I work in the fashion industry, see. It’s my field. And Jason will soon plant thousand of pansies in it.

Jason seems to labour (pun unintended, I swear) under the impression that “fexxin”, being “cool”, should be “kexwil”. He just doesn’t get it.

Fashion is stylish. Stylish means just that. It doesn’t mean casual. Especially when casual means aspiring preppy. Word of advice for Jase: when you have that body type, you can never carry off casual. Never. You try stylish and you end up doing nerd.

The solution is to go sartorial: style instead of stylish. If I had Jason’s job that morning, I would have worn a suit – possibly a double-breasted chalkstripe – with a pair of women’s knickers as pocket square, as a tribute to the goddesses of the catwalk.

I would have worn a boutonnière made out of shredded banknotes, as a tribute to the transience of it all, and a nod to the snouts in the trough.

I would have been flanked by two supermodels three feet taller than me, and I would have had a magnum of Veuve Clicquot chilling in a silver incense burner, courtesy of Heritage Malta, to emphasise the decadent luxury.

I would have given my little speech glass in hand, then posed for a few snaps alongside the supermodels, à la Joseph Muscat and male admirers, before taking questions, which I would deflect with random quotes from Cocteau.

As Marie Benoît once told me, “It’s all about glamouww, dahling.”

You are very observant H.P.

Don’t forget Nair’s white shoes, on occasion.

Jason has them hanging wedged in the arse pocket of his jeans. You can just see them in the photo.