Morning:
8°c
At dinner with friends the other night the usual topics loomed large like spectres at a feast. “When this is all over, the British high street will be unrecognisable. Unrecognisable!” boomed one. We chided him for being so melodramatic. But was he?
It all looked so different 12 months ago. When Jane Shepherdson bought a 20 per cent share in Whistles, the first question on everyone's lips was: “When can I buy some?” Credit crunch? What credit crunch? I remember being whisked off in a black Mercedes for a private view. The clothes were fabulous: designer quality at high street prices. The new-look Whistles deserved to succeed. And, hopefully, it still will.
When the recession first nibbled on our wallets, I was of the opinion that a cull might be for the good, purging the high street of lazy, flaccid retailers who think nothing of charging £20 for a cardie that bobbles in the wash. When sportswear chain USC went into administration in November it felt like no great loss — ditto Barratts (hadn't set foot in one since 1986), Ethel Austen (never been in it) and Morgan (been in it and walked straight out again).
But when Bauger went into administration on Friday, I revised my view. Baugur owns stakes in House of Fraser, is Whistles' lead shareholder and has interests in Oasis, Karen Millen, Warehouse, Principles and Coast. Things are getting scary. Far from ridding our high street of the chaff, it looks as though the wheat is being carried off in the wind as well. And the queue down the dole office will never have looked so stylish.
As someone who insists on unsalted butter, unsalted veg and unsalted crisps, I feel gloriously vindicated by recent headlines on the evils of sodium. Forget pastry and pasta: salt bloat blights the waistline far more grotesquely than any number of carbs.
Rather than embrace the latest fad diet, a quicker (and healthier) result can be achieved by ditching the salt. Food tastes kind of bland for a while, but you soon get used to it. Plus it's a small price to pay for a healthier heart, loose jeans, unpuffy ankles and eyes that don't look as though they belong to ET.
Jade Jagger got married and announced it on Facebook. How very modern. I am extremely jealous of Jade, though not for the reasons you might think. For while her chestnut mane, brilliant smile and impeccable rock star lineage are enviable things indeed, what really turns me puce is her middle name.
Since I was seven I have wanted to be known as Jezebel, purely on the basis that I love its timbre. When my mother refused, I swore I'd name my first-born thus instead. “You can't call your daughter after a prostitute from the Bible!” my mother screamed. Heck, mum. It doesn't seem to have done Jade any harm.
