So to Paris...

So I went toParis, Philipe Starke Paris to be exact, to watch the most charming of cocktail waitreses wearing an off the shoulder boiler suit jiggle those cocktail shakers with considerable appreciation of a huge tip. Mighty fine yes, but extortionate also. And Starke is stark I can tell you. Our room is a bunker of polished concrete with chocolat brown partitioning and a black carpet sqwiggled with helpful phrses such as àll you need is love`. It is so dark that once sunset falls, you wouldn`t be able to read a newspaper, and when night falls you get up for a pee in pitch black. However nobody is wearing their overcoats, excepting those of the fur coat and no knickers pursuasion, it is strictly Starke off the shoulder boilersuits. Style is a curious thing. The customers are equally branded, the middle aged archiects all loki like Jean Nouvel, their wives and mistreses like Susan Sontag, each fenale couple at the bar looked like elegant twins, inspiring thoughts of two for one ofers, and we sat their like Mr and Mrs Stig of the Dump which I was hoping was rather stylish in itself after half a century`s worth of cocktails. The rerson why there qre so many mistakes in this post is because I cqn`t see the keyboard.