Crackers at my desk

This is my lunch.

Have had the most unbelievably bad start to the morning. Had Tamara Cincik's assistant Geoffrey (helps to read his name aloud for affect - don't forget to camp it up and lay on a thick Queen of the Desert Aussie accent) called me wanting to know who was paying for their cab to the Park Royal Harper's BAZAAR shoot. They had only discovered that they were incapable of paying when they arrived at Park Royal penniless and as lost as kittens (mentally).

Unbelievable as it is, the entire crew could not scrape £21 between them. Geoffrey started calling me "honey" in the exact way you don't want to hear from an angry subordinate queen. It got extremely ugly - unfortunately a photographer was standing behind me waiting to see me while I was telling the crew how absurd it was that they could not put their "adult" hat on and sort out their own affairs.

If anyone cares to hear my words of wisdom, they are this: (and I have only really resolved this in my mind right now)

1. Do not work with fashion stylists who look immediately like fashion stylists

2. Enter into strict contracts with them, state all the things you think are obvious

Writing this down has really helped me. Thankfully, I am calm in the knowledge that I always get my own back.
We are off to Florence tomorrow - that's gotta be worth something right? Sadly, I haven't had one single thought about our glorious future except for a real pang of homesickness and a regret that I didn't spend more time smelling the sea air when I had the chance.