made worse when I learn this Borat character paints like a mad old woman and his favourite subject matter is cats. Abstract cats at nine o clock at night. I need a drink.

Come over all whirling dervish and am first in the dining area looking for a glass of… anything alcoholic. Whip a glass of bubbles out of the waiter’s hand before he can even offer it to me. Plonk myself down in the corner on the comfy seat and wonder where are the PR and the other mag hag?

Am then surrounded by three blondes and three brunettes from Austria. I only mention this because this was their ONLY conversation – hair colour. SO Stepford Wives. Am forced to drink more to get through it.

The next day there’s a Calvin Klein fashion show with watches held in a beautiful ruin on the waterfront. The building isn’t the only thing that’s ruined. All 200 of us have a formal sit down lunch. It’s quite wedding and over the top but in a good glamorous way. I end up sitting next to a French guy called Vincent who publishes the Hotel Ritz in-house magazine. He is wearing ripped jeans aka Bros. I cannot look at them. Not even Christopher Kane would approve.

Thankfully we are all shipped off in coaches for the next excursion. I opt out of the culture vulture and head straight for the Souk. I need to buy stuff and I need to buy it now. Arrive at the bazaar to find that my Chloe teeny tiny mini skirt is going down a treat in the market! I’m being cat called from every stall. Though I intended to dress in a tasteful and respectful manner, I clearly had not. Thick black chunky Falke tights, almost librarian, flat Pretty Ballerina pumps, long scarf from India to wrap over head if entering a place of worship (we’re going to Harvey Nichols later), damn it, messed up on the old skirt length again.

Thanks to obscenely short and not really there mini Chloe mini skirt, I leave the souk followed by several men who have agreed to carry my wares back to my hotel free of charge. It’s a sight to behold. The Calvin PR is in total awe.

There’s a fancy dinner later and the dress code is black so yours truly had to buy a new See By Chloe dress as nothing else seemed to work. Thank the lord for my Harvey Nics 20% discount. Speaking of which, I hear there’s one in Istanbul so make a dash over there before dinner.

Harvey Nics Istanbul is weird – there are armed police on the door! Perhaps J-LO is in there shopping for kids cashmere!!

At dinner I sit next to the accessories editor of French ELLE who is fascinating. Am cheered to hear that she and her friend who works for a different French glossy, are women of a certain age (one is over 50 and one is over 60). Vincent sits with us and has finally taken off his distressing denim so I agree to engage him in the conversation. Am made to feel like an English buffoon when I fess up to not knowing whether we are in the East or the West. Bloody French, so educated!!

Forgot to mention, our restaurant that evening is on an island that you can only get to by boat. That was much easier to deal with on arrival but on departure I fear for my life in my platform Gucci sandals. Some strange men on the boat on the trip back across the water ask me if I am a dancer (no, just a bit sizzled thank you very much).

The next day the other mag hag and the Calvin PR agree to distribute the load of my purchases. How kind. How foolish. At Heathrow, The Boy has smuggled The Dog into the Arrivals area! Genius! The Boy looks like packhorse as I load him up with bits of pottery and cashmere scarves I’ll never use or ever wear!

I heart Istanbul.