Your fashion editor has been brutally handbagged. The scramble for seats at many of this week's Milan fashion shows is nothing short of unseemly. Scenes of mayhem readily ensue as staff from little-known magazines take the seating plan into their own hands, re-allocating front row assignments to match their sense of self-importance. Thus, one of the great sporting challenges to be savoured during this leg of the international fashion Olympiad is the removal of stray members of the American press corp from one's allotted seat.
I arrived at Lawrence Steele to find the venue packed to capacity without, I thought, a vacant centimeter of seating space. Yet, rather astonishingly, my own assigned position remained clear - except for the presence of a large Kelly-style leather handbag.
What luck! But, as I manoeuvred towards this almost empty space, the bag's American owner pointed to this fine example of leathercraft and screamed ''Occupato, occupato!'' in a hysterical Americano-Italiano accent. She explained it was utterly impossible to move it. For, being brand spanking new, she was certainly not prepared to set it down on the floor.
The real reason for her intransigence, however, must surely have been that her handbag wanted to watch the show. Yet, although it certainly got a great view of young Mr Steele's red, white, and black cocktail dresses, it did not join in the rapturous end-of-show ovation. Tightly clasped shut, it remained as inscrutable as American Vogue's Anna Wintour in her expression-masking Chanel sunglasses.
But can't you imagine that same bag being carried backstage afterwards in a wave of post-show euphoria? And, while fashionistas were queuing up to congratulate young Mr Steele on his latest triumph, it would probably have struck up a relationship with some of the sexy high-heeled shoes which Manolo Blahnik had confected for the runway. Together, they would surely have slipped off to the handbag's suite at Hotel Principe de Savoia for a spot of kinky sex.
Compared with the frenetic atmosphere of other shows, Giorgio Armani can generally be relied upon to provide an oasis of calm. Yet, at his presentation yesterday afternoon, pressure on front row seating was unusually intensified by an exceptional celebrity line-up which included Robert De Niro, Sophia Loren, Phil Collins, a host of Italian screen stars . . . plus Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of Pork.
La Fergie at Armani? Britain's flamboyant, larger-than-life neo-royal redhead invading the tranquillity of a cool beige world? Surely multissimo mistake. Oh, no; not at all. For, before the show, this great designer had declared that ''the Giorgio Armani woman for spring-summer 2001 is slim
and slight''.
So what better bum to have on his front row than that of the international spokeswoman for Weightwatchers? In understated black Armani-ness, the duchess seemed just a slender shadow of her former self. She provided a perfectly splendid testament to the success of her organisation's points-win-weight loss system - and a great example of how a little Armani covers a multitude of sins.
Looking the part of a fully fledged fashionista, no-one dared steal her seat for their handbag. Maybe I should be wearing Armani.
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