Our ar­biter of style on not be­ing in St Barths, Where’s Mossy? and a magic fry­ing pan

Evening Standard - West End Final Extra - ES Magazine - - Upfront -

DOWN THE ISLE I was once asked to go to St Barths to write a fea­ture. ‘It’s a small is­land,’ I said sus­pi­ciously. ‘So I as­sume it is only ac­ces­si­ble by a very small plane. For­get it.’ They sent some­one else. Back then, I thought my whole life would in­volve in­vi­ta­tions to ex­clu­sive Caribbean is­lands and that I could hold out for one with a pri­vate but­ler and a longer run­way. Fear stopped me from go­ing. Don’t let fear screw up your 2016, peo­ple. Feel it and do it any­way, like the mo­ti­va­tional quote says.

At this time of year, peo­ple find mo­ti­va­tion in all sorts of things. Some find it in the Dalai Lama. Oth­ers find it in pho­to­graphs of Pippa Mid­dle­ton, Ellen DeGeneres, Olivia Palermo, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kourt­ney Kar­dashian, Jon Bon Jovi, Diane von Fursten­berg and Kar­lie Kloss frol­ick­ing on the sand in St Barths. Un­less you are spurred on to earn riches by the sight of rich peo­ple hors­ing around in luridly pat­terned swimwear, it might be ad­vis­able to stay off so­cial me­dia, at least un­til mon­soon sea­son hits St Barths in…. Oh, it doesn’t. Well, it wouldn’t, would it? If even Lorde, a 19-year-old plat­inum-sell­ing pop star with the world at her feet, is suf­fi­ciently driven to envy to post: ‘You scroll through your feed and all the pretty fa­mous boys and girls are on yachts or in Saint Barth’s [sic] and you’re at home where it’s rain­ing,’ there is scant hope for the rest of us.

Truly, it’s a tough time to be in Lon­don juic­ing kale and wear­ing an elas­ti­cated waist. But is St Barths so great any­way? Here are a few rea­sons why you’re bet­ter off here: 1) The restau­rants may be swank but the waiters fold the nap­kins into origami an­i­mals, and that is never cool. 2) Justin Bieber and Hai­ley Bald­win’s bur­geon­ing ro­mance is nau­se­at­ing enough when viewed through the prism of an iPhone — imag­ine how grim it looks up close. Imag­ine the min­gling of their match­ing corn­rows as they snog draped over a spray-painted matte black Audi. Eew. 3) St Barts, St Barths or Saint Barthélemy? If you don’t go, you’ll never need to know how to spell the place on a post­card. 4) Ac­cord­ing to a photo of the set list (posted by Stella McCart­ney — she was there, too), Prince per­formed some of his old­est and most well-loved hits dur­ing a pri­vate party held on Ro­man Abramovich’s yacht. To those who MOSS AND FOUND When I in­ter­viewed Kate Moss and Cara Delev­ingne last year, we dis­cussed why Kate didn’t have an In­sta­gram ac­count. ‘She shouldn’t,’ said Cara, with the shrewd­ness that has made her a mul­ti­mil­lion­aire by the age of 23. ‘It’s just not who she is. There’s a mys­tery about her.’ We went on to joke about how she made cameos on other peo­ple’s ac­counts, and I quipped that spot­ting her was a bit like play­ing Where’s Wally?. ‘Where’s Mossy!’ said Kate, quick as a flash. ‘That’s quite a good one, ac­tu­ally.’

So who’s run­ning the @WheresMossy ac­count that ap­peared on In­sta­gram shortly af­ter my in­ter­view was pub­lished? It may not be Kate, but the con­tent, which in­cludes in­ti­mate hol­i­day snaps as well as pub­lished pics, sug­gests it’s some­one close to her. What­ever: @WheresMossy (‘By the peo­ple who RE­ALLY know her’) is the best Kate fan­page on In­sta­gram. IT’S NO YOLK You may think ev­ery­one had had their fill of fat­ten­ing, un­healthy food by now, but ap­par­ently not. When Tom Da­ley posted a pic of his fried break­fast siz­zling away on the stove, it swiftly re­ceived over 49,000 likes — not be­cause the sausages looked par­tic­u­larly de­li­cious, but be­cause of the uten­sil he was cook­ing them in. It ap­pears that not only can we put a man on the Moon, we can also in­vent a fry­ing pan with dif­fer­ent sec­tions that en­sure our yolks don’t leak and f*** up the crispi­ness of our ba­con. The cost of this game-chang­ing, Te­flon-coated piece of ge­nius? £59.99 from Lake­land. It’s called the Mas­ter Pan. And yes, I’m think­ing of one (you may not get this joke if you don’t like hip-hop. Which is maybe just as well). ES

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