Summary
THE shame. The humiliation. Last week, I was barred from the Prada ready-to-wear show in Milan. I turned up on the Via Fogazzaro in the driving sleet without a ticket, because someone had removed my name from the application form (sartorial sabotage; who said the fashion world isn't bitchy?).
I was made to stand behind a rope. All the glossy editors marched past me. I told the PR, who was about 12 years old, to phone the PR from London but, despite the fact she had a walkie-talkie and a mobile, she was unable to do so. I pleaded that I was, in fact, wearing a Prada cardigan.See the full content of this document
Extract
How I Was Mortified in Milan ; City Lives
I resorted to the words: "Don't you know who I am?" The bodyguard told me to "step away from the door". I cried hot tears. It...
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