It is my pleasure to announce, exclusively till it's lifted by others, that the delicious Nina Brosh has left her husband to join me here in Paris.
Well, technically of course her goal is not to join me in particular. In fact, I'm not sure she is aware of my existence (but I have no proof she isn't). She came to join all Parisians.
Fashion sources here, carefully checked with my dear Iris in Tel Aviv, have told me Nina left her home in Israel Monday, with plans to make a huge comeback. She has received a magnificient offer from a major cosmetics firm for a line of products targeted at 30-years old women. Nina is 27.
She will live in Paris and New York, with her newborn. It is belived she will live estranged from her Israeli millionaire husband.
Born to a Russian father and a Chinese mother, both Jewish who emigrated to Israel for religious freedom, Nina Brosh was a 15 years old rock groupie, semi-homeless, when she was noticed by an Israeli rock star. They soon left the country together for Paris, where she became one of the most original top-models of the nineties. Her ad clips for the DIM and Drakkar Noir left French teenagers from both sexes penniless. She was the Femme Fatale in the Duran Duran clip directed by Ellen Von Unwerth.
Moving to New York in 1997, Nina became the ultimate Bebe model, although she didn't make the same impact as in her Parisian days. She retired in 1999 - till this week. Stay tuned.
--->The ultimate Nina site is at BleuFunk!

By Arthur Smith The Guardian
It is London fashion week, and once again I haven't been invited to any shows. This is upsetting given my well-known love of fashion, or, as I think of it, playing with the dressing-up box. Obviously I am not bothered about men's fashion - is anyone, apart from Jonathan Ross? Heterosexual men who are obsessed with their clothes and looks tend to turn women off and bore fellow blokes. The sight of the dark-haired ginger chap on the last Big Brother endlessly touching up his coiffure like some follicle fetishist was extremely distasteful.
Women's fashion, however, exists partly in order to titillate men, and in that respect I am as other men. The sight of women parading up and down in experimental thongs and high heels should probably enrage my inner feminist, but I'm afraid it does not, which is why I occasionally find myself switching my big TV to channel 220, the home of Fashion TV.
The station is on 24 hours a day and 90% of the time runs fashion shows from around the world. This seems incredible to me: the edited events only seem to last about three minutes, which suggests that every day of the year, four or five hundred catwalk shows are taking place. It makes me wonder how many combinations there can be of small bits of coloured cloth. Many more than I can imagine, obviously. I saw an article in a magazine entitled "Autumn Fashion - 185 must-haves". Bloody hell, it must be expensive and exhausting being a fashionable woman.
A female friend who caught me watching Fashion TV reckons its audience is largely made up of slobbering men who are just taking a break from the appalling Men & Motors channel. I don't agree. I tell her it is just a way of dropping into an Italian passeggiata whenever you feel like it. Or you can perceive it as some Beckettian otherworld where streams of unidentified people walk up and down endlessly and pointlessly, to a light house beat. The female friend, whom I have in fact invented, snorts derisively.
The outfits come and go but there is a constant that I like about the catwalk model: the snotty expression. That allows me to quote a line from an American stand-up I once heard, for which I have long been trying to find a home. The comic had spent a week at a model school, where she was instructed that, in order to cultivate the right attitude for haute couture shows, she had to think: "If you can afford this, you're too fat to wear it, bitch."