Mr Porter and I meet mostly at night. Actually, I cannot recall having met him in broad daylight. Not ever. He seems very nice. Very reliable. And he’s got such nice mates. Ms Sander and Mr Balmain for instance. Perfectly suitable company for a gentleman. But truth be told, he’s not a good friend at all. On the contrary. He steals my money, really, he does it each time we meet, he just grabs it out of my pockets, right after putting me off guard with some smooth fashion talk, taking advantage of my vanity, it’s an easy task actually, he just has to wait until my defences are down, he’s waiting for me when I come home after working long hours, he’s right there, in his little stylish app on my home screen, and the very moment my frustrations set in, caused by deadlines, cranky clients and even crankier creative directors, when the alcohol starts to work, these soothing 13.5 vol. of a good Château Whatever, when I’m ready to be distracted, ready to think a pair of trousers might change it all, that’s when he strikes, that’s the moment when he’s hitting me and my bank account, leaving me with nothing but another pair of trousers. But there’s no way of getting rid of him. I wonder if you know him, too. I cannot be his only victim, can I?