Gone with the wind.

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One day, I bought this thing. Raf Simons for Jil Sander. I loved it. I was the only one though. Aha, my mother said. It looks like you were wearing a tie, a colleague said. Adding, but why would you wear a tie? Nobody said, well, that’s a smart vest. Nobody. I wore it anyway. No, it’s still no tie, I said. People never learn from their mistakes. Anyway, here’s the thing: For one summer, I stopped eating carbs altogether. You’re familiar with the concept, I guess. I had lost so much weight that this vest, once quite près du corps, just hung on me, just like Monica Geller’s high school outfits did on her, the wind would play with it, a shapeless mass of cotton, the non-existent tie always staying in place of course, mocking me, the Duchess of Windsor was wrong, you can never be too rich, alright, but you definitely can be too thin, I suddenly looked like I shopped for clothes in gift shops, at the tie museum gift shop maybe, I never wore it again. The moral of the story? Don’t ever lose weight.

Bad influence.

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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?