Posts Tagged ‘armani’
M: Tell me, E. Have you smelled Armani’s jasmine perfume?
E: No. Is it lovely?
M: I thought Armani only did perfume with italian words on it. Like GIO and ACQUA DI TOBLERONE.
E: Acqua di Pannetone. Ezzenzi di Ferrero Rocher.
M: Perfume di Papardelle.
E: Hehehehe. Did this not smell of ragu then?
M: No, not ragu, but it smelled so delicious. My friend sprayed it on her hand and I followed her round Selfridges, wanting to EAT her.
E: Wow. How .. frightening.
M: It just smells of flowers. The sweetest, prettiest, most fragile jasmine flowers. Sob.
E: Why are you sobbing?
M: Because it is £135 or something.
E: Awww. Never mind. This will cheer you up:
M: HA. That bottle looks ridiculous. It’s like a hippie on a monolith.
E: You think? To me it’s a gigantic deformed mouth. Probably eating ragu.
M: Let’s read what the Space Lizard himself has to say about it.
“A fragrance which sings the praises of light and life”.
E: Not at all ambitious, then.
M: “Giorgio Armani likes the Jasmine fragrances of his childhood, a long way from the hypnotic mysteries of the Grasse extracts; he likes its solar energy”
E: “Solar energy”. But that’s like ADMITTING that he’s a space lizard!
M: Do you like perfume’s solar energy, E?
E: No, I fear it. It wishes to do me harm.
M: The rose quartz top drinks in the light, apparently.
E: This is some big time reptile alien conspiracy shit right here.
M: Did I ever tell you about the giant crystal at the National Museum of Scotland?
E: I don’t believe so, M, no.
M: I went there to look at the taxidermied animals. There have a great big purple crystal. My friend told me last time he was there, some old hippy was standing in front of it, with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, arms spread open. DRINKING IN THE CRYSTAL POWER. That’s what Armani does. I’m not sure I want this anymore. Especially if it “takes root in the warm terrace of Indonesian Patchouli.”
E: Uh oh. That’s concentrated essence of hippy right there. There are hand-cured thong sandals abandoned on that terrace. And cheesecloth.
M: Pffff. The copy writer has ruined it for me. I am sulking.
E: Leave it to the solar hippy lizards. Anyway, cheer up M. I mean look! It’s a breakthrough! YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT FRAGRANCE. YOU VOWED YOU WOULD NEVER DO THAT.
M: Shut your face. I am not.
E: I think you’ll find you are.
M: Don’t know what you are talking about. I think you’ll find I know you are but what am I.
E: Tsk, M. There is nothing to be afraid of. Soon you will be wittering about “dry down”.
M: I don’t want to know what that is.
E: And “top notes”. And erm. no. My fragrance vocabulary stops there.
M: Humph. Let’s pretend this never happened. If you are my friend, you will pretend this never happened.
E: It never happened (I have just told the whole internet).
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E: As surgeons, we hold life in our hands every day. Our every decision could mean the difference between life and death. As surgeons, our eye shadow can mean the difference between life and death.
M: Who are you talking to?
E: The viewers, M. Or should that be Yang.
M: [Rolls eyes].
E: I am doing a Voiceover. A tediously repetitive and overwrought voiceover. To be repeated at the end of the post.
M: Right, well while you are busy having fun with your little friends the McViewers, I have more important things to do. Like fixing this SERVER, Grey.
E: Oh god, we hadn’t thought this through. I don’t want to be Grey.
M: YOU ARE TOTALLY GREY.
E: Oh god. Ok. Forget about the server. The server is not important. Leave the server Cristina. We need to have intense girlish chat. You must be abrasive and full of good sense. I must be annoyingly wet.
M: Oh, the server is important. How can you say the server is not important? Seriously? Seriously? The server is important. I was left at the altar because of the server.
E: No. Seriously? This isn’t even ABOUT the server. Stop talking about the server. We need to talk about something more important. There are more important things than the server, Cristina.
M: Fine. Let’s talk about you, Meredith. You and your subtly defined eyes.
E: Thank you Cristina. Your eyes are also subtly defined. As surgeons, our eyes must be defined.
M: Yes, even though you can barely see them because of how much I am rolling them around in their sockets.
E: Should we sit on a gurney to talk about this?
M: Sure, yeah, whatever. I am going to stare moodily in the distance, exuding scorn and disdain from every inch of my porcelain skin.
E: Why do you think we surgeons love taupe so much?
M: Because it is work appropriate. And also, universally flattering. We’re all about the universal love, here at whatever the fuck this hospital is called.
E: Facegoop Grace Hospital. What taupe are you using Cristina? Will you tell me what it is if I get you an amazing surgery? With pulsating hearts for you to hold in your bare hands?
M: I have a nice one from No.7. And I also mix two of the colours from my armani palette. That is because, unlike you pathetic interns, as a surgeon, I like to experiment with cutting edge techniques.
Ei: You practise obsessively in the scrub room, don’t you? For hour after single-minded hour, blending.
M: Yes. When I am not busy snogging inappropriate men. And by inappropriate, I mean crazy.
E: Can I tell you about MY taupe?
M: What’s your taupe, Meredith? I bet it is earnest. So earnest.
E: I use Armani Mono Shadow in “Maestro”.
M: Predictable. Reliable.
E: You know what Cristina? It is GOOD. The taupe is GOOD. It makes me feel good about taupe.
M: Good. It’s good taupe.
E: I never thought I would say this, but taupe? It’s GOOD. Good taupe.
M: It certainly is. It is good.
E: The goodest of good taupes. Taupe. Good. Is it voiceover time?
M: [Rolls eyes].
E: As surgeons.. nah, forget it. I’m bored.
M: Let’s go throw fruit at that annoying blonde girl. Is she dead yet?
What’s your favourite taupe, interns?
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M: (tiny little voice) Errm, E?
E: Yes, M? What is it?
M: You look really pretty today. And I really like your shoes.
E: OH NO. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
M: And have I ever told you how clever you are?
E: You might as well just tell me. TELL ME.
M: Shhhhhhh [hides under desk].
E: Come out of there. We can still see you. Your JENNERS BAG is poking out.
M: This bag? The dark black one with red tissue paper, the delicately scented one that says GIORGIO ARMANI?
E: Yes. That bag. Now tell me what on earth you have been up to with the lizard king or I’m sending for Laura Mercier and her Jack Bauer style torture techniques. WHAT IS IN THE BAG, M?
M: Before I tell you about what’s in the bag, I must tell you about Jen, the Armani Face Designer. She is Céline’s younger Scottish sister. Her hair is soft and lustrous. Her eyes deep and understanding. Her tail is dainty and hardly noticeable at all.
E: Ha. “Face Designer”. They programme her that way back on the mothership for optimal Customer Service.
M: Yes, then she reprograms your face to comply with the Armani Algorithm.
E: Correct.
M: Sleekness. Smoothness. Impact.
E: It might not be your face anymore, but it’s BETTER.
M: She has a mirror, that she sent me out to Princes St with. To check my face in. It’s that thing the magazines always tell you to do but that never ever happens.
E: Ha! Not at all embarrassing that.
M: The tourists stared and the grannies tutted, but I did not care. Jen had me in her thrall. The thing about Jen is that she sounds so innocent and sincere. Like, when she told me my skin was good. Or when she praised the shape of my eyebrows. Or the fact that my lids were just right for putting shadow on. I lapped it up. Like a brain zombie.
E: And then what happened, M? How did she pounce? What has she done to you?
M: No, she did not pounce. That is the genius of Jen. I just volunteered to spend £65 on roughly 10 grams of coloured powder. The thing is, I didn’t care. Because I wanted to be just like Jen. Including the wonderfully irridescent green shadow on her eyes.
E: Ooooh, nice.
M: I’m pretty sure crack is cheaper than that. Anyway, LOOK A IT. The “Mediterranean Palette”. Isn’t it beautiful?
E: Mediterranean Palette sounds like a delicious mezze plate. But where are the olives? Where is the tzatziki?
M: They have been replaced by this bronzer, which is ace. And then 4 shadows.
E: Ok, it does look pretty awesome. And is it as good as it looks?
M: YES. Look:
Yes. The fact I am willing to show you my face is proof of the power of Armani. The green is green, but it does not make you look crazy, because the colours are sheer and combine into subtle effects. It just gives your eyes brightness and definition. Only one downside. Now, I have to sacrifice a goat to his Highness.
E: King Lizard be praised! You look amazing. The Armani algorithm is working for you. Actually, I think the goat sacrifice can wait until you have worked your earthling fingers to the bone to pay for the palette.
M: I don’t give a shit. Because I am going to wear it ALL THE TIME.
She casually said to me, as she was wrapping it up “It’s a very limited edition, we only got 8 in stock.” BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.
E: BWAHAHAHHAHAA Bon. I forgive you, M. It is hard to resist a facial redesign from space.
M: Thank you for your forgiveness, E. I must resist the genius mascara, or the amazing Fluid Sheer of Wonder. I feel myself drawn back to the Lizard Lair. I must be strong. Pray for me.
Giorgio Armani Mediterannean palette, £65 of your hard earned lizard coins.
What’s in your guilt-lined drawer of shame?
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E: Ok M. I’m quite excited. Are you going to take me on a voyage of discovery to the land of … Mascara? Alittle known Balkan state.
M: Get your facts right. It’s an Island in the Maldives.
E: Oh yes, sorry. Owned by the Pope who is himself partial to the fruits of the mascara tree.
M: To be completely honest, I must admit I am Not That Bothered With Mascara (NTBM). I’ll use whatever is at hand.
E: NTBM. Like NTM but more polite.
M: Nique Ton Mascara. That’s gross, E.
E: Ouais, grave. Ok, come on, tell me more about the Island of Mascara.
M: Also, I can’t use eyelash curlers. They give me the fucking creeps. You might as well try to lawnmow my face.
E: They look like something from Clockwork Orange.
M: The result would be the same: hyperventilation. Blacking out. Manic screaming.
E: A normal Monday chez Facegoop.
M: So, this is my technique for mascar. Start with a naked eye.
M: Find a mascara tube that isn’t 3 years old.
E: Good start. Conjunctivitis is never a good look.
M: Dab it on, apprehensively. Usually get some right in my eye. Cry a bit. Curse. Then push the lashes up, while they’re still wet, so they curl up a little. The end.
E: So. None of this crazy shit oscillating brush business for you? Vibrations?
Infrared? Small pixies creeping out of the tube to stroke your lashes?
M: No. I mean, if someone wants to give me one, I’ll use it. I’ll even be polite to the pixies. AS LONG AS THEY DON’T STROKE MY EYEBALLS.
E: Ew. You’d be fully entitled to kick the little fuckers in their tiny pixie nuts if they did that.
M: But really, I demand two things out of a mascara:
1. Do not give me panda eyes. I mean, really. If I wanted panda eyes, I’d be eating bamboo.
2. Get the fuck off my lashes when I tell you to, mascara. None of this staying around for a “night cap” business.
E: We do not want to see your etchings. Or hear about how you and your wife ‘live separate lives’.
M: And we definitely don’t want to see you “tasteful nudes”. With that in mind. Here are the 4 mascaras I found in my pile of crap cosmetic drawer.
Definie-a-lash in Black Waterproof
The Claim:
No clumps, separated, seriously long lashes
The Anecdote:
Recommended by my sister, the actress slash moddle. Perfectly long, fluttery, defined lashes on her. Unfortunately I made the mistake of buying the waterproof version. Gives quite stiff, crispy lashes, and is impossible to remove – no amount of eye make up remover, oil cleanser, soaking, wiping, scraping or praying to the gods will prevent next day panda eyes.
M’s Verdict:
It’s good stuff. But stay away from the waterproof.
E says: You look pretty good, but it’s not science fiction uber lashes, is it? Whatevs.
Define-a-lash mascara, £7.99
No7 Intense Volume in 02 Brown/Black
The Claim:
Fantastic volume with perfect separation and curl for lusher lashes
The Anecdote:
Not sure why I bought this. Probably a £5offno7 voucher.
M’s Verdict:
Nondescript. Lashes look natural. Bit pointless really.
E says: This is RUBBISH. Throw it away. The end.
No.7 Intense volume mascara, £11
Great Lash Blackest Black mascara
The Claim:
Lash building brush helps build even the tiniest lashes for a cleaner, more separated lash finish.
The Anecdote:
I used this when I was a teenager. That and those giant glue sticks of Palmer’s Cocoa butter balm we used to rub on our lips obsessively. Good times.
M’s Verdict:
It’s actually very good, the brush is quite small and does tackle even the tiniest lashes. I seem to remember this melting onto my face pretty fast though, which is probably why I haven’t used it in ages.
E says: Yeah, this looks very good. The name is like a Whitney Houston song though. The Greatest Lash of All.
Great Lash blackest black mascara, £4.99
Topshop mascara in Raven
The Claim:
Super volumising mascara for false lash effect dramatically thicker and fuller lashes.
The Anecdote:
As recommended by the Topshop makeup artiste. The brush is chunky and always loaded with lots of gloopy product. I usually get some around my lids. It’s very clumpy too so I have to use my fingers to get the worst of it off.
M’s Verdict:
In spite of its rebellious teenager behaviour, I like it for its high impact, and have been using it daily. It lasts until the evening with no smudging or melting. It gets to the lash roots like no mascara I’ve ever tried, but it’s not so good on the small outer corners.
E says: I don’t understand why you like something that gloops on you, but whatever, dude. This looks like Old Skool mascara to me, like quite heavy in a sultry temptress kind of way. Looks kind of lengthening. Does that even make sense? Urgh, my head hurts.
Topshop mascara, £8
Bonus! Armani Eyes to Kill in 01
The Claim:
Dress the eye with powerful, plush, voluminous lashes.
The Anecdote:
I don’t actually own this, but the gentle lovely FACE DESIGNER at Armani made me try it. I have no idea how she put it on, because my eyes were closed during the application. She could have told me, but she probably would have had to kill me.
M’s verdict:
Go away. My lash extensions and I have some fluttering to do.
E says: See, when I see you wearing this, I wonder why you bother with the others. This is KING MASCARA. King Mascara of Lizardland. BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP HIM.
Giorgio Armani Eyes to Kill Mascara, £23
Before M heads to the Armani counter like a crack addict, any preference, facegoopists?
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E brandishes the sword of flawless coverage
E: As a follow up to your adventures in foundation, I wanted to mention Face Fabric. Face Fabric, the brainchild, or possibly facechild, of supernatural reptile cosmetics god, Mr Armani. Now, I should preface this by saying that I am basically in thrall to Laura Mercier tinted moisturiser for the summer. I am her slave.
M: Oh, interesting. I thought you couldn’t be bothered with it during the week?
E: No, that’s right, but recently, it has started to make all manner of sense. I wasn’t expecting it, but it’s grown on me. Like a dewy, moisturising fungus. Eeew I have revolted myself.
M: Again. Tell me more about Face Fabric.
E: Well, I’m not foundation phobic. I quite like foundation. I have both Face Fabric and Luminous Silk, by the Lizard King. Mr Armani isn’t stupid when it comes to foundation. He knows his beigey coveragey stuff.
M: And indeed, brain control.
E: Ssssh he can hear you.
M: I have a sample of Luminous Silk. I like it.
E: Yes, it’s good for facial leprosy. It has more coverage than Face Fabric.
M: But it doesn’t give you that breathy feel.
E: Nope. Whereas Face Fabric is like magical disappearing foundation. A bit like your Diorskin.
M: What’s it like? I have poked it at the counter. Is it a bit moussy?
E: Yes, it feels quite thick in the tube and when you put it on. But once it’s on, it just fucks off into your skin and concentrates on making you even and dewy. I use my fingers because I am fucking lazy and it still looks good.
M: It’s clever, that Face Fabric.
E: Yup. It’s Fabric. For your Face. I just repeat buy without ever getting tempted to buy anything else (except Laura Mercier).
M: Is it matte? Dry as the desert sand?
E: No! It’s more sheer. And the colour match is great for me (#1 cadaver)
M: Does it actually cover anything?
E: Erm. I think so. I could show you? With a pic with one half Face Fabricked and the other nothing?
M: Yes, do. My craggy volcanic slopes of a face demand it.
E: Uh oh. don’t say volcano.
M: Shhhhhhhh.
E: Ssssssssh. Ok, here you go:
M: I take it the Face Fabric is applied on the left hand side of your face (in the photos)?
E: I’m glad you can tell. This could have been embarrassing.
M: No, it is visible but also very natural.
E: That’s space technology for you.
M: Space Technology Holy Grail Foundation. I’m still looking for mine. What’s your favourite foundation, facegoopists?
Armani Face Fabric foundation, £29
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E: M, you are going to be so proud of me.
M: I’ll be the judge of that.
E: Yes. I have been to a Beauty Evening for research. And not just because there were free drinks.
M: Right. I am not impressed yet.
E: Well, it was run by Harper’s Bazaar, and you could get makeovers from make up artistes. And Newby Hands, the beauty director at Harper’s gave a talk and said that Fred from Armani was THE BEST. She said that she didn’t want all the shiny pretty laydeez fighting over getting a makeover from him but that he was amazing and they should try. Guess who was FIRST?
M: YOU.
E: YES. ME ME ME.
M: Did you shove everyone out of the way? Did you kick shins?
E: My elbows are steel tipped.
M: Was there blood?
E: Ssssssh. We don’t talk about that.
M: High five!
E: High GBH five.
M: And? How was Fred? Is he a space lizard?
E: Yes. A tiny French space lizard. A space gecko. He said their new lipstick was better than Mr Ford’s.
M: A talking tiny french space lizard would not lie.
E: No. Then he put tonnes of blush on me.
M: Was it nice blush?
E: Yes, actually, you get two shades in one compact, a browny and a pinky and he did amazing cheekbone conjuring and contouring tricks with them, look:
M: Nice.
E: Then he he put some taupe shadow worthy of a cast member in Grey’s Anatomy on me, and a nude magic lipstick. He showed me the red and it looked awesome, but it gave me a funny turn, what with my Morbid Lip Colour Phobia.
M: PUSSY. Your lips deserve better than nude. What else? Tell me more.
E: Well, there were six rooms with different brands doing stuff. But instead of rooms, Harper’s Bazaar called them ‘beauty playgrounds’. There were no slides though. Or swings or an ice cream van.
M: Ha, playgrounds. Was it like the Tellytubbies playground? Except that freaky baby face sun had MR ARMANI instead, glaring at you coldly. And judging. JUDGING.
E: Wordlessly. Liplessly. I would totally watch Armani tellytubbies.
M: What would that be like? The mind boggles. There wouldn’t be nice grassy hills. It would all be sleek. And black. And perfectly flat.
E: Matte. And Celine the terrifying space lizard from Printemps Beauté would do educational things with her tail. She could be the Noo-Noo! I don’t think it sounds very suitable for preschoolers. ANYWAY. It was not matte black. It was kind of of taupe and full of beautiful, amazonian women. I felt like a hobbit.
M: A hobbit with sculpted cheekbones though.
E: I suppose. Newby Hands gave a talk. She said:
1. Diorskin Nude foundation was brilliant
2. That YSL do the most genius gel eye mask ever; and
3. That Dolce & Gabbana did excellent nude shades.
Wow, this is like lecture notes. I am the sad, lecture note beauty geek.
M: I’ve been testing the Dior Nude foundation. I am almost ready to buy it.
E: Do. She says it’s brilliant, on the cusp of skincare and makeup AND it makes you a better person and five inches taller. She was like this amazing, glowing uber-mensch, so I trust her.
M: I could be a better person. I could totally be a better person. I could be that girl, in the ads, with the pouffy pink dress and bicycle and flowery hat. Her:
E: With Dior you could. You would be good at that, you’re already a bike perv.
M: Continue. What else?
E: Well, the Bare Escentuals ladies were there swirling and buffing and they had tiny cupcakes.
M: Were they swirling and buffing the cupcakes?
E: Yes, swirl buff swirl buff.
M: That’s weird, man. Onto their FACES?
E: Ok, I lied. But they had swirled icing.
M: WHAT ELSE.
E: Well, Armani had chocolates.
M: Dude, I’m sorry, but I don’t give a shit about the food. I’m here about the STUFF. Gimme my wholesome Harper’s beauty crack.
E: Ah, sorry. Well, Lancôme have magical mascara that makes your EYELASHES GROW SO FAST YOU CAN PLAIT THEM.
M: Yeah, I don’t believe in that.
E: It no longer changes the colour of your eyes which hello? FREAKY.
M: I don’t know, different coloured eyes are sexy. Like, one yellow, one purple. HAWT.
E: Good if you’re in a witness protection program. You could have different coloured eyes and grow an eyelash curtain to hide behind.
M: I got one of those. With the Topshop mascara.
E: We will learn all about that in the forthcoming Epic Mascara Post.
YSL Top Secrets Instant Eye Wake-up Patches, £32
Diorskin Nude foundation, £29
Giorgio Armani Blending Blush duos
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Today we are discussing Giorgio Armani Sheer Lipstick. Because that’s how we roll. Yes, we do have jobs actually. Shut up.
E: I tell you what’s weird.
M: What?
E: Mr Armani. I mean, he looks like the exhumed remains of Ramses II, but he absolutely rocks at cosmetics. Not only that, but Mr Ramses Armani has no lips, yet his sheer lipstick is awesomeness in an ergonomic tube. I mean, props to him for his contribution to human happiness, but what the fuck is that about?
M: I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any skin either. He’s 100% lizard, like in V.
E: What is V? Should I know?
M: You know, the TV program. Lizards from space. They eat mice.
E: I have never heard of it.
M: What kind of 80s did you grow up in?
E: The boring kind. My memory was dulled by muesli malnutrition, probably. Mr Ramses Armani is like a brown, brown, lipless space lizard.
M: Yes, but Italian. Can we get back to lipstick?
E: Yeah, so. Armani lipstick is good because it is not actually lipstick.
M: What is it?
E: It’s lipstick for wimps. People who are scared of lipsticks.
M: That’s a condition?
E: Yes. Because I have this Chanel lipstick and it scares me. You put it on, and look at yourself and suddenly it’s all CLOWN MOUTH! OMFG I AM WEARING LIPSTICK.
M: Yes. And you have to blot it and constantly check it isn’t on your teeth.
E: And it leaches all the moisture out of your lips, leaving you with your lips sloughing off like a reptile.
M: Always back to the reptiles. You know what else is nice about it?
E: What?
M: The click when you close the lid. And the soft, ergonomic shape. It’s like one of those space chairs in lipstick form. It’s SPACE LIPSTICK.
E: Hmm. I think the click could be more clicky. Because when I have mine in my handbag the lid comes off, and the tube fills with sand and biscuit crumbs and spoons and more sand.
M: That doesn’t happen to most people.
E: No?
M: No. They keep it in a tiny shiny clutch, with maybe a black Amex card and a button to call their bodyguard.
E: No shortbread fingers?
M: Are shortbread fingers Armani? NO.
E: I suppose not. Which colour do you have?
M: I don’t know. It makes your lips all berry and shiny and hydrated. And I can apply it blindfolded without looking like I’ve just snogged a lamp post. What do you have?
E: 5. And sometimes 21. They are browny reddish and discreet and do not frighten horses. I am very fond of horses and would not like to frighten them. The Chanel lipstick would definitely frighten horses. Probably men too, but I never meet any of those.
M: Ha, look at their website!
The colours are spectacularly inaccurate. And I was right. The model is definitely from space.
E: There’s something veerrrry creepy about the way she has a black band across her mouth before you choose her lipstick colour. Also, if you choose 9, it gives her blue lips, like she’s in chronic heart failure.
M: Yeah, it’s terrifying.
E: Yours must be 8 I think, but it seems to suggest you are Malibu Barbie.
M: Malibu Barbie is totally Mr Armani’s mistress.
Actually, it's no. 6
E: What do you think they are made of? Truffle oil?
M: Truffle oil and liquefied oyster for the silkiness.
E: And hmmm. Papal vestments?
M: Definitely.
E: 20% white truffle oil from Mr Armani’s space orchard, 30% the silky insides of oyster shells, 25% papal robes and 25% magical space particles.
M: Hmmm. I think we have established that Mr Armani is a mummified space lizard, but what I don’t understand is why he has come to earth to offer us his cosmetics. Is there some kind of nefarious plan behind it?
E: I expect it’s a way to get our DNA isn’t it?
M: That’s all they ever want. Our fucking DNA.
E: Oh god. He’s in league with Estée Lauder isn’t he? DNA superthieves.
M: Yes. Like Stargate.
E: I have never seen Stargate.
M: They are all Egyptian gods. But IN SPACE. And they have worms coming out of their stomachs.
E: Eeew. I am surprised Mr Armani would stand for stomach worms. That isn’t aesthetic at all. Wouldn’t they spoil the line of his regulation navy blue t-shirt?
M: Look, like this:
E: That reminds me of Céline from the Armani counter at Printemps Beauté in Paris.
M: Oh yes. Céline has a tail. It keeps the Armani counter floor nice and shiny.
E: Does she keep it in her regulation black nylon slacks?
M: Yup. She tucks it in there when it’s not needed.
E: So, in conclusion, Armani sheer lip colour. It’s basically DNA theft by a space lizard, but we’re ok with that, because it’s nice and sheer, good wearable colours and doesn’t frighten large mammals. Right?
M: Why not.
Mr Armani does not want you to know how much his sheer lip colour costs, but it’s available from Jenners and Selfridges.
M wears no. 6
E wears nos 5 and 21
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