Paris-Paris by Chanel
(Picture: ES Magazine)The dawning of the third millennium began with me moving from London to Los Angeles for a haphazard US television career that encompassed, but was not limited to: hanging out with Oprah and her dogs, being harangued by Quentin Tarantino in his home cinema, singing in an opera with pop freaks Sparks and eating Thanksgiving dinner with Charlie’s Angels (Barrymore/Diaz/Liu, not Fawcett/Smith/Jackson).
These colourful adventures were practically ordained by the fact that on the outbound journey to my LA future, I’d encountered Duran Duran in their entirety at Heathrow Terminal 3 Duty Free. An auspicious sign, I thought, given that the rakishly tousled jet-setters had a history of randomly materialising at my milestone moments, much like the otherworldly hallucinations that provoked Joan of Arc into reckless life choices.
