Carmen with Claridge's redoubtable Doorman, Brenton.

This has been a banner year for my friend, the modelling super-legend Carmen Dell' Orefice. She turned 80 in June, was made an Honorary Doctor by the University of the Arts in July and has kept up the kind of work schedule in the interim that would give a teenager pause. Last week, Carmen: A Life in Fashion - an exhibition charting her unique 66 year career, opened at LCF's Fashion Space Gallery. You need to go and see it. It was my first (and, read it here, last), attempt at curation. A labour of love to be sure, but what's not to love when the images are  master works by Avedon, Penn, Parkinson, Beaton and Skrebneski? In the spirit of more is more, the London College of Fashion hosted -  not one but two - celebratory events, attracting London's boldest bold face names.

After Wednesday night's party it was a case of  all-back-to-my-place for Erin O' Connor, Philip Treacy, Selina Blow, Hannah Marshall, Leanne Wierzba (of the Fashion Space Gallery), and photographer Tim Petersen who had flown in from New York for the occasion. My place of course is the super salubrious and super sexy Fumoir bar at Claridge's, which doubles as my London office. Matinee idol bar man George served drinks until 3am, Carmen and Philip fashioned a hat out of nowhere and the self-effacing, but quietly brilliant, Mr Petersen - for whom the term stealing beauty might have been invented - recorded the whole thing. Tim's images, seen here exclusively, prove (did we doubt it?), that Carmen is a beauty for the small hours - as well as the ages.

Photos by Tim Petersen

SEE ALL THE ACTION FROM THE EVENT HERE

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars," according to Oscar Wilde. But what stars are we looking at today?

When I was growing up - in the 60s - we had Lennon and McCartney, Mohammed Ali and Maria Callas, Andy Warhol and David Hockney, Jimmi Hendrix and Julie Christie, Fonteyn and Nureyev, Brigitte Bardot and Steve McQueen and, the biggest and brightest of all; Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. The Burtons. Liz and Dick. Their interplanetary collision (look out earth!) in 1963, on the set of Cleopatra, caused a meteor shower that would last a decade. The Burtons were never cool; they were high maintenance, high altitude hedonists, woozily circling the globe with their animals and children, making movies when it suited them. They had the arrogance of stardom, tempered with an irrepressible good humour.

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The world caught its breath at the sight of the young Taylor, and that rapturous beauty stoked Burton's generous nature. He kept their marriages (there were two) percolating with lavishbillets doux. These are the centre piece of The Collection of Elizabeth Taylor, which goes under the hammer at Christie's in NY in December. I saw a preview recently and among the treasures are works by Utrillo, Renoir and Van Gogh, and of course the fabled jewellery collection which I will leave the experts to describe to you (though I particularly like the story of the 'ping pong' diamonds; Taylor's spoils following a drunken game of table tennis). So, gentlemen, as that anniversary approaches, forget the screw top Sauvignon and the forecourt flowers. Make the gesture. Dig deep. Bid high. Think Dick!

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Did I mention that I have been appointed Fashion Artist in Residence at Claridge's? There's no point in envying me; I envy myself. It is, as I am fond of saying, the gig of the century. My job is to make a series of drawings of the hotel's most illustrious guests. I can't divulge who is on the list, but if I say that my first sitters have included SJP, DVF and DVT, you may not need a Bletchley code breaker to work it out. Anyway, among the many benefits of being in residence' (aside from my new office; table four in the Fumoir, the most beautiful bar in London), is having somewhere to hang my hat during the total wipe-out assault course that is London Fashion Week. I'll admit I'm a bit of a lightweight where these things are concerned. I was weaned on couture, a vastly more civilised schedule; a scattering of shows, a cocktail or two and plenty of time for lunch and dinner. Ready-to-wear is more of an endurance sport. I suspect we would do rather well at it in the Olympics. Whatever you may have heard my friends, fashion is no place for sissies.

Matthew Williamson

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Antonio Berardi

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Jonathan Saunders

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Mary Katrantzou

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Maria Grachvogel

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As for the shows, I long ago learned to leave comment to the writers, pundits and bloggers who can read the runes and spot the trends. An illustrator's job is after all to interpret (and in some cases re-interpret), a designers work. Our opinion is neither sought or needed. Let's just say I pretty much concur with the front row wisdom that it was the strongest London for years. Also, I didn't see much black. LFW? Colour it beautiful.

Stephen Jones

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Erin O'Connor at Mulberry

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Bianca Jagger

SEE ALL THE PHOTOS FROM THE FASHION WEEK PARTIES