Where do you wake up? I could be at home in London, working in Paris, visiting the USA or Tokyo. Regardless, I’ll step out the front door and run. I started when I lost a third of my body weight six years ago. Seeing daily life – people still up drinking and smoking, mothers with their children – is the perfect antidote to life in fashion’s ivory tower.
Do you work? I sketch designs. On Sunday mornings the world is fresh and untainted. Half-asleep, I put pen to paper: ideas come out unsullied by consciousness. A week later I’ll find most are twaddle. Occasionally, one has magic.
Sundays growing up… Were a day of self-expression at boarding school. We could wear our civvies as opposed to uniforms (it was so fabulously ridiculous). I’d surreptitiously try to get a Bowie record on the common-room turntable while the rest of the boys guffawed because it wasn’t 70s heavy rock.
A favourite spot? Maison Bertaux in Soho. I’ve been going there since 1976, my first year of college. I sit in Derek Jarman’s chair and say hello to him.
An afternoon out? To Little Marlow church, where I meet my sister. Our parents are no longer alive, but it’s near where they lived. We pray to whatever gods we believe in. We try to visit once a quarter; a nice comma through the sentence of the year.
Sunday lunch at yours? The food will be basic, but the table will look gorgeous and I’ll throw enough champagne, vodka and cheap crisps your way that you’ll hardly notice.
If you could be anywhere next Sunday… Friends own a hotel in the California desert with three pools, heated by the San Andreas fault below. I often arrive on Sunday and have the place to myself. The manager, Nancy, and I eat cowboy chow while discussing which marijuana we’ll have for dessert.
Dior Hats: from Christian Dior to Stephen Jones, £40, Rizzoli, is out now
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