MRS TREFUSIS TAKES A BICYCLE

"If it all gets a bit much, don't be too proud to cycle on the pavement" says Mr Trefusis, kindly, rapping me on the top of my helmet as if to test its strength, and waving me off on my inaugural bicycle ride to the office.



Well, I say inaugural, but I do have form for cycling, albeit in the dim and distant past. Eight years ago, in the middle of a tube strike, I wobbled off to work on my monstrously cool yet entirely impractical Kronan, and I only did it because I had no alternative. The Kronan was developed in the Second World War for the Swedish army, weighs as much as a tank, and was once selected by Tyler Brûle as one of the most stylish design objects of the twentieth century. A bicycle less suited to a commute from West London to Carnaby Street, I can't imagine. Quite apart from its heft, it has no gears and only a back pedal brake, a distinct disadvantage when pedalling up and down the aptly named Notting Hill. As brutal as it is beautiful, I keep expecting to find it used as a murder weapon in an episode of Wallander. Anyway, it was a one off experiment and the Kronan has long since been retired, due to the hassle of getting spare parts shipped in from Sweden, as well as its other disadvantages. Until now, cycling to work has remained nothing more than a latent aspiration.



However, the ongoing Great Trefusis Economic Crisis, and the onset of incipient middle-aged lardiness has put commuting by bicycle firmly back on the agenda. Could I save money and get fitter at the same time, ideally without finding myself squashed between the 148 bus and a John Lewis delivery van on the Bayswater Road? I'm not convinced enough to invest in a bicycle of my own – and of course, that would hardly tick the money-saving box - so I borrowed an old one from my parents instead and bought the sort of luminous waistcoat that people on building sites wear. I figured that if I was to cheat death on two wheels, it was best to make my lack of cycling proficiency really, really visible.



On paper, or indeed by car/bus/tube, the journey to work is simple – turn right out of our road, turn right again, and keep going straight until one gets to Oxford Circus. But on a bike, going along Holland Park Avenue and then down Oxford Street feels like a route mapped in one's own blood. I plugged the postcodes into TFL's planner which came back with a route so circuitous and complex that it went on to two pages – God only knows how one is supposed to memorise a route like that, but I tried to keep it in my head by earmarking the familiar. It's roughly straight on West to East – how hard could it be?
Anyway, I set off, went straight, turned left at the Rug Company, ran behind Holland Park Avenue and Notting Hill until I passed Le Cafe Anglais, and then, not quite a third of the way into the journey, I promptly forgot the route, found myself back on the main road, inches from the thundering juggernauts. I remembered Mr Trefusis's pavement advice, but the pavement was, rather inconveniently, full of pedestrians, so I crossed at the lights and went into Hyde Park – what could be nicer? Trees, no cars, squirrels, loveliness and Parks Police. "Cycling is not allowed" shrieked the Parks Policeman, "can't you see the sign?". 'No Cycling' is written in two foot high letters at intervals along the path so I was definitely caught red-faced and red-handed. All I could do was dismount and walk my bike, head held as high as I could muster, to the nearest exit. Not being able to cycle in the park, parallel with the Bayswater Road, seems to me to be the most enormous swizz – Hyde Park is huge, with much wider pavements than the street, and could easily accommodate a small cycle lane. Boris should have fixed this at the same time as planting all of his bikes all over London. I overtook two Boris Bikes after that, just to get my pride back.



Actually, the journey from then on was relatively uneventful – I took a slightly idiosyncratic route north of Oxford Street, and then down through Hanover Square so I could 'wave' cheerily, hem hem, at Vogue House before arriving at work rather earlier than usual.



Cycling is moderately terrifying, I must admit, but the greatest dangers seem to be from other cyclists – those wearing earphones to cycle seem to lack an appropriate respect for their own personal safety – and Professor of Traffic Psychology (and God, who knew there was such a thing), Dr Ian Walker's insights seem to work, cars/buses/cabs and vans give you a wider berth if you're obviously a bit rubbish, your mum's bike and long blond hair worn loose are as essential a part of your Cycling Safety kit as a helmet and lights. As I write this, I'm about to don the fluoro waistcoat and swirly-girly helmet for my newly mapped route home, past Estee Lauder's head office, over Park Lane and straight on until I get to the cup of tea Mr Trefusis promises he has waiting for me at the other end.

MARILYN MONROE: 50 CENTS FOR YOUR SOUL*. BERT STERN'S LAST SITTING.

The shoot that came to be known as the ‘Last Sitting’ was photographed by Bert Stern for US Vogue over the course of three days, a fortnight before Marilyn Monroe died.

In the first session Marilyn posed almost nude (see colour images below), but Jessica Daves, then Editor of US Vogue, feeling that the pictures were too risqu é for the magazine - and could hardly be described as fashion - had Stern reshoot. Fashion editor, Bab Simpson contributed elegant black dresses, floor length chinchilla coats, pearls, hats, veils and sequined gloves, and as the news of Marilyn’s suicide hit the headlines, the September 1962 issue was already rolling on the presses, featuring the 8 page fashion feature, of which this exquisitely sombre, sophisticated, portrait was the lead shot.

They were the last pictures to be published – indeed to be taken - of Marilyn, and the Last Sitting became part of the cultural mythology of Marilyn Monroe.

The Bert Stern sitting is the backdrop for Marilyn, Forever Blonde, a new one-woman play that has just opened at the Leicester Square Theatre. Marilyn, played by the extraordinary Sunny Thompson, confides her life-story to the unseen photographer. The script is scrupulous in using only Monroe's own words, with the occasional voice-over quote from, say, Joe DiMaggio, or Arthur Miller, to construct its compelling and necessarily tragic narrative.

I went to Marilyn, Forever Blonde last night, as the guest of Sarah Churchwell, author of 'the most comprehensive life of the iconic movie star' - The Many Lives of Marilyn Monroe, and an exacting critic.

It's difficult to write a successful, intelligent play about a cult figure, particularly one which seeks to offer its audience a portrait of the real Marilyn, yet Marilyn, Forever Blonde succeeds, largely due to the astonishing skill of Thompson, who does more than play Marilyn, she inhabits her.

Overlook the slightly naff title of the piece and go and see it: even if you're interested in, rather than captivated by, the Monroe myth, it's worth seeing for Sunny Thompson's performance alone - it's rare to see something so authentic, or so full of integrity and depth: It even passed muster with Sarah.

Yet, when it comes to a notion of a 'real' Marilyn, I can't help but think Truman Capote, quoted in Sarah's book, had it best.

I said well, she's a little bit like you, she wears her heart

on her sleeve and talks salty and Marilyn said fuck you

and said well, if somebody asked me what Marilyn

Monroe was like, what was Marilyn Monroe really like

what would I say, and I said I'd have to think about that.

Marilyn, Forever Blonde is at the Leicester Square Theatre until 18th November

0844 8472 475

* "Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss, and fifty cents for your soul" Marilyn Monroe.

IN THE SWIM

The ghastliness of summer is full upon us, and unless you've spent the last six months in the gym, or have the kind of self-control that means you never say yes to a Malteser or a second glass of wine, your self-esteem will join mine on the floor at the very thought of having to remove vast amounts of clothes in favour of The Swimming Costume.


Bikini season ought to come complete with a special prescription of Prozac, to anaesthetise one against the pain of putting on show a non-photo-shopped body. And if you've had children, then perhaps a side-order of hemlock might go well with the SRI's, because the words 'bikini' and 'post-baby body' don't appear to belong in the same sentence together. Not for me, anyway.


Unless you're Natalia Vodianova, pregnancy takes its toll, if not physically, then at least on the way one feels about oneself.


But what's the answer? Does one just resolve to try not to care, to get over it? Or does one opt for a punitive diet and a rigorous gym routine - though, frankly, who has the time? Or perhaps a 'Mummy Job' is the answer, taking a surgical route to restore one's body to its ante-partum glory? Tempting, but in truth, if I had several thousand pounds lying around I'd have the bathroom done rather than my boobs, it being on show a lot more often than my embonpoint.


Fortunately, there is a fourth option: decent swimwear. I'd heard friends rave about Heidi Klein, but couldn't quite bring myself to part with the money, until a tempting discount on their Facebook page, and the trauma of a forthcoming holiday, made me wonder if a well cut costume could be the swimwear equivalent of a pair of black opaques. Reader, I can't tell you the joy of the Delfi one-piece (pictured above, in espresso brown, which is very flattering if you're extremely pale like me). All thoughts of hiring a Victorian bathing machine, or of taking up mountain climbing in an attempt to avoid the swimming pool/beach moment, vanished: the fabric is thick enough to smooth one's stomach enviably flat, the clever halter-neck and well-thought out stitching under the bust cheerily re-perks my boobs, and the gold thingywhatsits on the straps can be moved up or down, depending on how deep a cleavage one is willing to show.

Mothers themselves, Penny Klein, and her business partner Heidi Gosman, know exactly what women go through when the holidays are looming. The success of their range is partly to do with the quality of fabrics used, but it's also about the way its designed by women for women, with the express purpose of making real bodies look and feel fabulous, on the beach, in the sea and by the pool.


The website is extremely good, but I love the store experience even more- there's one in Notting Hill, and one in Chelsea, and each offers a complete pre-holiday experience. Not only are the staff utterly expert in finding the perfect bikini for you, but you can also have a spray tan (everything looks better brown, and since I start off pale blue and don't get much darker, a professional fake tan is my number one holiday essential), a fab pedicure, and find gorgeous cover-ups to take you from beach to bar for pool side cocktails, great jewellery to dress up bikinis and casual beachwear, sandals and those ultra cool hats that look so effortlessly chic on a beach-side Elle Macpherson.

I'm not a fashion writer, but even I can see that there are some ultra-clever figure fixers in the Heidi Klein range that would work particularly well for the post-baby body: The bottoms of the Antibes fold up or down, an ideal fix for a mummy-tummy.

If you're small-breasted but in need of a boost, or generous bosomed in search of support, its top has sideboning and can be tied both behind the neck and at the ribcage to raise the bust and lengthen the torso. What's more, the Antibes top - and several others - go up to a G-cup.

Although I've been a life-long devotee of the bikini, I find it's not as practical a solution as it once was now I'm chasing after two infants, one of whom thinks it's hilarious to pull down pants or pull up bikini tops. How we all laughed. I love the Delfi, but had I been in need of a little more support up top, I'd have gone for the Bamboo one piece, which has sexy low back with self-ties, so you can adjust the fit to offer more support around your rib-cage to lift the bust. It's also very chic, and shows just enough skin to be alluring, yet leaves enough to the imagination to maintain the illusion that all is just as it should be, and in aubergine, it's a colour that again works well if your skin tones are a little too celtic for fashion.

At around £140, I'm not going to pretend that it's a particularly frugal solution. But when I think of the money I've spent on buying several less flattering outfits, and how much more attractive I feel when pool-side, it feels like money well spent. And, unusually, so does Mr Trefusis.