Being a top fashion editor is certainly a odd kind of job.
You spend all year being ferried in cars from catwalk show to catwalk show, having flutes of bubbly pressed into your hand while your head is turned by 16-year-old models on the catwalk. You visit the showrooms of all the big designers and High Street stores to eat trendy canapes. You think about color, fit and value for money.
You then tell your readers about all these trends, and what they should be trying this winter. And then a few months later you browse the winter sales rails and see all your predictions languishing on the hangers, their prices slashed — and your status is in tatters. The proof of the pudding is whether or not the public bought the stitch stuff.
Much of what I predicted the consumer would love, you resoundingly dismissed such as the Mad Men look, which is all retro prints, full skirts, rigid handbags and an updo.