Outside, after the Prada show yesterday, a loud and nasal nasal Anglo-American group were hyperventilating over Miuccia's latest:
'Wasn't that just so amazing, wasn't that just so beautiful.'
Well, yes and no. It was amazing, certainly, with models marching through what looked like a dissected fragment of a car-park in curvy fluoro frocks on sandwich-soled brothel creepers. But would they really have called it beautiful if it hadn't come from Miuccia Prada's hand? The flipside to my own argument is that, by any other hand, would it have been so great, so gutsy, so devil-may-care? I don't think so. There was an odd beauty to everything on that Prada catwalk - but let's not get all heavyweight. Last night, in the post-show flush of enthusiasm in which I write all my reviews, I said Prada wanted to have fun, and I still strongly believe that. God knows it's something we all need.
So, what next? Ferre for me, at 3pm (or 4pm - my ticket hasn't arrived so I'll be battling my way through the inevitable mob scene on Via Pontaccio possibly only to wait for another hour), and then Versace. Louise Goldin has designed knitwear pieces for them this season and Joe McKenna is working on the styling. I'm also feeling Ferre right now. I think it was the juxtaposition of Gianfranco's huge, feathered eighties ballgowns and eighteenth-century court mantuas that got my brain ticking over about just how fabulous his architectural fantasias were back in the day, and I loved Tommaso Aquilano and Roberto Rimondi's British Raj meets American Psycho outing for their menswear show in June.