Should blogging he hard graft? I must be doing it wrong. I shall amend my approach to manageable staccato style. Day II and it’s always the same story. The whole fashion game seems depressing and pointless. Questions are popping into my head like “who would ever wear all this gear” and “who could possibly afford it?” How very luxurious of Bottega to lay on a dozen freezing young men to line the path to the building’s door. Shivering in identical overcoats they looked forlorn. Fashion was letting me down. Music was not though as James Brown and Screaming Jay Hawkins jolted me back into engagement. “How do you like me now?” asked Mr Brown numerous times. The Bottega stuff was good. A considered amalgam of jump suit styles in modern tech fabrics, sportif pieces in earth, burgundy, bottle green and navy. The sort of ‘shell’ fabrics looking both approachable and new, even in jockey silks bomber styles (caution mind, as I personally still like to wear a track suit occasionally). Edwardian ‘Drapes’ exhibit a new length of smart jacket that worked for some evening stances too, all garnished with Teddy Boy quiffs. Enough ideas for a decent show Mr Maier.

Bottega Veneta

Next came some unmentionable contrivances, so I won’t.

I liked Tods. Tods was very Tods and I liked it. Does that make me square? New penny loafers with leather sole and a more pointy profile were very covetable. Leather trimmed fine aviators were also good. I Met Deigo Della Valle. He was most complementary about The Rake. He was on the cover last month mind, but still good to hear. He invited us for tea. It might have more to do with Esther than I perhaps.

Salvatore Ferragamo delivered Autumnal bohemian Gaucho verve. Haight Ashbury sheerlings and sheepskins teamed with riding boots and massive scarves functioned in almost ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’ manner. Scarves were so thick they thought they were demi ponchos. Interesting as mine got delivered via Ferragamo’s PR. She owed me a favour, and as I forgot to collect it in London she obliged. Is that over the top? Having a poncho delivered by plane? It’s Hermes. It has tassels.  Still unsure whether to drop the fully blown riding look in Milan, but Ferragamo is tipping the balance. Long live the Florentine scourge of fury animals and lizards. Love Ferragamo. Fashion is back in favour.

Salvatore Ferragamo

Prada

Prada was mentally challenging for me, but then it’s supposed to be isn’t it? Firstly; repeated slices of Morrissey’s “I Know It's Going To Happen” wafting through the famous Via Fogazaro concrete cavern. The juxtaposition was odd. I love that song. Mozza at his delightfully anguished best - at the home of a fashion institution – jarred for me. Secondly the show was odd too; bursts of vintage Prada menswear which I ‘got’; camel knits, thick navy suiting fabric like only they do; and ensembles that had something of Godber from Porridge about them. This agreeable work was punctuated with peculiar women’s exits and men in preposterous tiny cardies that you might put a ten year old girl in. I know it’s a show, but it still creates a comedic visual of the sort that gives fash’ a bad name.

My mood swung back to reactionary, enhanced by the two Martini’s that they were giving out. Morrissey, children’s knitwear on teenage boys sent me reeling from the fashion mechanism. I skipped fashion dinner and the hotel bar scene and went and ate alone down Porto Genoa. The Beef Tagliatta was ‘poco vecchio’, but somehow comforting. The radio station played Angie by The Stones. Sad. This cheered me too. I walked back across a railway bridge to the empty industrial sector, back to the daft style hotel ‘Nhow’. The place is supposed to be buzzy and modern. It’s thin on substance, big on pointless furniture. A bit like fashion. So much for staccato and brief. Maybe blogging is for the young?

- Tom Stubbs