I write to you in a state of bliss. This pure sense of happiness stems from one thing and one thing only and that is finding the correct white tank for summer ‘26. Let me tell you, this did not happen by chance - I exist in a perpetual state of seeking when it comes to sleeveless white t-shirts, and this is a hunt that never, ever ends. But for now, I can at least pause my relentless quest, because I’ve found the one.

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Darling Readers,

There is a charming, chandeliered drawing room in a Mayfair townhouse that doubles as the most civilised book store in all of London. It’s on one of those polite streets that’s still populated by whiskery colonels ambling to their club for lunch and daunting elderly ladies in crocodile-skin pumps en route to the hairdresser. The bookstore – Heywood Hill, on Curzon Street - is just around the corner from the Curzon Mayfair, the most civilised cinema in all of London, and a short trot from 5H, still the most civilised private members’ club in all of London. You can see where I’m going with this – a visit to this sacred spot is about as civilised a retail experience as it’s possible to create (and perhaps one that the queue-to-buy-beg-to-buy brands could learn from).

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Well, firstly, there’s nothing like a reason to throw a dinner to give the thing a motor. A dinner purely for socialising’s sake, I’m afraid, fills me with dread, unless it’s with friends who are ‘old muckers’, so close that they may as well be family and you can eat with them in your pyjamas, the litmus test. But I digress: I had a good reason to do a dinner and that made it all easier.

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People fret about nepotism in the fashion world, but my fear is that equestrianism is a far greater barrier to female progress in this industry. If Betty Friedan could see the unfair advantages the supermodel horse girls wield, surely she would turn in her grave. No wonder I felt compelled to team up with director to make a micro-doc about this violent inequality, ep. 2 of Cotswolds Confidential. I hope you learn a lot.

(Here are the breeches, ridiculous leopard print jacket, shirt, sunglasses and boots I’m wearing in the film.)

Meanwhile, below I chronicle The Five Types Of Horse Girl, and curate Their Stuff. If you can’t exclude them, I say join them: you only need a Hermès Grooming Bag and you’re in.

1. The O.G. Horse Girl

All authentic horse girl shit stems from classic English hunting gear, and I have long promised my readers to share exactly where I get my cord breeches, tweed jackets and so on. I love this old photograph of me with Amanda Brooks, left and Miranda Brooks, right, after we’d been on a sunrise ‘hound exercise’ one autumn day in Oxfordshire. We are all in slight variations of the uniform: I remember being very impressed when Amanda told me she was wearing a custom tweed jacket by New York tailor Miller’s Oath and her mother-in-law’s old breeches. She was wearing the most traditional riding boots, with the tan leather top, and there are masses of these on 1st Dibs and Ebay. I bought my jacket, which is thick Irish tweed, for £60 from the vintage rail in the back room at Sydney Free Saddlery in Cirencester, a small local equestrian shop, which often has amazing antique riding clothes. I also bought my fav vintage pale yellow summer breeches there, for £20. It’s not online and you have to pay in cash (chic beyond, right?), but if you are in the Cotswolds it’s worth a visit, and they sell the best hairnets - the ‘heavyweight’ ones. Follow this with coffee and home made gooseberry sorbet at Jolly Nice Farm Shop, which is close by and often frequented by Serious Literary Author , whose mother-in-law owns the joint. You’ll be in heaven, promise.

The stocks we are wearing around our necks - there to protect the neck in case of a fall (yikes) - are like a rather charming version of a bandage. You wrap them around a high necked hunting shirt two or three times, tie an incredibly tight knot and then fan out the fabric over the top, which is secured in place with a stock pin. Often this is a plain gold bar, sometimes it is jewelled with a diamond hoof or fox head. I remember once going out hunting wearing my grandmother’s old pin, which had a large pearl in the centre surrounded by a circle of diamonds, and being scolded by an octogenarian huntress who told me it was too ‘flash’. (I carried on wearing it.) I bought my favourite cord breeches and yellow moleskin waistcoat from Harry Hall years ago, when Lady Martha Sitwell, now a reality TV star, had designed an exquisite collection of hunting clothes for the brand. I hope they will revive it but in the meantime these twill breeches and this woollen waistcoat by The Hunting Stock Market are fabulous. (If you want the slightly baggier look, go for men’s breeches.) The Hunting Stock Market has become the go-to online store among the British hunting set for super-trad, well-priced riding gear. Their soft wool checked stocks are absolutely gorgeous.

When it comes to actual horse shopping, well, it’s a minefield, and after several mistakes I now only trust one person: I bought my daughters’ two horses (both dreamboats) through Amelia Winter who gamely took part in my film. She is a stunningly talented young event rider (who won gold in Belgium last summer with the British Under-25 team), and is the daughter of Olympian equestrian Mike Winter. She recently found and bought the champion horse Sparki, for Jemma Kidd, and has just bought a new horse on behalf of Jemma’s beau, Arki Busson for his daughter Luna. They’ve called that one Sparkle, obvs.

2. The Pony Club Mummie

Currently emerging from winter hibernation, The Hon. Mrs. Arabella Armstrong-Fleate, so old money she can’t even remember where the money came from, will be ferrying little Archie and Araminta and their pure-bred Connemara ponies to ‘PC’ competitions all summer long, in her rusty Ifor Williams trailer, towed by her 1970s Landrover Defender. She will take a small tent to pitch for overnighters, as Arabella wouldn’t dream of ‘wasting money’ on a hotel. Dressed in three-quarter length skirts and waterproof coats, Arabella takes the Country Turnip aesthetic to another level, known in insider circles simply as ‘Barn Potato’. The look requires a deep dive into the attics of country houses, whence can be found the following highly unflattering, but psychologically comforting items, mostly because they remind the Pony Club Mummie of childhood: granny’s old kilt, ancient Hunter wellies with the ‘Made In Scotland’ label at the top, dating from before Hunter was so hatefully trendi-fied; thick shooting socks to wear inside the wellies, even in summer heat; grandpa’s moth-eaten Guernsey sweater that he wore for the Cresta Run in 1975, which has never been washed; an original 1980s Puffa jacket. The most prized 80s Puffas among the country set are those bearing a label embroidered with the words ‘Cotswold Stud’: these are distributed to favoured houseguests by Clementine Fraser, a great grand daughter of Sir Winston Churchill and chatelaine of Waverton House, one of many idyllic piles which host the Cotswolds Cup each summer. (Anyone can show up to watch and it’s divine: the ‘shopping’ consists of one tack shop and an airstream trailer selling coffee and bacon sandwiches.)

But I digress. Back to the Hon. Arabella. Do not let appearances deceive you: behind her ruddy cheeks and frizzy hair this female is so ruthlessly competitive she makes Shiv Leroy look like a hamster, and will do almost anything, including hiding a rival pony’s girth, to make sure her children leave each show with a rosette. Her patron saint is the late Queen, the ultimate horsey mum, and she violently disapproves of any flash nonsense at pony shows. She is most allergic to those driving golden 16-berth Oakley horse lorries, preferring to spend on the horse rather than the transport. Her motto, forever, is ‘Why drive a Rolls Royce and bring out a Ford, when you could drive a Ford and bring out a Rolls Royce?’

3. The Performative Horse Girl

There is no need whatsoever to get on a horse to be a horse girl: the adjacent accoutrements are quite plentiful enough to fill any white space between a girl and a non-existent pony. Here’s a starter pack:

a) Wallpaper fills a space with far more horses than even a barn at Wellington Riding ever could. I decorated the attic at my Cotswold farmhouse with a relatively inexpensive paper designed by the Stroud-based company Lewis and Wood, called ‘Hunting Scenes’ and inspired by an old document. The paper is £98 a roll and can be bought online without going through a snazzy American decorator.

b) Attend Royal Ascot in June, no wellies required. I went last summer with and her wonderful daughter Alice, above, who hosted the box that day, which was done up like the Bamford’s Daylesford Farm Shop. Alice was clad in Alaia, and took everyone ‘backstage’ to see her racehorse and meet the jockey after lunch.

c) Add physical magazines like Hounds, Country Life and Horse and Hound to your media diet. They make a brilliant substitute for an Ambien: reading them in bed is as close as you’ll get to a literary sleeping tablet.

d) Buy merch from local British hunts - the jute Beaufort Hunt ‘bottle bag’, with its distinctive blue and gold monogram, is about as insider as it gets. No one will have a clue what ‘BH’ stands for, which is cool. Sidenote: the Beaufort Hunt classified ads are a very good place to find things like a Cotswolds cottage to rent, home-made gin, or a horse to loan.

e) Decorate with horsey paintings, watercolours, photographs and sculptures or bronzes. I mostly find mine at auction, and if they are a little beaten up, I love them all the more. A chip on a gilt frame is charming, where perfection often is not. The best auction houses for these sort of things are Tennants of Yorkshire who have regular country house sales, Sworders for Old Masters and the odd bargain, and Dreweatts whose auction of the collection of The Hon. Patrick and Lady Amabel Lindsay on June 2nd looks irresistible in terms of country house stuff. You need a lot of patience to shop online at auction, and its super-important, with paintings for example, to ask for a condition report. Most auction houses will FaceTime to let you see things, whatever the price tag, and all the horse paintings in my study were bought at auction often after a jolly call with an auctioneer. It’s a lot more thrilling than shopping in an antiques store, a lot less expensive, and a lot less scary than learning to ride.

4. The Supermodel Horse Girl

Most famous culprits are Kendall and Gigi, who have perfected the art of galloping bareback on a horse in a ballgown, and rarely seem to feature in a fashion shoot or a reel without a horse in attendance. The fashionista as rider has a long history: in the 1980s, designers like Ralph Lauren and photographers such as Bruce Weber and Herb Ritts favoured society equestriennes as models, and blue-blooded beauties like India Hicks and Saffron Aldridge were often photographed with horses. The ultimate modern aristo horse girl, Edie Campbell, is not only a semi-professional event rider, but she’s sponsored by Loro Piana. Her saddle pads are objects of lust for me.

5. The ‘Metre Forty’ Horse Girl

So-called, as she competes at a height of 1m 40cm when it comes to the show jumping circuit. You will see her in the summer months at the Longines competition in Paris, with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop, or pinging around Cannes on a Dutch warmblood, and the outfits get smarter with each location. Patron saint Charlotte of Monaco does it all in Gucci, Jessica Springsteen does it all in Parlanti Roma boots and Loro Piana kit, Eve Jobs is most often seen in a Team USA crimson jacket and white breeches, and swinging the LV Twist purse when she’s off duty.

When it comes to the sartorial coordination of yourself and your horse, no one does it better than Lady Claudia Rothermere, below, competing her horse Imposant Van de Renger, a.k.a ‘Po’. If she’s on her bay steed she wears a dark brown competition jacket, on the grey she wear navy, always with white breeches. Her wardrobe is Hermès, and so is Po’s. Obvs.

Thank you so much for reading darlings, let me know what you all think. This has been one of my favourite pieces to write because of my lifelong love of horses. I already feel Volume 2 of Horse Girls incoming...

Message me, ask me - you know the deal.

XXX Plum

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One Monday in early December 1997, right after Thanksgiving, I arrived at the Vogue offices on Madison Avenue early as usual. I’d only moved from British Vogue a few months before, and I’d often arrive by 7.30am, so I could read the clips and catch up with news before the day got going. Although my knowledge of the city was limited to where to get my Manolo’s mended, the address of Da Silvano and the phone number for Big Apple Cars, I’d convinced myself I was already virtually a native. In reality I knew almost nothing about how Manhattan worked.

That day, as soon as I arrived I was summoned to Anna Wintour’s office by Kate Young, who had recently become one of her assistants, and a friend to me.

‘Anna’s inviting you to the Costume Institute Benefit next Monday,’ she told me.

The ‘Costume Institute’? It sounded like an educational establishment created by Catholic nuns for earnest girls to study needlework. And a ‘benefit’? I’d never heard of such a thing. I smiled at Kate, acted all thrilled and later secretly asked my assistant to explain. She told me the event was a party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (which I had not yet visited and knew nothing of, Phillistine that I was) to raise money for the fashion section of the museum. Ok, I thought to myself, a charity ball, as we’d call such things in England. I’d got this, no probs. I knew what these things were like: predictable events most memorable for the flat champagne and hordes of Sloane Ranger girls in puffy taffeta ballgowns.

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman who is the subject of a viral TikTok has no choice but to make a sequel. Here’s my heartbreaking tale: in 2003, the BBC made a documentary about Anna Wintour. I featured for a milli-second, talking terrifically seriously about the importance of wearing cocktail attire for work. When that clip went viral on TikTok, Gen Z-ers the world over concluded that Yours Truly was the inspiration for the OG fashion bitch - Emily, the snooty English assistant to Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada. You can imagine, I was devastated.

I suffered this slur in silence, believing that coming forward would invite further cruel scrutiny from the bullying tweens of TikTok. But now, urged by and others in the Vogue Sisterhood, and with DWP2 adding fuel to the fire, I decided, finally, to write the story for Vogue and Speak Out on camera from my Cotswolds hideaway.

Watch my investigation below…

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Once upon a time, long long ago (the early 1980s to be precise) a very particular type was identified in England - the ‘Sloane Ranger’. This was an upper class sort who drifted between their (or their generous friend’s) estate in Scotland and their (parents’) flat in a garden square in South Kensington or Chelsea. The female of the breed roamed Sloane Street dressed in a uniform consisting of pie-crust collared shirts, tweed skirts, flat shoes and Hermès silk scarves printed with something horsey. This was generally worn beneath a heavy waxed green Barbour (the staple of British farming and shooting wear) the better to protect them from the rain while they truffle-hunted debs’ delights, invitations to country house parties and prayed for a sighting of their icon, Lady Diana Spencer.

They were very, very uncool.

But how things change, dearest readers. You can imagine my shock a few weeks back when I was at the Chanel show in Paris and came upon Vanessa Friedman, fashion critic of The New York Times no less, perched in the front row, in a skinny black sweater and trousers and - wait - thrown over the ensemble was a shapeless dark green oilskin jacket. Concerned for the poor girl that she may have unwittingly morphed into an 80s Sloane, I asked her if she was wearing a Barbour. ‘Of course I am,’ she replied, looking thrilled with herself. I secretly felt sorry for her: she knew not what she wore. However, I soon ascertained that an American-Sloane Aesthetic movement was building: when I threw a dinner for in London, he arrived in a dark suit and tie under a Barbour which he wore into the drawing room so everyone could see it before he took it off. Crumbs, I remember thinking, isn’t Chris supposed to be cool? When I asked him to explain he said, ‘I have six or seven Barbours because they are the best transitional jacket. The British country thing will always be romanticised because it’s so classy.’

I had to conclude that Sloane style, once at the bottom of the fashion food chain, is heading into Apex Predator territory, and it’s actually kind of glamorous. I mean, who doesn’t love a tweed jacket every day of the year? But reader beware: country chic in the city is one thing, looking like a country potato in town quite another.

Forthwith, How To Dress Sloane Now:

1. Channel a character from a Sloane children’s book:

   A scarf is perhaps the quickest, fastest Sloane ingredient that can be added to any outfit. Inspirations range from Rupert Bear, who was never without his woolly yellow scarf, to The Railway Children’s iconic berets and scarves. The late Queen, who wore silk scarves printed with things like pheasants or wild flowers, defined the look for the nation for decades. Burberry has both bases covered in terms of British scarf chic, woolly or silk, and Kujten is the place for twenty-something’s to find a cashmere neckerchief with prep connotations. For a très BCBG version, Celine’s silk squares are fabulous, as reported in Lauren Sherman’s Line Sheet newsletter but possibly too uber-trendy to be considered strictly Sloane.

2. Carry unshowy handbags:

   Ideally, a purse should be monogrammed with one’s initials, which is why the Marina Raphael Alex bag in burgundy leather, below right, is ideal, as the plain clasp is the perfect spot for engraving. The black purse, bottom right, monogrammed with an ‘M’ for Margaret, Duchess of Argyll, was custom made by Hermès in the 1960s and is now carried by her granddaughter . The only logo-laden bags a Sloane can cart between town and country with no shame, as long as they are old, are a Chanel 2.55 or a Birkin.

3. Shop like a rural duchess:

   The late Deborah Mitford, who became the Duchess of Devonshire when she married, was considered one of the chicest women in the world. But in her heart she was Sloane through and through: when asked where she bought her clothes she simply replied ‘at country fairs’. She wore tweed in town, plain flannel skirts and nice gloves. Jade Holland Cooper recently made me this custom brown tweed suit, below left, at her Cotswolds atelier which I wore to Cheltenham Races, where she had a huge shop all week selling everything from tweed skirts to high tech riding breeches. I paired it with men’s Crockett and Jones brogues and a black watch tartan shirt from With Nothing Underneath. I’d wear it in London or Paris with my red Chanel 2.55 and my cream calfskin Scarosso loafers.

4. Embrace Flatties:

   As a child I was taught to fear ‘the woman in comfortable shoes’ - the phrase brought to mind frowning headmistresses, stern receptionists and over-exhausted hospital matrons, none of whom exuded glamour. Now, not so much: I think loafers are incredibly classy and love a lace-up from Churches Shoes. I’ve just fallen in love with these Jennifer Chamandi black flats, below, which look wonderful with these tartan socks from Tabio in Paris. Their very frumpiness is what makes them chic.

5. Update the raincoat, or get a ‘New’ Old One:

   When I was in Paris with Ursula last month, we both test-drove Fairfax and Favor’s lightly waxed coats. Ursula loved the longer version, in a beautiful bottle green, as the narrow cut is very flattering, and the tan summery short jacket I wore with jeans was modern-looking and a nice light weight for spring showers.

In terms of a new Barbour, I recommend the Men’s Beaufort Waxed Jacket as it has that slouchy oversized feel, and the men’s just look a bit cooler than the women’s. For the die-hard old-schoolers, its all about a pre-adored Barbour, obvs. Here, a brief tour of vintage Barbours, compiled by my wonderful intern, :

1. The It Girl

Barbour x Alexa Chung. The collaboration speaks for itself. Effortlessly cool, with just the right hint of youthful edge.

https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/326970146288

2. The Heritage Classic

Has survived a number of inheritance games and, crucially, can always be rewaxed.

https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/358420812878

3. The Fashionably Fitted

Technically countryside, but somehow always perfectly fitted. Worn with intention, and a defined waist.

https://www.vestiairecollective.com/women-clothing/jackets/barbour/khaki-cotton-barbour-jacket-65322123.shtml

4. The Timeless Favourite

A Barbour that has seen it all: weekends, missed trains, questionable decisions made in very good outfits.

https://www.vestiairecollective.com/men-clothing/jackets/barbour/green-cotton-barbour-jacket-65860095.shtml

5. The Scandi Reinvention

Clean lines, and just directional enough to feel modern. Countryside á la Copenhagen.

https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/287205412206

Thank you all so much for reading this. Have a lovely week and let me know how you enjoyed this story!

X PLUM

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P.S. The wonderful pictures in Paris in this story were shot by the incredible Noa. Thank you Noa - it was a joy to work with you.

P.P.S. Thank you my darling daughter Ursula for the fun times in Paris with you. You mean everything to me: .

P.P.S. See Peter York’s brilliant The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook for the full definition of the OG Sloane.

As many of you already know, the ‘Special Relationship’ between me and my brother is one that has induced all sorts of hilarity and fun on this platform and is one of the most precious in my life.

Tom is the kind of person who always makes me laugh - the self-deprecating charm, the razor wit and the brotherly love of this dude is something else, and his (insane) audience numbers on his youtube and Substack channels bear witness to that. (All this despite the fact that the poor boy was nicknamed ‘Thomasina’ as a child by his three wicked eldest sisters and dressed up like a living doll in girls’ clothes until he was old enough to fight back. But we had to practice our styling on someone, obvs.)

So it’s always an absolute joy for me to appear on his The Royalist Podcast, which I did today, because not only do I get to speak about the royals and their sublime - and sometimes barmy - fashion choices, but I also get to gossip with Tommie about

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Dearest readers, and all wannabe fashion interns out there, know this: I didn’t choose my interns, they chose me. Forthwith, a brief history of my fashion interns past and present, and how they got here:

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Dearest Readers,

I write to you from the vaguely cramped, so-called ‘premium’ carriage in the Eurostar on the way home after a few days in Paris over fashion week. The carriage, more usually a bland place peopled with business types, today resembles nothing less than the front row of the (divine) Fall 2026 Chanel show which I attended on Monday evening: rapidly, the train is becoming submerged under a tsunami of gleaming, box-fresh Chanel purses and their impeccable owners. I cannot help, as each passenger climbs aboard, but record for you the exuberantly front row-esque vibe this carriage has acquired as each woman, one more dazzling than the next, each a fashion archetype in her own right, ascends and takes her seat. Here they are, ranked, by handbag:

1. The (Clearly-Independently-Wealthy) Influencer-Slash-Model

This freckle-skinned Margot Robbie-lookalike, with Cote D’Azur-coloured eyes and white blonde hair scooped into a messed-up ponytail, had got on the train right in front of me. Natch, she caused a traffic jam because she had just so much shopping with her: there were stacks of huge white parchment Nina Ricci shopping bags with folds of white tissue paper peeking temptingly from inside them; there were bags piled with interesting-looking wicker items; there was a book tote and a baguette wrapped in paper; aside from this, she had a matching pair of silver Samsonite wheelie suitcases that were sparkling as though a butler had just silver-dipped them. On top of it all she had a private school English accent that was as soft and beautiful as it was posh. I heard her talking because literally every man on the train helped her with her bags, each one of which she thanked profusely. They all then looked as though they might propose to her.

But I digress. This celestial being was dressed like so: she was wearing a graphically cut, oversized, Balenciaga-esque grey woollen coat - all collars and sleeves and flaps; droopy Loro-esque pants that kissed the floor, and dainty red ballet flats. The hip touch was a chalk-white hoodie which peeked out from under the coat, just to signal that she was, probably, under the age of 25, despite which she could still afford the priceless objet proudly displayed on her left shoulder – the large Chanel maxi-flap 2.55 in black leather. (Coco Chanel created it in February 1955, hence the name.) It had gold chain straps so chunky and solid they looked as though they could anchor a ship, and a gleaming gold clasp of interlocking Cs. The diagonal-aspect, slightly puffed-up quilt pattern on the leather telegraphed I may be a Chanel girl, but I’m très original too.

2. The Gilded-Parisian-Fashion-Heiress

I noticed this young woman who looked as though she was in her early thirties - a female who appeared to possess that nonchalant attitude only French women can master - a little earlier as we were leaving the waiting area. So protective was she of her small Vuitton suitcase with no wheels (very old school) that she patiently waited for the elevator instead of going down to the train on the crowded escalator. A dusky-skinned, raven-haired beauty, she had slightly wavy, unbrushed tresses flowing to mid-shoulder and was dressed in an understated manner. The jacket, of darkest navy wool, had sharp YSL-style padded shoulders and beneath it I glimpsed a luxurious-looking black turtleneck. She was wearing a pair of those slightly flared $900 Chloe jeans that I wish I owned, and flat black lace-up brogues. She had a pile of gold chains around her neck, channelling the too-many-necklaces-over-a-sweater-look without seeming overly extravagant, which is so trendy right now. She was cool, she was in control, and she was carrying the ‘jumbo’ 2.55, black again, with gold hardware, but this time with the classic square ‘caviar’ quilt. On the train, as she passed by the Independently- Wealthy-Influencer-Slash-Model, to reach her seat, her glance fell upon the latter’s diagonal-quilt purse. I am convinced I detected a look of polite disdain exchanged between the girls as they eyed each other’s respective 2.55s, as if via sartorial morse code they were insisting, but mine’s the best one.

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While we drank mugs of hot tea and ate Digestive’s (the Oxford biscuit, if anyone is wondering), I had the ridiculously joyful experience of recording a Live with three Oxford Uni student journalists, Jojo Hynes, and Bee of in Jojo’s Dorm Room at St. John’s College last week. The dorm room was exactly as it would have been in the Brideshead era: it consisted of a darling little sitting room with a desk, several squashy armchairs, a fireplace, mullioned windows overlooking the grassy quad and milky afternoon sunlight streaming in. This was adjoined by Jojo’s adorable bedroom, ditto the mullioned windows/sunlight.

We talked about everything from how to be a student journalist in Oxford now (versus Then, when I was doing it while a student there, 1988-1991), whether the ‘Oxford Bubble’ still exists; if the Epstein files are relevant to the uni journalism (a resounding Yes from the students); how fashion infiltrates the university without labels or logos, what is the student bag (turns out there is no one bag - that would be too obvious in these hallowed halls - instead, customising any bag is the defining trend) and how important sharing ballgowns is in an environment where there are ‘Formals’ four nights of the week, each college has a black tie event twice a term and a ‘Commem’ Ball every couple of years. You do the math: since the university is made up of thirty three colleges, that adds up to an awful lot of Ballgown Moments over a three year degree.

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Here I am, below, with Quinn, thinking we are setting up the Live correctly, but in retrospect getting it wrong…

My tech skills are not the best (am improving though) so the LIVE went out sideways. SORRY! So I did a bit of a re-jig, and here it is, right way up, for you all to see. Enjoy!

I am hoping to do many more Live’s like this on location, but I am getting better camera, sound etc. sorted with the help of my brother and his producer who are the complete experts, as I really love filming interviews with people as well as writing them up. Bear with darlings, and apols for the slightly crapy sound quality and picture - lesson learned - but I hope you enjoy the content of what these incredibly interesting and talented students had to say. I hope to go back and speak to them all again this summer, from a punt…

All my love,

Plum XXX

P.S. here I am below in an old photograph while at Oxford in 1990. I’m wearing a black sequin tube dress, which I made myself, and I’m at a party with my dear friend Simon Welch. He had the delicious floppy-haired Eton boy look (cos he did go to Eton) and I had a HUGE crush on him. So did everyone else…

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OXFORD DORM ROOM LIVE!

I’m literally dying with excitement that next week I’m visiting my old uni, Oxford, which I still count as the place where I experienced some of the best days of my life. I’m going to be broadcasting Live from a dorm room in St. John’s College, Oxford, with the joint Editors In Chief of Isis Magazine to chat about student journalism, student style, how hard it is to get into Oxford, how to get a job in fashion media/Vogue, and whether or not these guys are still in ballgowns and black tie every night…

I’m meeting the gang at 4.30pm in JoJo’s room at St. John’s college, and we are going to film from there, so it should be a super fun watch and maybe useful for any aspiring young media types out there.

Here’s who will be on the Live with me:

JoJo Hynes is in her fourth and final year studying Classics at St. John’s College, and is one of two Editor-In-Chiefs of The Isis magazine. She is interested in fashion (particularly anything archival), as well as the shifting music scene and discussions around current affairs. Instagram is @jojo.hynes

is in her final year studying Philosophy & Linguistics at St Hilda’s College. She is one of two Editor-In-Chiefs of The Isis magazine and works as a fashion/Oxford-focused content creator alongside her degree. She is interested in feminist philosophy, alternative fashion, and writing both fiction & articles.

is a Visiting Student at New College, Oxford, though NYC-based and Oregon-raised. She writes and edits for The Isis Magazine’s Features team and coordinates its Business and Events programming. At Fordham University, she studies International Economics, but is focusing on Art History while at Oxford. Her interests and ambitions centre on the intersection of capital and culture—particularly the ways taste, money, and power shape one another.

See you on Tuesday at 4.30pm GMT from Oxford!

https://open.substack.com/live-stream/118334?utm_source=live-stream-scheduled-upsell

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And send us any questions before, or log on live to comment…

XXX PLUM

Last weekend I went to a dinner party at one of those big old country piles in the Cotswolds, the sort of place they built three hundred years ago, one with turrets and towers along its roofline and a flag that’s raised when Lord Chumleigh-Schlumleigh is at home. It’s astonishingly beautiful at night, as you can imagine.

Such delicious occasions rarely come without their trials, alas. Dinner parties at English country houses are sartorially vexing because there’s often no specific dress code - no ‘black tie’ or ‘cocktail attire’ to guide you. The most a country hostess will usually give you is a vague directive along the lines of ‘oh it’s going to be very relaxed darling’. Except to signal ‘no ballgowns’, this is little help: ‘very relaxed’ clothes for dinner in a cosy cottage on Exmoor are an entirely different proposition to the ‘very relaxed’ required when Rembrandts and butlers are part of the backdrop. My trick is to somehow ascertain what my hostess might be wearing - without asking her directly as that would be gauche - and channel her vibe without committing the socially cancellable sin of copying her.

In this case there were other factors at play: firstly, my hostess was the sort of person who manages to pull off things like vintage St Laurent dresses or narrow satin pencil skirts with a classy nonchalance that is almost impossible to imitate; secondly, I was in the middle of a fashion experiment that I am conducting on behalf of you my dear readers, and, selfishly, myself. Let me explain.

I have been feeling deeply uncool of late. (This happens a lot, tbh.) Post Christmas, one is stuck in a between-seasons aesthetic limbo: it feels as though it’s nuts to invest in more winter clothes (unless the piece is On Sale, and A Classic), but far too early to buy for spring, despite knowing that it’s just around the corner and one will suddenly require summery clothes. My wardrobe was in the doldrums. It needed a kick, but the kick had to be season-less, classic and simultaneously super-hot to justify a serious investment. Most fashion doesn’t satisfy this criteria (see on the New York shows for more on the problem of fashion longevity.)

But a few weeks ago I was browsing in the Joesph boutique in Brompton Cross, London, and laid eyes on a black leather jacket that spoke to me in a way that my old McQueen pieces used to: it was sharp; it was tailored; the block was modelled on a classic hacking jacket shape; it had long, lean sleeves and narrow armholes (crucial with leather to avoid the biker look); the shoulders were neat with subtle structure; the neckline was a simple V as the lapels had been removed making for an extremely modern aesthetic; the pockets on the front were delicately pleated black suede, positioned like the patch pockets on a country field coat. I tried it on over my Holland and Holland turtleneck and slim jeans and oh my god I felt alive. This Giuliva Heritage jacket was a rainstorm for the drought my closet was suffering.

That was the beginning of the experiment, the method for which has precedent: when I worked full time at American Vogue under the great fashion news director , it was all about ‘test-driving’ fashion. The idea was that we couldn’t really write about or rate clothes for our readers without wearing them ourselves. I tried out everything from Prada’s Geek Chic (adored it) to the Comme des Garçons bump dress (didn’t get it), to ladylike brooches and Parisian lingerie (Oui). My question was this: could I feel cool more often by incorporating more black leather more frequently into my wardrobe, whether I was in town or country?

I began by stocking up on a black leather A-line skirt, trousers, the aforementioned jacket and a trench coat. I had a trip to Paris planned a couple of weeks before the ‘very relaxed’ country house dinner, and this was the first trial for the black leather which I vowed to wear every single day I was there. But I was anxious: did I know how to wear black leather now? I hadn’t worn it since my thirties, when the Manhattan Voguettes’ uniform revolved around a look consisting of skinny black leather pants by Chrome Hearts or Tom Ford which we wore with the waffle Marc Jacobs cashmere sweaters, skyscraper stilettos and a fur chubby by Michael Kors. It was a great Front Row outfit - classic, easy, terrifically nonchalant, but became so imitated that it eventually lost its currency. I wondered, had Britney Spears ruined black leather forever for us all? Could it ever be socially acceptable again?

I followed the scientist’s method for any experiment before developing a hypothesis and conducted controlled research. This consisted of telephoning my dear friend Tallulah Harlech, stylist and designer of the line Sylva, who dresses brilliantly. Could I pull off black leather now? ‘One hundred percent yes,’ she replied. ‘Black leather is a No-Brainer. As outerwear it will Forever Happen. My friend Olivia Singer has the most perfect black leather Tom Ford for Gucci jacket and I think about it once a week. She found it in a vintage store in Paris. Then the black leather pencil skirt on Carine Roitveld is Forever. My peak black leather moment was when I went to a Versace show with Lana Del Ray and Donatella gave me a leather trench with the golden medusa buttons. It’s an amazing piece and I remember J.W. was at Versus and we had an argument about how to pronounce Versace. He said, ‘it’s Ver-sach-aaaaay, Tallulah, not Ver-sach-eeee.’

I could listen to Tallulah talk about her peak moments forever, but I was more interested in how she incorporates black leather into her wardrobe. ‘No one wants to look like a backup dancer on the MTV music awards,’ she went on. ‘So it’s about what do you combine leather with? I wear my Hedi Slimane for Dior Homme flight bomber with my Sylva leggings, black ‘Carolyne’ slingback Manolos and no makeup. Black leather looks amazing at night time, it has that sort of Tom Ford ‘I-only-exist-after-dark-vibe’, but for day you have to be more casual. I love the way Gwyneth Paltrow used to wear a crisp blue poplin shirt with black leather pants in the 90s. The shirt sleeves should be rolled up above the elbow.’ Then she added strictly, ‘none of this above-the-wrist business, please.’

I spent hours before I packed for Paris trying cotton shirts with the leather trousers, different sweaters with the jacket, wondering how the skirt was going to work out, and if I was going to be able to pull off the trench coat. It felt like butter and flowed like water in a dark lake, but boy was it a hell of a piece. Still, it had an excitement about it, so I threw it in. I had various appointments and meetings, as well as a fun dinner to attend, so I felt a black leather wardrobe theme, particularly in Paris, was a challenge worth attempting. Being away from my English social circles - in case the whole thing was a sartorial flop - made the concept slightly less terrifying.

My first meeting in St. Germain was with Laure de Dampierre, to discuss her projects with Watts 1874, a company who make exquisite wallpapers. That morning I left my friend’s apartment in Odeon where I was staying dressed in the Giuliva leather and suede ‘field’ jacket with a tan turtleneck underneath, a tweed Purdey baseball cap, my favourite patch-pocket Citizens jeans (old, unable to find anything as good now, as they have zero stretch which is what makes them so good) which I had tucked into my black leather Spice London knee-high boots. I threw my Stefano Pilati-era animal print YSL super-light cashmere scarf round my neck and borrowed a casual canvas L/Uniform tote from my daughter Ursula (monogrammed with her initials). This was a good choice with such a strong jacket and reminded me of something Margherita Cardelli, whose husband designs Giuliva Heritage, had told me: ‘black leather is specific. It punches your eyes out like red. It’s a lot. You don’t want to shine too much. In the day I bring leather down by wearing it with a navy wool sweater or men’s flannel trousers.’ Aerin Lauder, who is about as preppie-chic as it gets, has the same attitude when it comes to black leather. ‘I love incorporating it into my wardrobe,’ she said, ‘but it’s often timeless pieces like a simple blazer or a traditional cut trouser.’ I admired the way she dressed for the Carolina Herrera show recently in New York, playing down a strong black leather coat with just a simple black turtleneck and no jewellery.

That morning the sky was moody, threatening rain, but the dull light made the leather of the jacket gleam in the softest way. It looked cool and I felt cool in it, and even more than that I felt confident and modern – two things my closet has been lacking. I met Laure at Café Du Clown, on the Rue Lobineau, which has some of the best coffee on the Left Bank and a groovy playlist which happens on an actual record player. She is one of those classical Parisian brunettes and was clad in a black fur gilet, black trousers, reams of gold necklaces and bracelets, and had her mother’s battered old Kelly bag in her hand when she arrived straight from her Pilates class.

We gossiped about the latest couture shows, Paris Design Week and what was happening at Watts 1874, where they are painting incredible trompe l’oeil designs on cork. I could have chatted for hours but I soon headed off to a private house close to Madeleine to meet Yvan Benbanaste the co-founder with Fabrice Pinchart-Deny of the label Society Room. I was curious about this brand because my old friend Cordelia de Castellane, the brilliant creative director of Dior’s Home collections, is never out of their navy pea coat which I’ve always envied.

Yvan was dressed in faded Levis, a button-down shirt and tie, and a tweed jacket. He told me that he’s obsessed by Robert Redford’s wardrobe in Three Days of the Condor, and likes to channel his style. I loved the way he talked about clothes and how his line has to be priced so that his friends and clients - very much the Old Money Paris lot – could afford it. Cordelia’s pea coat has been in the collection every season since he started the label in 2018, and he has not changed it by a millimetre. I left with a très Parisian look - an aubergine-hued silk crepe de chine blouse with black and white polka dot-print ruffles on the cuffs (divine!), a matching short scarf to tie at the neck and a black velvet skirt with a braid trim and a high split. I thought this would look great with the leather trench, high boots and sheer spotted tights to wear to the ballet later that weekend.

The afternoon was spent at Alexandre de Paris on the Place du St. Sulpice getting my hair cut, as I had a dinner that night - another ‘at home’, again no dress code. But having attended a few dinners thrown by dear friends, Charles-Antoine and Ristèard, who have one of the most elegant apartments I’ve ever seen in Paris, I knew that dressing down was not an option. Everyone I’ve ever met in their drawing room(s) has been absurdly stylish. I decided that I would wear the A-line leather skirt, a favourite Dior black silk jersey turtleneck that is already three years old (but is literally the perfect ‘dressy’ turtleneck, the kind that brings on palpitations if I can’t find it), suede knee-high boots by Jennifer Chamandi, a young shoe designer based in Mayfair, and a black suede bag with a leather trim. Little jewellery was required and I only added a pair of small gold hoop earrings to give a glint of warm light around the face. When I regarded myself in the mirror the look was at once current and classic, and understated but sexily glamorous. I felt as though I’d been transformed into some sort of French movie heroine for the night.

‘So chic!’ Ristèard declared as I walked through the door later. Before he’d even contemplated pouring me a drink he beadily examined the look and we launched into a full discussion of the aesthetics of my outfit. Soon other guests appeared - a female artist was dressed in slim trousers and a billowing blouse of chocolate brown Chantilly lace; a chic interior designer was in a Nehru jacket and cigarette pants, and the men were variously in good suits and elegant cashmere sweaters. I felt easily chic enough for this crowd who discussed art, theatre, politics and visa issues in animated French until well past midnight. (I understood around 25% of the chat, as I am ashamed to say my French is a B- at best.)

I continued my fashion experiment the next day, wearing the leather trousers and a cosy white jacket and loafers to roam St. Germain with my daughter Ursula, who is art school in Paris. This outfit was incredibly comfortable and laid back, but the trousers gave it that bit of edge I was seeking. Ursula insisted on taking me to the Sephora store, where she introduced me to Anastasia of Beverly Hills and Selena Gomez’s makeup lines (amazing quality and not expensive). I hadn’t been to Sephora in years and it was so fun that we were there for hours. I know, I know, we should have been at a museum or doing something more worthy, but it was heaven spending that time with Ursula, and updating my makeup bag suddenly seemed important. Later that night when I changed into the Society Room blouse and skirt and threw on the leather trench, Ursula sighed as though she were in a museum viewing an exquisite artefact. ‘Oh mum,’ she said, ‘that coat is the best. You’ve got to wear it all the time.’

When I returned to England, I wore the leather trench constantly. I wore it to parents evening at my younger daughter’s school with navy trousers and a turtleneck, where I received surprised glances from the Gloucestershire moms in Barbours and woollies; I threw it on with jeans and a crisp shirt to visit my old buddy Charlotte Stockdale at her Cotswolds house for coffee on a Sunday morning. Charlotte, renowned globally for her exceptional style as both a stylist and art director—and widely admired for her incredible wardrobe—was captivated by the trench coat. She was particularly interested in the hand-stitching along the lapels and seams, reminiscent of a Savile Row piece, which give it an unexpected softness. I wore it to an event at Daylesford where I ran into Lady Alice Manners who cooed over it and told me that she always wears black leather in the countryside because ‘when I was about thirteen years old, Elizabeth Hurley used to come and shoot at Belvoir Castle, my parents’ house. She was the only woman who shot, and she wore black leather trousers instead of tweed in the field. I was in awe and I vowed to myself to learn to shoot, and to shoot in black leather. My mother even got leather pants made for me for shooting.’ Inspired, I tried my leather trousers with my ink-black Le Chameau wellies, Pennine shooting socks and a Purdey lambswool sweater for walking the dogs in Gloucestershire, and I was surprised by how comfortable, warm and practical they were. (I’d like to look this elegant every time I walk the dogs but the weather dictates if they can come out: rain and mud are not ideal with leather, obvs.)

Which brings me back, dear reader, to the cosy grandeur of the dinner party at the aforementioned country pile: after the leather skirt’s successful outing in Paris, I decided to wear exactly the same outfit again - same boots, same turtleneck, same bag and same gold earrings. It felt a little risqué, maybe too sexy for the occasion, but I wanted to give it a whirl anyway. It was a long, dark drive that night, but the skirt unfurled gleaming and smooth when I arrived and alighted from my car, not a crease in sight.

I crunched my way over the gravel and soon ran into a friend in the hall. ‘Very French,’ she said, regarding the skirt, one eyebrow raised. Later, in the drawing room, the skirt took on a sort of Main Character energy all of its own: the women present wanted to touch it, analyse it and understand it, as though it was a rare bird, the likes of which they had never seen before. The men didn’t say a word about what any of the women were wearing, or the black leather. I took this to be a good sign: Englishmen are too shy to remark on a woman’s style, unless it’s ‘gopping’.

I was relieved. The black leather skirt had made its high society debut – quietly, coolly. As it should.

XOXO Plum

P.S. Here is Tallulah showing us all how to sit on the Front Row at Fashion Week…

SHOPPING BLACK LEATHER

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Thank you to for the photographs in the Cotswolds, and Timon Pourtal for the gorgeous pictures in Paris. Merci!

I couldn’t help but pick it up – I had just read Cami Fateh’s witty piece about the Vogue Book Club choosing Wuthering Heights as its inaugural read, and with my excitement about Emerald Fennell’s adaptation having now lasted since the day it started shooting last year, encouraged by my occasionally-Goth daughter Tess, who can barely wait until we can see the movie together next week, I saw this as A Sign - I was meant to re-read this novel, but I had to do it before I saw the movie. That would be the only way to properly enjoy the film and be able to knowingly appreciate-slash-critique it afterwards, which I plan to do for the next several weeks: after all, Margot Robbie as Cathy – what could be more delicious? The girl is a fabulous actress, clearly a formidable businesswoman and producer, and dresses beautifully. Jacob Elordi, mostly ditto. Who cares what all the pre-reviews are saying? I just wanted to see Margot and Jacob gallivanting among the gorse bushes in costume. If the movie turns out to be a pink-hued syrupy-sexy confection no probs - we can all go back to the novel for the real horror story.

I digress. To get back to the drawing room: another interminable day of rain last Saturday, and I was casting around for something to occupy myself while Tess was revising for her mock GCSEs. I had lit the fire, and was preparing to put my feet up on the sofa, as is my wont on a weekend afternoon, have a little read and then fall sound asleep. But Wuthering Heights was still staring at me from the bookcase.

I already knew that if I started the book now, sleep would be impossible this afternoon: as a teenager I had never been more frightened than when I read the scene where Lockwood stays the night with his ghastly host Heathcliff, hears a tapping at the window and sees Cathy’s pale hand appear at the glass which then snatches his arm. Of all the fictional scenes I have read, this is without doubt is the ghostliest, most haunting image that words on a page have ever created for me: the imagined scenario gave me night terrors for years, keeping me awake in the darkness at the lonely farmhouse where I grew up, petrified that there was a ghost just outside my window. But it was also the beginning of my lifelong love affair with Gothic literature. Nightmares? Bring them on, I dared myself. For more dreadful dreams I read Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre and Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier. (I think I’ve read each of these books at least seven or eight times each.)

No, a nap would be impossible if I started Wuthering Heights today – for I would not be able to put it down, and I’d be in a state of dread

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a charming weekend house in the Cotswolds is in want of but one thing - an invite to one of Carole Bamford’s Snowdrop Luncheons at her dreamy country seat, Daylesford House in the county of Gloucestershire. Such an invitation – extended to a mere handful of close friends each February, when the snowdrops blossom in the park and are dug up with their root balls, replanted in little silver bowls filled with wild moss and placed on the dining room table - is of the greatest social significance: it’s a sign that, as far as the country set goes, You’ve Arrived.

You see – and forgive me if I sound a little Lady Whistledown-esque here - but Carole (who rarely uses her title, which is the classy thing to do in England if you have one) is, literally, the Queen of the Cotswolds, a land over which she rules with her gentle, girlish voice, a mane of blonde hair, layers of palest grey cashmere and a business empire that is, I would argue, responsible for defining the Cotswolds aesthetic in its current form. Were it not for Carole, and the tiny farm shop she started in the corner of an old piggery on the Daylesford estate in 2002, Timotheé Chalamet would never have discovered the bliss of scrolling through TikToks of Cotswolds villages and nor would a certain set of East Coast American women, the IYKYK sort, have been block-booking the cottages on the estate as the base for their English summer garden tours, giving them ample time to spend their afternoons roaming Daylesford’s farmshop in order to stock up on everything from luxurious Bamford sweaters to exquisitely scented candles, paper-thin dark chocolate mints, gigantic jars of honey, and the linens, china and glass that signal a certain sort of aristocratic English style that ‘Lady B’ (as her team fondly addresses her) has pretty much taken ownership of.

I have known Carole since around 2010 when a dear friend of mine, Alex Gore-Brown, a talented knitwear designer who was then creating fabrics for Alexander McQueen and Nina Ricci among others, married her eldest son Jo. He and Alex had moved to the country to raise their children around the same time as me. We would often meet at Carole’s stud (she is a lifelong horsewoman and racehorse breeder and owner) where our children would have riding lessons together. I probably got more excited than my daughters on these occasions as the viewing gallery above the riding arena was done up as lavishly as the Ralph store on Madison – there was a roaring fire, walls of horsey photographs and silk rosettes, and there was sometimes a butler making us flat whites and juices, which at that time were rarities in the Cotswolds, I kid you not.

Carole would waft in, enveloped in a cloud of cream cashmere, to watch her grandchildren riding and I became friendly with her, as well as a serious admirer of her work ethic: she is an unlikely combination of grafter, social powerhouse and is considered a visionary in the world of organic farming. She married her husband, Lord Anthony Bamford, when she was 27 years old, thereby becoming part of one of Britain’s most powerful industrial families. (JCB, founded in 1945, most famous for its iconic yellow excavators, is one of the world’s largest manufacturers of construction machinery.) In the mid-1970s the young couple moved to Staffordshire in the north of England to be close to the factory, and raised their three children, Alice, Jo and George, on the family estate there. The birth of Alice was, unbeknownst to Carole, the embryo of her future business empire: the family’s food came from the estate, she noticed it was being sprayed with pesticides and fertilisers, and didn’t want her newborn child consuming chemicals in her food. Under her stewardship, the estate went organic before there was a word for it. Just about the only other person who was advocating for chemical-free farming at the time was her friend Prince Charles.

‘People thought I was absolutely mad,’ she says when I met her this week at her light, white-washed boardroom at Daylesford, which you could say is a corporate Cotswold’s dream: a twenty foot long oak refectory table runs down the centre of the room, which is dotted with exquisite white hellebores, snowdrops and anenomes in vintage bottles; a glass wall at the end of the room looks over the verdant estate; white shelves are stocked with tempting samples of china and linen. Carole, dressed today in a Bamford grey cashmere dress, black boots, a shearling gilet and silver vintage Bulgari jewellery, grew up as a country girl in Nottinghamshire, riding and loving nature, and recalls her first foray into farming. ‘I was a bit of a hippie, I was reading Herman Hesse, and going to India, and my best friend from school started the first vegan restaurant in Nottingham, called Food For Thought. Princess Margaret was living with Roddy Lewellyn, and they were growing their own food and that was ‘the thing’ in those days.’

It was not until her children had left home, after Carole and Anthony had moved from Staffordshire to Gloucestershire that Carole’s Daylesford Farm Shop business emerged. ‘My children had gone, I was fifty three years old, and I was looking for something new to put my energy into. So I said to Anthony, can I have a corner of a barn - actually a corner of a piggery - and start a farm shop?’ At the time, 2002, farm shops were sawdust-on-the-floor and crates-of-potatoes type affairs. ‘I brought in a baker and there was the wonderful smell of fresh bread every day at eleven o’clock; I sold produce from the farm – meat, veg, milk and eggs; at one point I even had a water menu with twenty six varieties of mineral water and a tea bar with things like peony tea; I stacked the shelves myself. I thought no one would come because I’m in the middle of a field and no one knows where the hell this is. But they did.’

Since then, the Daylesford has expanded to include cafés, restaurants, pubs (my fav is The Fox at Oddington) and cottages in the Cotswolds, stores in London and desirable lines of homeware, clothing and accessories. (The products are all sustainable and natural but the designs avoid the ‘worthy’ vibe that many eco brands seem to exhibit.)

I started going to the farm shop around 2005 when I first had a weekend house in Gloucestershire. It was a treat to get out of the mud and rain and find myself in a store that felt like another universe – the shop was light-filled, scented candles would be burning, staff were beautifully dressed in chocolate brown aprons and gingham shirts – and return later to the tiny cottage I had at the time, laden with everything from wicker baskets and old-fashioned roses to the most delicious home-made chicken broth and fabulous coffee beans.

It is inevitable, dear reader, that Carole and I launched into the controversial subject of The Tablescape within minutes of our meeting beginning. After all, Carole’s way with flowers, table top, a mantelpiece and even a bedside table is legendary.

‘When do you stop with the tablescape,’ I asked her, ‘so it doesn’t look too much?’

At this, Carole sprung up from her chair (covered in a raw sheepskin, obvs) and gestured at the boardroom table and the charming array of jars and planters arranged along it. ‘Stop it there,’ she declared. ‘The tablescape has become a thing, hasn’t it? It’s got competitive. It’s as though women seem to think that by piling more and more and more on their table, it’s a way of saying ‘aren’t I clever?’ But it isn’t. It’s about undoing things a bit. Don’t be too extravagant: less, less, less - that’s what’s beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I hate a matching dinner service,’ she goes on. ‘You always need things that don’t match. Chairs that don’t match in a kitchen. Vases of different heights, these very poor-looking vintage glass jars,’ she goes on, pointing out the cloudy old jars with one or two flowers in them, ‘then you mix those with silver beakers, or a wooden container. This table is about the mix of anemones, hellebores and snowdrops, the oak table with no cloth, a pretty piece of china that’s trompe l’oeil. Oh and don’t have everything symmetrical.’

When I ask Carole how she evolved her taste, she says that her mother - who cooked beautifully and whose signature was her black beret worn on the side of her head and two Dalmatians that accompanied her everywhere - was an important influence. ‘She was very chic then. I don’t think you can teach taste, I think everybody has their own taste and mine’s not necessarily the right taste, but you can help someone learn.’ She says that the late Hubert de Givenchy, who she met when she was 29 in the South of France, inspires her to this day. ‘He took me under his wing. The way he did things was exquisite. I recall a lunch at his house in Paris where he served a warm lobster salad, but it was just a little bit. And a small glass of wine, but the best wine. You felt special by having the one small glass of wine that he had chosen. And the butlers wore white gloves. It was just so raffiné. That’s the hardest thing in the world to do.’

‘Raffiné’ seems to be a theme that Carole has extended to all corners of a very big life. She has surrounded herself with an extraordinary group of friends, counting everyone from Charlotte Tilbury and Jemma Mornington to Richard E. Grant, King Charles and Queen Camilla, Joan Collins and the late Valentino Garavani as friends. ‘What’s more important than your tablescape or your décor is having interesting people around you,’ she says. ‘That’s the magic. I don’t like boring people. I like people who are a bit naughty, a bit on the edge. If I have a party, I don’t think, ‘will that person get on with that person?’ I just throw them all in together.’ Indeed, Carole throws parties to die for: her annual Christmas party at Daylesford House is the most coveted festive invitation in the Cotswolds; she takes boxes at Ascot and Cheltenham, bringing in her own décor and chefs and entertaining for days at a time; when she had a party in her London townhouse in December, (which yours truly happily attended), a gospel choir stood on the staircase and belted out festive songs, the crowd lounged in front of the fire on velvet sofas or chatted in the all-white dining room and Carole glided among her guests coolly dressed in a black vintage Yves St Laurent velvet trouser suit she’d bought in the 1980s. Indeed, fashion-wise, Carole has always been ahead of the zeitgeist. In her twenties, she shopped at the cool Elle boutique on Sloane Square, owned by Maureen Doherty who now runs Egg in Kinnerton Street; she favoured flared jeans from Fiorucci, long scarves from Missoni, gowns from Valentino and had her suits made by Tommy Nutter. ‘I went to him in 1971 for my first suit. I’ll never forget it because Mick Jagger was in there that day.’

Just then, three team members arrive with about fifty pots of jam on trays. ‘I tasted forty two jams yesterday! I was nearly sick!’ laughs Carole, drawing up a chair in front of the jams and efficiently starting to taste and pronounce upon each one: she declares that strawberry jam must have whole strawberries in it; that she wants to create a gooseberry jam for the store because gooseberries are so English and that she may add a little elderflower to the recipe; that small pots of jam are not to her liking, she only wants to sell big, generous pots; that the best marmalade she has tried today is the one made by her own chef, mostly because it’s made in small batches which makes the flavour more intense. ‘Plum, try it,’ she insists, handing me a weighty Kilner jar with a parchment label reading ‘Daylesford House’ on the top. As I dip into the deliciously tart, orangey jam, Carole goes on, ‘You see, the thing about marmalade is it must have large pieces of rind. It has to look a certain way and have the right texture.’

She then turns to her team, holds up a trade magazine and says, ‘Now, has anyone read The Grocer?’ The team nod their heads. ‘It’s my Sunday night reading. It’s very interesting, what’s happening with eggs. People are coming round to eggs again in their diet. We need more chickens here and more eggs. And I’m so excited about our new herd of Jersey cows. The milk will be delicious…’

I could easily have sat in all day on Carole’s meetings, but time was pressing on and I needed to go. Before I left I said to her, ‘Carole, some people in your position would say, gosh, I’m just going to put my feet up for the rest of my life and watch the racing on the telly.’

She gave me a look, one eyebrow raised a little. ‘Plum, I just love what I do,’ she said. ‘It’s not like work at all, it’s my passion. If I go on holiday for ten days I’m completely bored. If I’m not working, I’m not happy.’ Then she adds, as though it’s an afterthought, ‘but I do love to watch the racing on the telly.’

I hope you enjoyed this story about the incredible Lady B! Until next time,

XXX Plum

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• Oil paintings in the loo are a thing here and The Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, who live at Badminton House in Gloucestershire, always put them in their holiday lets. Yup, that’s the butler, below, hanging an old master in the powder room of Hollybush Cottage, which has just been finished (look at those mullioned windows! Gasp!) in time for spring.

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Among certain circles, there’s officially no January in the Cotswolds. The Ladies have buzzed off to the places where it’s always summer - Mustique, Lamu, The Mill Reef Club, Kenya, Harbour Island - and parties, safaris and idle gossip are the order of the day for the Country Princesses who have winter homes elsewhere. That rarefied group exists in an alternate reality where New Year’s Day doesn’t actually occur until May 1st: there is ‘simply no point in being in England’ until the first peony has popped, the Pony Club is torturing child recruits at rallies and the summer term at the most expensive prep schools has commenced. If one can school one’s children in Verbier, Gstaad or Lech for the cruellest winter months, after all, why ever not? And skiing is ‘so educational’, isn’t it? That’s a rhetorical question, btw.

For yours truly, and most of my dear readers, such an escape is not in the realms of possibility. (So if I sound a little annoyed, ya, well, I am.) January is très grim for most of us, and I work hard at trying to make the best of it. I’m one of those people who loves Christmas so much that the time afterwards seems to be a penance paid in exact proportion to the delight I experienced over Christmas. England at this time has a bleakness all of its own: it feels permanently dark as sunrise is well after eight in the morning, sunset by four in the afternoon (oh, and there’s no actual ‘sun’ to speak of anyway); when it is daylight, it hardly counts as the skies are lead-grey; fog presses against the windows high up on our hills for days on end, making one feel claustrophobic; it’s too icy to ride and it’s so bitterly cold and damp that even the dogs refuse to go for a walk; worst of all, the Christmas decorations are down and there seems to be nothing to look forward to, unless you count a gruelling set of school exams coming up for my youngest daughter in the next few weeks.

Colour, then, is all but gone, and where in other months I fill the house with flowers which I cut from the garden to cheer things up, now I cannot for there is nothing in the garden but bare hawthorn and naked rose hips. Buying wildly expensive cut flowers seems, somehow, wrong. But, for those ladies such as moi who have been left behind to cope with January and dark school runs, there is one wildly inexpensive solution to this misery, and that is the pelargonium (Latin name) which is a type of geranium (common name) that, confusingly, bears no resemblance to the actual common geranium.

The difference is this: the common geranium, also known as a Hardy or Garden Geranium, originates from the northern hemisphere, is deciduous and grows outdoors; the Pelargonium, originating in South Africa, is part of the geranium family but from a different genus, is evergreen and ‘overwinters’ (as grand country ladies say) indoors. No one in the Cotswolds worth their salt uses the G-word, the P-word being preferable as it implies all sorts of crucial social signifiers: I have a substantial garden; I have greenhouses; I have gardeners; I have ‘a staff’ to move my pots, water my pots, feed my pots (ya, these flowers need speciality meals of something called potash).

I was first exposed to the social hierarchy of geraniums when I wrote a story for American Vogue about Georgia, Duchess of Beaufort and her life at Badminton House in Gloucestershire, where the RHS is holding a flower show this July (Think the Chelsea Flower Show, transplanted to the Cotswolds). Her drawing room, the hallway and the dining room sideboards all groaned under the weight of giant Delft or Amari pots planted up with leafy shrubs boasting flowers of pinks, dark burgundies and creamy whites.

Plum's Department Store is open today!

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BTW, below a snap of my all time fav Globes outfit that now seems so directional: Julia Roberts, 1990, in Giorgio Armani Men’s. A fashion moment that’s hard to beat.

See y’all there dudes! XXX Plum