Being Mossed
Those of us lucky enough to have crossed paths with Kate Moss know about ‘being Mossed’. It usually involves a chance encounter where Kate takes control and somehow, out of nowhere, you are having the best moment of your life. Over the last 30 years I have experienced and observed many moments of being Mossed. One of these was when Kate suddenly appeared at my studio to discuss making
some leotards. She swept in, and my team fell quickly under her spell. She talked about colours and demonstrated moves to show how the thing would be worn, flinging her body into agile dramatic shapes while we stared in awe. I could see everyone falling in love in slow motion. She had arrived at 3pm and at 7pm she was upstairs in my flat, asking my husband if she could unload the dishwasher. When
the Waitrose delivery of groceries arrived we all made supper together, with Kate directing, asking questions and recounting outlandishly hilarious and fascinating anecdotes. We waved goodbye at 1am feeling bewitched by the extraordinary exhilarating quality of her company. 1 am is quite early in the scheme of things. Once when I nipped round to Kate’s I got rather a shock when my 7 year old son rang me sounding quite unimpressed, saying ‘Where are you Mum?’ It was 8 am.
some leotards. She swept in, and my team fell quickly under her spell. She talked about colours and demonstrated moves to show how the thing would be worn, flinging her body into agile dramatic shapes while we stared in awe. I could see everyone falling in love in slow motion. She had arrived at 3pm and at 7pm she was upstairs in my flat, asking my husband if she could unload the dishwasher. When
the Waitrose delivery of groceries arrived we all made supper together, with Kate directing, asking questions and recounting outlandishly hilarious and fascinating anecdotes. We waved goodbye at 1am feeling bewitched by the extraordinary exhilarating quality of her company. 1 am is quite early in the scheme of things. Once when I nipped round to Kate’s I got rather a shock when my 7 year old son rang me sounding quite unimpressed, saying ‘Where are you Mum?’ It was 8 am.
