As a teen wanting to escape the perceived drudgery of suburban life I, instead of turning to drink and drugs, turned the pages of GQ magazine (look out for my article in the November issue). When my need for connection to the world of glamour became overwhelming, I would call international directory enquiries and ask for arbitrary numbers just to hear the voice of the American operator on the other side of the phone. Such was the malaise of my teens.
For a reason still not fully understood, an advert for Paul Stuart fragrance really appealed to me. So much so, in fact, that I purchased a bottle of it from New York over the telephone. I know now that advertising rarely delivers on its promise, but then, ripe for consumer indoctrination, it was a force more powerful than reason. The tale of Paul Stuart and I is a tawdry one - and the beginning of many things in my life. A penchant for expensive, imported goods, a love of brands and the publicity and advertising that create them and, a until this week, a virginal relationship with Madison Avenue.
Although my pulse quickened when I walked past Paul Stuart on Madison - also, by the way, the spiritual home of the advertising industry, I didn't go inside. I felt that such a pilgrimage required more thought and more time to digest the feelings around such a visit. After all, my tastes have changed from the English elegance of Paul Stuart to the more robust (and certainly more fashionable schmatis of Marc Jacobs and Ted Baker. At Bloomingdales last night I licentiously sidled up to a delicious corduroy jacket which fortunately didn't fit me as my credit card wouldn't survive a $750 purchase. Today I'll visit Paul Stuart - I feel I'm ready now. I've had Paul Stuart wooden hangers in my cupboard for almost 20 years - a reminder of the grip that advertising holds over me and my need that even if I'm not, at least my garments should be well hung.