Speaking up for America has become a lonely ordeal.
I grew up in London. My parents and I lived in West Norwood, then we moved to Norbury, and I went to the Brit School. I'm a South London girl at heart.
I like what Proenza Schouler is doing. I also love the Miu Miu chunky embellished shoes and really like Prada as well.
I am a Topshop homing pigeon! I can walk into the Oxford Circus branch and ferret out the best bits in minutes.
Statement earrings and statement necklaces each deserve their own moment. I never wear the two together; it looks overdone.
I can remember hearing the theme tune to Dallas when I was supposed to be in bed. I would sneak down and try to watch it through the banisters. My mum loved that show.
You should see some of the things people tweet me. There have been death wishes on my Twitter timeline.
Love is acceptance - accepting people as they are. Just acceptance and caring.
The art of the novel, however, has fallen into such a state of stagnation - a lassitude acknowledged and discussed by the whole of critical opinion - that it is hard to imagine such an art can survive for long without some radical change. To many, the solution seems simple enough: such a change being impossible, the art of the novel is dying.
My hope is that I can somehow raise the level of consciousness about world events.
Just as the queen bee, the highest-ranking, peerless creature of her hive, is surrounded by lowly drones to please her, whereas the workers produce honey, the same way is the one who sits on the throne an equal only to himself, and no one's companion.