Hetty's men. Oh the poor little lost tribe. They get NOTHING during London Fashion Week.

Not a cocktail. Nor a bra-text. Nor an aubade on the pillow at Claridges. ZILCH.

The girl is just too busy. She almost broke her ankle running to ERDEM and her canary yellow Repetto ballet flats are pretty much pulp. Why didn't she buy a third pair for stealth?

So it's hot pink kitten heels and breathless encounters with the HUNDREDS of major pieces that need to be in her life and I get the occasional whimpering phone call.

"just...can't...continue...need to go home to Mummy and chew on the edge of a large square crumpet."

Well, Hetty...you admirers feel the same way. Men will never understand why women walk over broken glass to look at clothes.

Hetty wears Emma Hope kitten heels available here http://www.emmahope.co.uk/

Kick your liberal sympathies to the curb sister. When Hetty goes to Claridges it's all a bit old school and she likes to uphold every Deb tradition she can muster in one outfit. Call her the walking Tory heritage project. Art Deco diamonds. French lace camisole and no knickers. Antique gold shoes from a flea market in the 14th. Hair Marcel waved with original irons stolen from her great great grandmother's laundry bag. A bit of gold dust rubbed into her pink creme rouge. And Shalimar.

Hetty is shameless. Her blazing 'country' affiliations and ancient hunt sympathies are made known by wearing a tweed hat that belonged to a decrepit uncle (Rupert, Monty, Linus...she forgets) And the insouciance! She teams that mouldy head warmer with her perfect pale champagne coloured hair and midnight blue silk Faye coat and Temperley evening dress from the Spring collection.

Oh Hetty you are such a haughty cow! But the doormen wouldn't have it anyway. And who else in 2015 can actually smoke a cigar in a silk dress? You're the tops.

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