13 days to 57, 18 days to 46. Apparently Bojo announced Brexit’s done, crashed out, game over. Which is news to the EU.

Alas, even though Downing Street has officially announced the deal dead. And I did predict a crash out – even so – Michele Barnier will arrive next week, as he should, the grown up. We all hope for the best even though everything is a mess and everyone will lose.

Especially Kent, famously named the Garden of England. The only place with mild weather, mild enough to grow some English wine. Soon to be an immense parking lot packed with lorries and porta potties, or porta loos. Even if 60% of Kent voted for Brexit; they did not vote for ‘that’.

They’ve a petition to name it ‘Farage Garage’. Even if it isn’t official; the name will stick. There are idiots everywhere, but the twat is specifically English.

Such is the current state of our lives However, once upon a time I lived in Paris. 13 years ago, for three lovely years, in la ville lumiere, a city filled with distractions. Here I am with Yumi Katsure, the doyenne of wedding gowns in Japan, and worldwide. Five decades on, she’s still at it.

After her couture show, we were invited to some funky nightclub in the Marais, across the river from our flat in the 5th arrondissement. Someone said Prince performed the night before.

It was a sit down dinner for 20, but the grand one remained seated separately, alone, even from her Korean assistant designers, it felt slightly political at the time.

She did look the diva, and then I asked if she’d take a photo with me. Yes, she said, and suddenly Ms. Katsura was so warm. It was slightly surreal.

And all that canoodling with the choreographer and the Koreans.

It just couldn’t happen today; could it?

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