This is Joan Collins’ apartment in London’s glittering New York City, looking like it just stepped out of a British Home Stores in June of 1983. When we see things like this, it makes us sad in our hearts. It pierces the bubble that is the very high standards of trash we expect of Aunty Joanie… the leopard print head-scarfs, the gold enamel, the glass ashtrays with half-smoked Sobranies, the whirlpools clogged with clip-on hair, the tights, the lingering smell of designer-imposter perfume, gorgeous things, terracotta pots, white chiffon, some yummy steamy novels opened on page 13, bunch o’ gays, men, women, lipstick, Maxwell Reid in flannel, fur coats stained just here with Cinzano, Sasha, Ford, Taro too, Biggins on poppers, that sort of thing.
Instead we have this.
Which you can buy, incidentally. Because Joanie’s a bit strapped for cash and has to give up one of her 73 homes. It has north, south and east facing windows, and that’s not to be sniffed at whatever your game is. And it can be bought for ready cash. True story.
That's it... I've had enough... I'm going to sell... my Manhattan doily!,