Fashion Queen’s dress to impress
Raise a toast to Zizi’s zest A right royal Spain barrier Klass weighs up priorities
AU REVOIR, Zizi Jeanmaire. The torch-singing ballerina, forever dubbed in one evocative word “gamine”, has died aged 96.
For men of my father’s generation, she was irresistible. The thinking-man’s seductress, intellectual and intoxicatingly physical. I don’t think he recovered from her sizzling on the London stage as Carmen.
Any woman still sporting a sexily puckish pixie-cut has Jeanmaire to thank. Peter
SPARE a thought for the King and Queen of Spain who were trotted out to shore up their country’s struggling cinemas by showing up to see a movie.
Unfortunately, the pair were swathed in face coverings and determined not to take them off for public relations’ sake.
So they sat through two-anda-half hours of cinematic tedium, munched not a piece of popcorn – and none of the audience was any the wiser.
OUCH! Hasn’t Her Majesty set the bar stratospherically high for all ordinary grandmas everywhere? Rocking up on your own two feet at your granddaughter’s wedding, looking downright sensational at 94, is astounding in itself. Arriving on the arm of your husband who, at 99, still exudes military bearing in immaculate morning dress is one heck of an achievement. Dashing back to the grindstone to knight Captain Tom Moore as if it were just another working day is going well above and beyond.
Imagine the rest of us feeble subjects schlepping back to the office when we’ve just flung confetti at our descendants.
You can’t. We wouldn’t. We’d be sniffling moistly while sinking into our sofa and slippers for more celebratory libations and a snooze.
Where the sovereign thoroughly trounces devoted grannies worldwide, though, is with dress. I don’t mean her eau-de-nil coat for her meeting with Sir Tom, but the Norman Hartnell number in diamante-encrusted silk she wore in 1962 to the premiere of Lawrence Of Arabia, a gown so gorgeous her grand-daughter coveted it for her nuptials more than half a century later.
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AM REFERRING to a confection so glistening white and pristine any normal wearer would have spilled half a choc-ice all over it during the interval: a creation so ethereal most women would have stuck a stiletto through the hem, showered the back seat of the car with sequins and chucked over the arm of a chair in a crumpled heap before collapsing into bed.
How can the rest of us compete? Most of us only ever own one fairy-tale froth of a dress. We wear it up the aisle and often regret our choice by the time the wedding photographer delivers. If like me you wed in the mid-1980s it’s pretty much guaranteed your dress and the cake were twins. And just like Princess Diana we disappeared into gigantic puffball crinolines from which only our shoulders and heavily veiled heads emerged.
Would I wish that on my beloved four-year-old grand-daughter Neroli when she meets her Prince Charming? Firstly, I no longer have it – postdivorce it seemed too much like baggage. Secondly and most importantly, I hope she’ll have better taste.
I’ve marched up an impressive roster of red carpets but can I think of a single dress I’ve worn simple and timeless, yet romantic and elegant enough for Neroli? I hope to do the next best thing and fill a piggy bank so that she can choose a dream dress all of her own.
ALMOST a year after the birth of her adorable son Apollo, Myleene Klass claims she’s two stone heavier but “completely relaxed” about it.
I’ve known inspirational Myleene, 42, through tough times and triumphs and you’d better believe she’s utterly relaxed about incidental fripperies like weight.
She has learned that what matters in life is a happy family, good health and doing the type and quality of work you can be proud of.
Blissfully happy with her partner Simon, exercising with her two feisty bright girls Ava and Hero and even arriving with a tent to raise morale at Kate Garraway’s son Billy’s birthday party, it’s clear Myleene is worth her weight in gold.
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I’VE eaten in one restaurant since Covid-19 struck. When I say “in” I mean outside in bright sunshine which quickly faded to chilly darkness.
We were allowed six at our table, no more. Our four and six-year-old companions relished this moment of privacy. We were permitted drinks, but only at the same time as the food. Hand sanitisers were clearly placed.
Eating food we hadn’t cooked ourselves was bliss but frankly, if the weather hadn’t permitted we wouldn’t have shown up.
In that event we would, however, have phoned the restaurant to cancel the booking. Those who don’t have the courtesy to do likewise are rotten stinkers.