If you are not on Twitter, nor Facebook, nor in our psychic friends network, then you may have missed the fact that SWINTON was on our flight out to Newark for Fashion Week. She was sitting less than ten feet away from us in the airport lounge, talking on her phone and looking profoundly SWINTONian in baggy black ankle-cut pants and a loose jacket, without a speck of makeup. It was majestic. I will never be the same, and fully expect to wake up any day now with an irresistible urge to wear bathrobes as outerwear.
If only she’d been wearing this on our plane. The Fug Nation Twitterverse was disappointed enough to learn that she doesn’t travel by a) teleportation, or b) Pegasus; imagine how heartbroken it was to learn she looked casually SWINTONian and not resplendently wacktasculariously so. I hope this compensates. I mean… it’s been worse, but it is still a robe, and it does have drunken tuxedo lapels. So that’s something. We will take this bone and we will gnaw on it merrily until such time as she throws us another scrap. Such is our relationship. Such is SWINTON.