Christian Louboutin loves high heels – the higher the better. “I hate the whole concept of comfort!” he told the New Yorker last year. “‘Comfy’ – that’s one of the worst words! I just picture a woman feeling bad, with a big bottle of alcohol, really puffy.
Compulsive hoarding is pretty out there, no?
Well, not even I can stay in London all the time, so I take advantage of a recent windfall and decide to bugger off to Paris for a long weekend with the Beloved.
There’s a strange light outside. It hangs high up in the sky, is impossible to look at directly and is making everything bright. When one turns the lights on in the Hovel, they make no difference. I ring round a few friends and do a little poking about on the internet.
Regular readers of this column with long memories and for whom time hangs heavy may remember that one of the recurrent problems of my life is my inability to do accounts, send invoices, keep receipts and, er, pay taxes on time. I am not proud of this.
I am walking past the charity shop when I see something in the window.
An email is forwarded to me: it’s from Newsnight. How exciting! The government has just announced a minimum price for units of alcohol, and what with my having written an opinion piece for the Guardian decrying the policy before it was even announced, they want me on the show.
Sober, blameless, virtuous even - for I am doing the washing-up - and another glass breaks. Down to four now, which is still acceptable, just.