Archive for the ‘Older women’ Category

Seven Days of Positive – Day 105

In Joni Mitchell, Music, Older women on January 9, 2015 at 10:31 pm


Today was totes cray cray. Running around like a loony, trying to do everything at once.

After years on newspapers – including one memorable spell editing a daily diary on the Evening Standard – I’m used to pressure. I can remember being so busy in those days, I didn’t have time to go to the loo.

But today nearly threw me.

I think I just about got everything done, but not all quite to my standard, which I really don’t like. That is just not how I roll. It goes against every grain of my editor brain.

It’s why editing books is such torture for me. It has to be-ee-ee-ee-ee perfect. I’ve got four planets in Virgo, what can I tell ya?

But among all this, I stumbled upon the latest in fashion’s love affair with OLD.

Saint Laurent have co-opted my number one goddess heroine, Joni Mitchell as their latest face. Part of their music project.

This comes the day after Joan Didion was announced as the new ‘face’ of Céline.


Why am I not feeling quite comfortable with all of this? I just can’t help finding something ever so slightly patronising about it. I need to ponder more on this subject.

Meanwhile, I have cleansed my palate by watching Joni on Youtube. The first one, Urge for Going, is an early song I only discovered a couple of years ago, which is akin to someone finding a lost manuscript by Jane Austen for me.

Listening to this song is like reading a novel to me. It’s so spare, but there’s endless depth. I can see it all.

There’s one particular line in it which makes me swoon:

‘I had me a man in summer time, he had summer coloured skin.’

This is a very early version. The one I have is more recent and I prefer it. Her voice is less quivery wivery and my favourite line is a bit different in this version, not quite so good.

And here’s a couple more, because you really can’t have too much Joni, can you?

I know every line of every song on her first eight albums off by heart.


Seven Days of Positive – Day 104

In David Bowie, Older women on January 8, 2015 at 9:26 pm

Nick Wooster

This was a good day. A very good day.

I finished my copy edit. Hopelessly late for lots of stupid reasons, but done now.

I like my book.

My adored friend D. finally had the major operation he has been waiting for – and I mean really major – and he’s out of theatre and he’s stable.

I’ve had a candle with two wicks burning all day for him and his husband, keeping them in my thoughts. I am so so happy for them both.

I like this promotion Selfridges are doing – Bright Old Things. I’m mad about all the ancient fabulousnesses on Advanced Style, as often blogged about on here, but I had a bit of a surprise when I read this in detail.

Some of the Bright Old Things are the same age as me. Ha!

That’s Nick Wooster up the top there. He’s a New York-based menswear guru of such repute he has a fan blog about him

He’s 55. Apparently, that’s old now. I guess I didn’t get the memo.

I don’t think I’m quite old yet. OK I’m ancient to my daughter and getting on a bit to my nieces and nephews, but I don’t think mid-50s is old. Maybe I need to get my head round that.

But, really, who cares? It’s only a label. I’m never going to be younger than I am at this very moment right now…. ooops, gone… and I’m not planning to put away my dancing shoes yet.

Never, actually.


This is the wonderful Molly Parkin, mother of my friend Sophie (and former mother-in-law of one of my very oldest friends Al). She’s such a life force. Always has been.

Have a look at the whole thing here and tell me what you think is old.$ja=tsid:32517

The other thing I enjoyed today was the film about Mr Bowie.

I’ve only watched the first bit so far, when he’s just talking in the Breton jumper, then lying on the bed, smoking and talking and frankly, I could watch that on a loop tape for the rest of my life…

He’s 68. (Although I think he was only 48 when this film was made).

The bed’s too big, the frying pan’s too wide

In Heroes, Music, Older women, Pop stars, Rock 'n' roll on November 26, 2013 at 10:23 pm

Joni Mitchell 

One of the great challenges of being a parent for me has been coming to understand that my daughter is not a Mini Me.

It seems quaint in retrospect but I had simply assumed she would love everything I loved as a child, which boils down to reading, drawing, playing with dolls and a well-stocked dressing up box.

Like all parents I lavished her with the things I craved as a child: a never-ending supply of paper, big packs of felt tips and coloured crayons, bookshelves groaning with wonderful things to read.

I should have saved my money. She’s just not into any of those things.

So I take great joy from one love we do share, which is an obsession with popular music. She’s as open to new experiences in that area as she is closed to books (she could have met Quentin Blake recently – couldn’t be bothered… AGGGH!)

She’ll embrace any genre of music and among her favourites, at the age of 11 and a half, are tracks by the Rolling Stones, Frank Sinatra, Glen Campbell, David Bowie, Madness, Kraftwerk and Dean Martin.

Then there all the ones we’ve discovered together, like Daft Punk, Gotye, Rihanna, Maroon 5 and Tinie Tempah. She’s made me appreciate Eminem.

But the most satisfying moment for me was when – with no pushy prompting from my side – she fell in love with Joni Mitchell’s Chelsea Morning, which I’d put on a playlist.


Being able to tell her that the song she so adores by Crosby, Stills & Nash – Our House – was written by Graham Nash about the actual house he actually shared with Joni Mitchell in Laurel Canyon in the late 1960s, was a golden moment in my life. Her eyes visibly widened…

ladies of the canyon prauls

I can still remember so clearly when I discovered Joni Mitchell myself, when I was exactly the same age my daughter is now, in the early 1970s.

My older sister was playing the album Blue on repeat and after a few days of hearing it, there was a lightbulb moment when my ear picked up the Jingle Bells refrain in the song River, in its intriguing minor key.


At my earliest opportunity I liberated the record (of course it was a vinyl record…) from my sister’s collection and took it into my bedroom, to have a better listen to that interesting bit and in the process lost myself in the whole album. She never got it back.

Joni Mitchell has been a constant companion of my life ever since. I know every line of every song on her first eight albums, from Song to a Seagull, through to Hejira, by heart.


And the thing that made me realise I’d found my soul mate when I met my best friend at uni, was discovering that she did too. We talked about those lyrics for hours. We still do.

So while Peggy and I might never be able to discuss favourite books the way I had imagined we would, I’m fairly sure we’ll share a love of Joni Mitchell’s music – and those amazing lyrics.


While tooling around the internet looking for some good clips to include with this post, I came across two interesting facts about Joni.

She turned 70 this month – happy birthday, Ms Mitchell – and there’s no ‘Personal Life’ section in her Wikipedia entry. Which makes sense when you think about it.

It’s all in the songs.

Which songwriter has written the soundtrack for your life?


I picked this video because she’s singing one of my favourite of her songs – Help Me, the most brilliant description of the first thrilling/terrifying days of a new relationship – but also because I was at this concert. Wembley Stadium 1974, the first big gig I ever went to.

A pilgrimage to see my idol.




What should women politicians wear?

In Accessories, Older women, Politicians on August 9, 2011 at 5:52 pm

The question above -what should women policiticans wear? – is one I normally ignore. It shouldn’t matter what a woman politician wears – what matters is how good she is at her job. And if she’s Prime Minister, or Home Secretary she must be pretty bloody good.

Then I saw Theresa May wearing those pearls while she was making an official announcement about the London riots last night and I suddenly minded very much what women politicians wear. I definitely don’t want them to be wearing that.

I went back on to Twitter – where I was glued until nearly 2 a.m. last night, feeling sicker and sicker about what was unfolding in the city of my birth – to find someone else had already posted a sarcastic comment about them.

There was just something jarring about the Home Secretary wearing oversized ‘fun’ beads on such a dark night in the history of Great Britain. Then she showed up on the news again this morning, sporting a jaunty little choker. (Not this one, but something similar.)

It just seemed so frivolous. I could imagine her getting ready, fossicking around in her jewellery box going, Hmmmm, the heart choker, or the bright blue beads?

She hasn’t got time for that right now. She’s the one who should be persuading the Prime Minister (who had the sense to wear a black tie for his announcement this morning) to get the water cannon sent over from Northern Ireland.

Then they need to rush through emergency legislation permitting the use of rubber bullets, and mobilise the army to drive tanks towards the mobs of 15 year olds who are looting shops and burning down buildings, just because they can.

The whole thing is making me – your typical lily-livered liberal – want the kind of response normally demanded by right wing tabloid readers (see list above, just add ‘bring back the birch and National Service’…).
But this isn’t the moment to be wondering what has happened to our society to lead to such a loss of the rule of law, it’s just got to be stopped.

A generation raised on junk food and Grand Theft Auto, and bombarded with information about the lifestyle of an over rich elite no better them (Jordan, Peter Andre, Cheryl Cole, John Terry et al), has to be put back in its box. Then we can start sorting out what caused them to grow up so morally, as well as socially, impoverished and try to change it.

What? Where was I? Oh yes, Theresa May’s stupid jewellery. You can see why she thinks she needs to get with the flirty accessories. She first came to fame in British politics when she took to the stage at the Tory conference in 2002 wearing leopardskin high heels and she’s been working an attention-seeking shoe ever since.

But now she’s Home Secretary, she really needs to put aside such childish things. She’s doing a very grown up job and it’s time she started dressing like one. She clearly loves glamorous clothes, which is fair enough, but not during working hours. It just doesn’t fit the gig.

If she needs some help, I suggest she checks out former French cabinet minister, now the head of the IMG, Christine Lagarde, who has written the rule book for how women politicians should dress.

Of course, Ms Largarde is French and very beautiful, which gives her two extreme advantages, but beyond that she’s shown that the best way for a woman politician to project authority is to play down her clothing as much as possible.

The simplest sharp tailored suits, in dark colours, set off by a white shirt or T shirt. That’s it. In short, a female version of male politician’s dress, enlivened – as a male politico might wear a jolly tie – by some small pieces of good jewellery. Not something that looks like it came out of a Christmas cracker.

Despite the odd segue into red suits, I think Australian PM Julia Gillard mostly gets it and I like the way she has made the white tailored jacket – appropriate for Australia’s bright light – her signature. (Although I have already had comments from Aussie readers shooting me down on this – tell me more, I want to know what you think…)

These pictures of German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, show exactly how the dark suit looks so much more authoritative than the bright one.  They really need to leave jolly brides’s mother colours – in clothes and accessories – to the Queen.

So nothing fussy, nothing bright, nothing ‘fun’. Politics is a very serious business – especially at the moment – and requires very serious clothing.

Got it Ms May?

Truly Glorious Goodwood

In High heels, Men, Older women, People, Shoes on July 30, 2011 at 12:13 am

I’d always thought the name of Goodwood’s annual summer race meeting was rather self-congratulatory. Now I understand it’s simply the most accurate description.

I went on Thursday for Ladies Day and had what I can only describe as one of the most glorious days of my life. The weather was glorious, the setting is glorious, the racing was glorious – and the people watching was truly glorious.

Although it was Ladies Day and Grazia ’s lovely Paula Reed was out with her Channel 4 crew filming the ‘fashions in the field’ (to quote one of my favourite Aussie terms), it was the gents who caught my eye.

And they were ‘gents’. Gentleman of the old school, looking so happy and at ease in their natural habitat and their preferred summer plumage.

Not for Goodwood the painful morning dress of Royal Ascot’s Royal Enclosure.

Even in the smart bit of Gooders – the Richmond Enclosure, my new eden – the dress code for men is nothing more taxing than a suit and tie.


The ideal version being a linen suit worn with a panama hat. They all looked so happy in that get up. Feeling a bit jaunty, but not done up.

The relaxed but chic atmosphere of the event put me most in mind of Henley Regatta, with the big difference that Goodwood is not peopled by a superrace of breathtakingly beautiful love god rowers.

The young men at Henley can make you swoon away – in my early 20s, I could hardly stand it – at Goodwood, I enjoyed admiring the style of the more mature ones.

And it made me reflect, that one of the benefits of growing older is that there is an ever increasing pool of people to find attractive.

Of course it was also fun checking out the women’s oufits, and once again I found I was more taken with the seasoned racegoers, tearing to get to their favourite spot in the stand to watch the race, than I was by the fillies.

Those towering platform stilettos beloved of the under-40s do not look right for the races and they’re so unpractical. I saw a lot of sh’agony – shoe agony – as a result, because you spend your whole time at Goodwood milling about over very uneven terrain.

Over to the parade ring to look at the horses – the true beauties of the day – back to the Tote to place your bet, time for a quick drink, study the form, then over to the stand to watch the race, back to the Tote to collect your winnings, then off to the winners’ enclosure to watch the presentation and generally perve, queue up for some strawberries, listen to the band, and so on.

The whole event is one long passagiata. Which equals people-watching paradise.

I had a wonderful time, not unenhanced by winning on three races and going home £96 richer. Watching the beautiful Gifted Girl romp home, ahead for the whole race, coming in at least four lengths ahead (or so it looked to me…) was a moment of true bliss.

But watching Frankie Dettori, my absolute favourite jockey, collect his second trophy, for winning on a horse I hadn’t backed, was just as good.


I’m already planning next year’s visit. And, of course, I’ll be taking my lucky handbag.


I must add here that I went to Goodwood as a guest member of the press, but that’s not why I’m raving about it. This is my personal blog and I write what I like on it. I can’t be bought – as Giorgio Armani will tell you. He once banned me from his shows for writing a frank and honest review of one I didn’t care for. Not used to being told the inconvenient truth, he got the hump in a big way, but later forgave me.

I’ll be going back to Goodwood next year on my own dollar.


I took far too many pictures to post on here, so I’ve created a Flickr account if you want to have a look at the whole lot (and see what I was wearing ha ha ha).

I don’t really know what I’m doing on there yet, but it’s the ‘set’ called ‘Goodwood 2011’ and you click from shot to shot. They’re all captioned which takes you through the flow of the day.

Amy Winehouse and Fran Landesman

In Older women, Poets, Pop stars on July 26, 2011 at 10:26 pm

Two of my favourite lyricists died on Saturday.

One of them you will know about – the amazing Amy Winehouse, who died way way heartbreakingly too young. The other, Fran Landesman, is not so well known, but highly respected and adored by those who do know her work.

And perhaps Fran’s consolation for her lesser renown was that she died at home at the fine age of 84, just five months after her husband Jay and will be sorely missed by their two sons, Cosmo and Miles and three grandchildren.

I shed tears when I heard about both deaths. For Amy because it was so tragically predictible and such an unbearable waste of talent. For Fran, because I have been lucky enough to know her a little and have seen her perform many times over the years.

Whenever it rains, I hear myself saying, ‘Nice weather for ducks…’ which is the first line of one of Fran’s songs. What a great rhythm that phrase has. In my head I can still exactly hear her singing it at a gig at St Katherine’s Dock in 1983.

She and husband Jay were London living legends, moving to the city from their native US in 1964 and setting up home in Islington, where they both lived until they died. Although I knew Jay better from his legendary tenure in the Groucho Club bar, where I spent most of my time in the late 1980s. So did he.

Jay always seemed to sit in a particular chair in the back left corner and I still can’t walk into that bar without looking for him there. They actually moved the chair a few years ago, but my eye still always goes there. What a dude he was. What a dame Fran was.

They were true beatniks, the real thing. Read Jay’s obituaries in the Daily Telegraph and the Guardian (by my friend Craig Sams) on these links for all the background, it’s fascinating stuff. Names featured include Miles Davis, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Woody Allen, Peter Cook and Yoko Ono, to mention just a very few.

And here is his recipe for a happening party:

“a minimum of three potential celebrities (any field); somebody who moves well (male or female); one beautiful Fascist (to confuse people)… no fat people, unless Robert Morley or Peter Ustinov; a swinging accountant; two attractive lesbians; one international drug trafficker; a gay [politician]; one colored TV personality; a pop singer no one recognises, a girl with buck teeth, a corrective shoe.”

They had a famously open marriage.

So Fran was one cool lady and, as well as her sons, leaves behind her a body of work seriously worth taking a look at. Amazon has several of her books of poetry listed.

To give you a taste of her way with words – of why she was called ‘the Dorothy Parker of jazz’ – here is Sarah Vaughan singing my favourite of her songs, Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most. Isn’t ‘hang you up’ just a marvellously beatnik phrase?

The words were set to music by Tommy Wolfe and it became a jazz standard recorded by Ella Fizgerald, Barbra Streisand and Bette Midler, among others. Although my own personal favourite version is by Sarah Moule.

And apologies for not posting last weekend, I was unwell. (I guess I was just too hung up to do it.)

In case you like them as much as I do, here are the lyrics:

Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most

by Fran Landesman

Once I was a sentimental thing,
Threw my heart away each Spring;
Now a Spring romance hasn’t got a chance
Promised my first dance to Winter;
All I’ve got to show’s a splinter for my little fling.

Spring this year has got me feeling like a
horse that never left the post;
I lie in my room staring up at the ceiling,
Spring can really hang you up the most.

Morning’s kiss wakes trees and flowers,
And to them I’d like to drink a toast;
I walk in the park just to kill the lonely hours,
Spring can really hang you up the most.
All afternoon those birds twitter twit,
I know the tune, “This is love, this is it!”
Heard it before and I know the score,
And I’ve decided that Spring is a bore.

Love seemed sure around the New Year,

Now it’s April, love is just a ghost;
Spring arrived on time, only what became of you, dear?
Spring can really hang you up the most.

Spring is here, there’s no mistaking
Robins building nests from coast to coast;
My heart tries to sing so they won’t hear it breaking,
Spring can really hang you up the most.

College boys are writing sonnets,
In the “Tender passion” they’re engrossed;
But I’m on the shelf with last year’s Easter bonnets,
Spring can really hang you up the most.

Love came my way, I hope it would last;
We had our day, now that’s all in the past
Spring came along a season of sun,

Full of sweet promise but something wrong!

Doctors once prescribed a tonic,
“Sulphur and molasses” was the dose;
Didn’t help a bit, my condition must be chronic,
Spring can really hang you up the most.

All alone, the party’s over,
Old man Winter was a gracious host;
But when you keep praying for snow to hide the clover
Spring can really hang you up the most.

How I Live Now *

In Friends, Men, Older women on June 17, 2011 at 11:07 pm

The other day I had one of those major Facebook moments. Rare for me as I’m not on Faceache much any more, being so addicted to Tweeting, blogging, breathing etc, there’s no time.

Anyway, I was looking through a very good friend’s friend list because he had specifically told me that a mutual was on there and I wanted to friend him right away because we’ve just met and we’re at that stage of a gay man/fag hag friendship where it’s like a bit of a crush.

(That’s me above right, with my BFF Jo at her stepdaughter’s wedding and below is Peggy at sports day.)

But before I found my new GBFF on the list I saw something that nearly made my tea come down my nose THE AGED FACE OF THE FIRST MAN WHO EVER BROKE MY HEART. And his name. A very particular name. It was definitely him.

(Not the bloke below, that’s me with my husband at Goodwood, at the races, hurrah.)

And the really annoying thing was that even though I haven’t thought about him for years and even then it was more with contempt than longing, my treacherous heart went pitter patter. Bastard.

I sent him a friend request just to see what would happen. He sent me back a reply I consider, in retrospect, indescribably arsey. Roughly: ‘Wow, hello, what a coincidence, those were the days, eh – but I’m thinking of coming off Facebook, so I’m not really taking on any more friends.’

But then with his email address. WTF?

What a total arse. (Not this pic, this is my mum, Peggy Senior.)

But of course I’ve been thinking about it ever since (largely, how I can work this arsery into a book plot ha ha ha) and after such an exquisitely insulting reply I concluded I would never contact him again NOT EVEN TO TELL HIM HE’S A BUMFACE but at the same time I could think of nothing but what I would say to him if I did.

(This is where I work.)

Finally, I decided, if I did ever send a message to that email address – and I so fucken won’t, A-HOLE – I would send him how I live now in pictures. Which would be something like what you see here.

And all the better for not having his mug in it. Bah!

(Peggy at a gymnastics competition thing. She loves gymnastics.)

How I Live Now is the title one of my favourite books of all time, by Meg Rossoff. They’re making it into a film, but do read the book first. So romantic. So original.

(The other place I work…)

Mrs Tannenbaum

In Accessories, Fashionistas, Older women on June 14, 2011 at 9:48 pm

Oh the joy of social networking.

Thanks to Facebook, my friend Stephanie Turner could show me this wonderful slideshow (link below, I can’t work out how to embed the bloody things in this blog…) of legendary fabulous oldie Iris Apfel’s apartment.

This is the stuff of John Pawson’s nightmares. I’m sure in one of the shots of the hall I can see pictures hung on pictures. I love it. Especially the mirror with the herons (I think they’re herons). I need that in my bathroom. Makes the two gold mirrors I have in there seem positively plain.

So I posted that on Twitter and emailed it to my friend William Petley, who sent me back the fabulous video here.

‘My mother worshipped at the altar of accessories…’

Oh, I love her. Oh, I wish I’d come out with that line.

Anyway, I call her Mrs Tannenbaum because when I met the amazing woman I am now sure was here, in a shop in Paris years ago she told me her name was Mrs Tannenbaum, which is German for Christmas tree.

I’m trying to find the column I wrote about that encounter, it’s around here somewhere on papyrus, or etched into a stone tablet. When I do, I’ll put it on here.

Rule: Your choice of outfit can be a lovely compliment to your hosts

In Celebrities, Famous people, Hats, Older women, Royalty on June 10, 2011 at 9:45 pm

I’m very grateful to Arjie for her comment on here, telling me to loosen up and not feel I have to do set things on set days… 

It’s just all those years of deadlines and production schedules bearing down, but here we go, caution to the wind with a Rule from a while back. It’s been a while since the historic state visit to Ireland, but these pics still make me smile.

Plus, I just love Her Maj. She’s been the Queen all my life and her style which used to seem so fusty, has become iconic. She’s living proof that by choosing a look and sticking to it, over time you come to own it.

Putting aside, for a moment, personal opinions about the role of Her Maj in relation to Australia (which should be a Republic, oops, I said it) and just looking at her as a random head of state: didn’t Queen Elizabeth totally nail it in the clothes department on her recent trip to Ireland?

When I saw the footage of her in the St Patrick’s Day special pictured above, visiting a market in Cork, I whooped with delight.

Not only is she wearing Kelly green, her hat has more than a nod to leprechaun couture. No wonder she got such a great reception. She got off the plane wearing green from head to toe and back on it four days later in an outfit that wouldn’t have been out of place in The Gnome Mobile.


Good on her for seeing an opportunity to make a grand sartorial gesture and grasping it. I’ve been entertaining myself ever since imagining the pre-trip conversations with her dresser, Angela Kelly.

Ms Kelly: ‘I’ve starting laying out some outfits for the tour of Ireland, ma’am, and wondered if you had any preferences?’

Her Maj: ‘Well, one thought it would be rather fun if one were to give a go to the wearing of the green…’

Then off to the Royal couturier Stewart Parvin to order a wardrobe of bright green coats and to Rachel Trevor-Morgan for one’s Kermit-coloured hats. Stellar stuff.

As well as a master class in colour blocking – a trend we’re all just getting the hang of, Her Maj has been working it for years – it was a reminder of just how powerful a gesture the choice of clothes can be.

Way beyond referencing the latest looks from the Paris catwalks and celebrity styling, or showing your financial status, these very deliberately chosen outfits show how a few metres of fabric can instantly broadcast a message of intention.

And when you’re one of the most recognised people in the world and know that images of the outfits you’ve chosen for the occasion will be beamed all around it – it becomes seriously powerful stuff.

In this case: “I’m really thrilled you’re giving me the opportunity to visit your lovely country and try in even the smallest way to make amends for all the years of cacky cacky mine visited upon you.”

That’s a much bigger statement than any of us normal citizens will ever be in a position to make (which is a relief…), but it’s an object lesson in how our choice of clothes are telling the host of any event about our attitude to them, from the moment we arrive. Even before we’ve even opened our mouths to say, Hello, how are you, where’s the bar?

It’s something to bear in mind on the days when it seems like a massive effort, if not a gross imposition to have to get changed at all, let along comb the hair and scrub the food stains off the front of your t shirt.

So when someone makes the effort to invite us to an event, be it a morning tea, or a historic reconciliation between two sovereign states, it’s worth remembering that we can pay them a lovely compliment simply by turning up in something that shows we appreciate being asked.

More Foldies (Fabulous Oldies)

In Jewellery, Older women on March 23, 2011 at 6:34 pm

This is so brilliant, I had to do a mini-mid-week extra to share it with you. And massive thanks to the fabulous Liane Rossler (formerly of Dinosaur Designs, see below…), for pointing me to it.

Click on this for a video about some of New York’s finest Foldies, including the Grande Dame of them all and one of my all-time style heroines, Iris Apfel.

I will be writing more about Iris in future, but meanwhile, if you aren’t familiar with her, check out this fabulous book.

And now I come to think of it, I can’t think of a better place to start amasssing your Foldie jewellery (and you really can’t start too young…) than at Dinosaur Designs, where you will find fabulous things like this…

Find them online at London readers, you can also find their stuff at Paul Smith.

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