Waiting for baby. New Statesman.
I am not alone. In my tummy, curled up and waiting for a moment to unfurl and press the exit button, is a baby. If being…
The Queen Mother taught me how to sew beautifully. Published in the New Statesman.
I may have mentioned, in passing, that I was once seamstress to the Queen Mother. This is not exactly true, because it evokes an image of…
Grin and bare it, The New Statesman
There used to be a time when we had the looks we were born with. This changed with the invention of something called plastic surgery and…
Diary. The New Statesman.
I like to start the week talking about breasts – and thus it was that I did. There we were Monday morning, ten women sitting around…
The return of the siren. The New Statesman
Sometimes, fashion can be like a loving mother – blind to the faults of its offspring and periodically pushing them to the forefront of the trend…
When I sewed the royal hem. Published in The New Statesman
The year was 1984. The autumn leaves were golden, almost as majestic and beautiful, warm but regal, empathetic but distant, in their way, as she was.…
When a gentleman’s skin is too pale. Election 2001. Published in The New Statesman.
Oh dear. William Hague was so ahead in the sartorial polls, but now he’s gone and blown it. He decided on a change of shirt colour…
Oooh, suits you, sir. Election 2001. Published in The New Statesman
Should you meet a politician in the next few weeks, and not be certain of his politics by his conversation (so few of them express a…
Beware the hair that rises. Election 2001. Published in The New Statesman
A few years ago, as he accompanied a group of journalists to a British military camp in Bosnia, Michael Portillo showed that he had his priorities…
The military invades the catwalk. Published in The New Statesman
In the days when I used to be something in the fashion world, the team would sit up all night going through transparencies to pick out…
Annalisa Barbieri 
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