Fact: Everyday, Britt walks past this gallery on her way to and from her hotel in Paris.

Fact: And everyday, it’s closed.

Fact: Jessica Stam is the only Stam we’ve ever heard of.

Theory: Is this a side project of hers that gets neglected during Fashion Week?

Of course we know it’s not, but funny to picture her sitting there, n’est-ce pas?

When we think of Tom Ford, we think of sex. And then Gucci. And then perfume.

But we’ve never conjured an image of interpretive dancers in the middle of Les Galeries Lafayette promoting White Patchouli. Like, never ever.

And yet, there they were yesterday evening. Men in beaded black boleros violently gesticulated toward women in leotards and S&Mish pleather suspenders on top of a platform in the middle of the store coated in pictures of Erykah Badu and the retro perfume bottles.

Once we tore our eyes away from the scene, we wondered whether or not Tom had any creative control over the performance. Because aside from the bra tops and sleek hair, we don’t think he’d approve.

Apparently it happens everyday, so if you’re in Paris, we highly recommend checking it out, (especially since we were forbidden from taking pictures to share with you).

For laughs, at least.

Between the end of my Fashion Week duties and my chunnel train to Paris, I had approximately twelve hours to enjoy London.

Without the mental capacity to enjoy a museum, I spent three hours wandering Hyde Park, one on Portobello road, (which produced a vintage Louis trunk for just under £5,000), one hour controlling myself in Topshop, thirty minutes trying on Vivienne Westwood at Selfridges, (where, by the way, they hang Hussein Chalayan on the same rack as Alex Wang - strange, no?), and a few rapturous minutes in Luella’s shop, because I most definitely cannot do that stateside.

In the shop, I found two perfectly dressed salesgirls, racks of covetable, witch-like clothing, a ribboned bag I might defect for and the poster at left.

Ms. Bartley’s proudly displayed the Evening Standard news banner announcing her own shop raid on the wall of her store’s back room.

Oh Luella, we love you so.

If Faran and I had time to eat lunch this week, we would have zipped over to The Henry Holland.

It’s around the corner from our hotel and across the street from Selfridge’s, where our Henry had his Levi’s launch party yesterday.

But instead of Henry Holland Levi’s, the pub only sells Henry Holland bangers and mash.

We were walking down Bond St. on our way from the Brown’s party for Behati’s boyfriend’s jewelry to Bloomsbury Square for Henry’s party, (that’s a lot of B’s), when we spotted Coco in Nicole Farhi’s windows.

We were excited to see her a) because Nicole Farhi doesn’t exist stateside so we had no idea Coco was the face of her Fall collection and b) because though we’re thrilled Jourdan Dunn, Ali Michael and Raquel Zimmerman are ruling London’s runways, we do miss Coco.

Hopefully she’ll make it to Paris, but these can hold you over until then.

P.S. It’s kind of awkward to place the ad for the dress behind the actual dress, no?