Gossip columnist Rachel Glucina blogs on Auckland's social scene:
It's not what you think. I don't have a rampant methamphetamine habit. I'm not hanging out with Millie Holmes or former socialite Lyn Carter or hobnobbing with a certain media celebrity who infamously lit up a pipe at a house party in Grey Lynn recently.
The letter P fell off my Prada handbag. I sound like a total tosser, I know. It's just that I discovered the missing letter while at a swanky Dior event last week and because I'm a born and bred Westie and not given overly to pretension, I didn't hesitate to drop to my knees on the floor in search of the missing gold letter. Stares emanated from the guests.
Fashion's new darling Michiko Hughes - she of the killer heels and the itsy bitsy clingy dresses that barely graze her crotch - must have wondered what could have been so fascinating on the parquet.
Natalie Bridges, the wife of Nat MP Simon Bridges and a fashion forward face in the industry who has notably toned down her attire since her eyebrow-raising get-ups at Fashion Week, must have gawked. Mrs Bridges is from Oxford. She's always immaculately groomed: hair shiny, nails manicured, tan glowing - save for the faint uneven tide line around her ankles I may have missed had I not been crouched on the floor like a hidden dragon.
Gilda Kirkpatrick, in super-skinny jeans showing off her childlike pins and a new monogrammed Louis Vuitton clutch that drew comments from the Dior staff, encouraged me to search. "Go on," she purred, "Vhere could it be? Vhen did it disappear? Find it and vhack it on," she drawled in her sexy-sounding Persian lilt that Paul Holmes finds so breathtaking.
And just like that, my PRADA had become RADA, like some cheap, fake knock-off from Bangkok. Not that I have a problem with cheap knock-off handbags. Or Bangkok, for that matter. It's just that my Prada bag was one of the only luxurious items I possess in my wardrobe largely because my paltry journalist's salary doesn't do luxury. The tote was a birthday gift from a very generous, very fashionable, very affluent friend, who now finds RADA a hoot.
So did Metro editor Bevan Rapson, who chortled with laughter when we dined at Denise L'Estrange-Corbet's private lunch at Dine restaurant this week. "You should write about," he laughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like if I didn't, Felicity Ferret might. I'm beating the rodent to the punch, I hope.
Later, on the deck at the SkyCity Club Lounge while sipping wine in the glorious sunshine, Paul Henry agreed. "Put it in your column, you'll get a free one," he said matter-of-factly. Paul, no stranger to being cheap, remarked on how few freebies and perks he gets in his high-profile job. Not for the lack of trying, I imagine.
Coco Chanel, who started her foray into fashion as a kept mistress, famously mixed real gems (gifts from obliging lovers) with costume jewellery. Faux - Coco said - is all the go.
Looking chic and fashionable and armed with the latest accessory is the modern women's prerogative. If you're Julie Christie or gal pal April Ieremia, accessorising your glamour girl outfits normally means playing the cougar card: with a couple of youthful looking brats.
Aja Rock is looking unusually demure lately. Her fake boobs can most often be found covered in layers of frilly chiffon or buttoned-up cardys. She has come a long way from her days with ex-hubby Murdoch where clothing appeared optional.
As for me, well, I should probably abstain from my usual sartorial look of all black. Perhaps it is more funereal, come to think of it, but I can wear it again. Bill Ralston won't be around forever. This week, it's just an apt and sombre farewell to a handbag I loved. RIP RADA.
