Confessions Of A VH Addict

Addict

Addiction is in my blood, but in a family of junkies I was the one without a habit. Daddy gave up dialysis to spend more time in the pub. Mummy is hooked on smoking, shopping and risking skin cancer in the sun. My brother took the conventional route with sex, drugs, and suicide. ‘Drugs,’ as Dr Dex is fond of saying, ‘are only a problem when you stop taking them.’ Despite having diplomatic immunity at High School, I was never into angel dust and downed water before it was fashionable. ‘Never get high on your own supply,’ as Michelle Pfeiffer warns in Scarface. It wasn’t until my supply was cut off that I realised I was an addict. Read More…

The 2.0N Club

Colours 2.0N Serum

My VH addiction was in full swing by the time I’d moved from Beijing to Soho and joined the 2.0N Club. It sounds like a cool nightclub for people who like carb free drinks instead of a foundation that looks invisible on the skin. Obsessing about getting my mitts on 2.0N is weird for me because the minute I wake up, I don’t put on make-up. My husband Dangerous insists that I look better without it. He’s never got over the time in Kiev when two nice girls I met in a cafe gave me a makeover. ‘You’d look quite pretty if you wore ten inches of panstick,’ Svetlana told me; while Verushka attacked me with gigantic false eyelashes and a can of superglue. Read More…