(For all you TIT-MICE who need a refresher course on my past miserable travails, I advise clicking on the word TIT-MICE.)

En route to Berlin, we made an emergency landing at Schiphol Airport.  It seems I'd suffered a mild overdose mid-flight.  Pity.  I told them I didn't think it wise to bring a drug addicted colonialist to Amsterdam and a stewardess kicked me in the head; I didn't mind terribly, I rather enjoyed it.

I was patched up at the hospital and given a rather hefty fine - which I expensed, of course.  The experience had aroused my spirits and I felt I was deserving of a treat: I teeter-tottered off to the Red Light whence I came upon a sign: "Amsterdam International Fashion Week: 23-27 January" it said.  What good fortune was raining down upon me: by shear coincidence that very day was the twenty-third!

I went to the Marlies Dekkers show but was informed at the door that my name wasn't on the list.  My bloody assistant Hector had dropped the ball!  I called him up and he sighted some tired excuse that I'd not mentioned I was planning on going to the AIFW.  I told him to get me full press credentials and then I sacked him.  Whilst waiting on my credentials I spent my per diem in the brothels.

I awoke floating in the canal the next morning in nothing but my knickers and holding a ticket to the Jessica Joyce show.  Wet and naked, I attended.  How unfortunate that in the buff I would be better dressed than the models!

Directly following the Jessica Joyce show was the Fashion Institute Arnhem show.  I hadn't any time to change, so once again I sat there clothed in nothing but a smile.  It was an odd show, going from under-stated to over-the-top in a matter of seconds.

Towards the end of the show I was arrested for indecent exposure.  I spent the night in the Clink.  I was given a black-and-white striped jumpsuit that I found so chic I decided to wear it to the Iris Van Herpen show on the twenty-fifth.  What lovely, wondrous things I saw at this show; a daemonic smorgasbord of futuristic nihilism!  I felt like cutting myself in pure bliss!

Whilst leaving the show I was detained by security who made a snide implication that I was some sort of escaped convict.  "It's convict chic," I said, but nevertheless I was arrested yet again.  It seems I'd had one too many run-ins with the law because I was deported. 

So I went to Berlin.

I'd met a German once before on a Nairobi elephant hunt.  He shot at me instead of the elephants and spewed some pathetic excuse about shoot-to-kill poacher policies.  Ever since then I've never trusted the Germans.

On the twenty-seventh I went to the Hugo Boss show.  I became despondent when I saw baggy trousers.  I knew it was only a matter of time until skinny trousers would go out and baggy would be back in.  But I doth protest!  My legs are too beautiful to be hidden behind so much fabric!  I cried myself to sleep that night.

I felt better the next day at the JOOP! show.  Skinny trousers hidden behind cape-like jackets, divinity in motion, and fur coats too.  Somebody must have slipped me an ecstasy tablet because I ran toward the stage to run my hands over the carcass.  I stole the coat and ran off into the night!

I was hot-as-hell and out of breath when I reached the Marcel Ostertag show.  But I looked smashing in my stolen coat.  My left eye started to ache - it happens every time I sweat - and I affixed my monocle.  In fur and monocle I looked every bit the Weimar German.  The Ostertag show was a veritable plastic-on-parade gala exposition.  I caught my handsome face in the reflection of the gowns and found my incorrigible self delighted with Herr Ostertag's opus.

I went to a leather-and-lace party that night and woke up two days later in the middle of an orgy with a ball-gag in my mouth, thusly completely missing the Umrath und Stramo show.  But I did make it the Lac et Mel show.  I didn't even look at the clothes - I was too disgusted by how fat the models were.  Fatty-fat-fat-fats, the lot of them!  As a rule, models should be no more than a size zero, and even that is sometimes too fat!

Fortunately the models at the Zac Posen show were normal sized.  The clothes were an ode to Bonnie Parker.  I wished I'd had my elephant gun on me to give ‘ole Bonnie the salute she deserved but I seemed to have left it on the plane when we made that emergency landing.

‘Twas the thirty-first of January and come the next day it would be another month and another Fashion Week.  I was missing my gun, but even so, I was terribly excited...