ouff..

I woke up this morning to the news that Yves Saint Laurent has died in Paris, aged 71. My first thought is entirely and shockingly selfish. Now I'm never going to get to be his muse - something I've been counting on definitely happening one day soon, every day since I went to fashion college and really learnt the mysteries of the cut. I knew he was the only person who would see past my fen-peasant bones, and turn me into the waif-like Loulou de la Falaise, because, tell the truth, I was more in love with her than anyone else. I used to walk down the streets in London dressed as a scruffy semi-punk, but imagining myself as the completely opposite Loulou - tossing my tasty but bold necklaces over one shoulder and jutting my own (well covered) hip bone out. All it would take was for me to turn the corner, bump into Yves Saint Laurent, possibly spill my orange juice over his perfect white shirt and the rest would be history. (Oh, come on - that scene was one of the main reasons we loved Notting Hill so much - who isn't waiting for something like that to happen to them? I've heard it best described as a 'plunk' - that little prickle when you see a secret of yours exposed on screen. Half exciting, but half a loss too because you know everyone else shares it now.)

Just recently there seems to have been a spate of deaths that shatter these dreams of mine, one by one. All the things I knew would happen one day. The people waiting round corners for me to bump into them. What surprises me though is that it has taken me so long to realise this is one reason why people read obituary columns. Not to read about the real lives, but to mourn their own now lost dreams. Darn it, now I will never get to turn the pages for ... be asked to be lab assistant to ... get a fan letter from ... Then we look round the debris left on the breakfast table and hoist ourselves back to reality...