Alexandra Shulman’s Notebook: Shall I ever find luggage that I can hold?

Some people come through the torture of checking in the airport by scrolling on their phones. I spend it viewing the luggage of other passengers.

Despite years of obsessive search, I still have to find the perfect suitcase. It is just as elusive as a desert mirage.

For the many years that I traveled to events as a Vogue editor, there was no question of managing hand luggage. In fact, there was a compliment in taking a large series of things for international fashion weeks.

I can still remember that I was looking Anna WintourThe substantial Louis Vuitton collection is loaded to a trolley from the luggage parousel in Milan’s Malpensa.

The amount of clothing needed for two weeks on the road, surrounded by the fashion team with eagle eyes, demanded more than a medium -sized Muji.

But even in those years that tried all kinds of different designs, I never found the ideal case – they were always too heavy, had too few compartments or were just impossible to squash in a way that would house the extra shopping with which I would return.

My attic is filled with discarded luggage experiments, lurking in the dark as memories of another life and far too impractical for my current one.

There is the vast black nylon Prada, a canvas Hartmann, a beautiful leather-tuned bol trotter (the only one that occasionally comes into the light).

Although I now have more journey than I have ever done on Vogue – for leisure and work – I still can’t seem to solve the suitcase of the suitcase.

Every new model arrives with a big blob expectation, such as a procession of new friends where you hope that the next might Mr. Right is.

But then, within one journey, their fall unions are always exposed.

My most recent purchase-a large lightweight number that supposedly for ten-day travel is indeed light.

But why on earth did I not bought one with two separate compartments and a compression function?

My Away Hand luggage and an American brand that is appreciated at £ 1 billion is supplied with an internal telephone charger but lacks that important outdoor pocket.

On the train to Gatwick last week I looked at the soft cover of a few Samsonites loaded with a large number of zipper on the outside, but without a style remnant.

Perhaps there is no perfect suitcase, it is an impossible dream. But if I accepted that, what the hell would I do to entertain myself when checking in?

King Charlie? No, that’s a bit too rich

The newest unnecessary but pleasant survey is the happiness index of Namur, commissioned by Winnrz.

The name David of my partner comes at the top, although it is mentioned as Dave.

That wondered: is there a difference in the cheerful quotient between the diminutive and the full milk version of Namur?

Some Davids, such as mine, are never known as Dave; Others, such as former PM Lord Cameron, are called Dave by family and friends.

The greater the chance that your name will be abbreviated – think Fred, Bert, Mike. So maybe the lucky index also has something to do with wealth.

But then Charlie (unlike Charles) becomes third in the ranking.

And somehow I doubt that our monarch – whose £ 640 million wealth is the same as the Sunaks – is once called Charlie.

Marbella is not a place for Panama hats

A short break in Marbella has confirmed my irrational prejudice against women wearing straw panama hats.

There is no reason that I should find this harmless accessory so annoying, but there is something unbearably prissy about them.

I never thought I would notice this that I would say this, but come back baseball cap – everything is forgiven.

How I saw my flight nerves leave

I traveled with a nervous flyer – even more nervous than me – and we discovered that there is a antidote to consult an flight tracker.

There is something soothing looking at the journey of your plane while transporting while you wait to board your flight, and then knowing that it goes to Ibiza after dropping your Gatwick.

It is reassuring to have the order about the facts.

Roll out the red carpet for activists

At last week’s Cannes Film Festival, Julian and Stella Assange made one of their first joint public performances since his release from the Belmarsh prison in Southeast London.

Both were dressed in customized Vivienne Westwood for the premiere of a documentary about the founder of Wikileaks.

Stella pinned a brooch with a photo of Westwood and the words stop killing on her peach and sea green taffeta ballgown.

The red carpet becomes one of the most effective activist billboards of our time, while images about social media flood images.

‘You are what you are wearing’ is never more than when you try to make a point.

Was I the only one who wasn’t seen in Chelsea?

Never to be given by the French, we had our own star bonanza – the Chelsea Flower Show last week.

Even the least horticulturist of ours could not have avoided to hear about an event that has become the launch platform for what rich Americans see as ‘the London season’.

Every year the exhibition is oriented in a very British way and more to celebrities.

David Beckham, Amanda Holden, rival star Alex Hassell, Joanna Lumley and Mary Berry all appeared.

At Chelsea it is less a case of ‘you are what you are wearing’ than ‘you are what you are growing’ – although the charity initiatives, such as the Tackle HIV, want to be seen the place modems.

Hence performances by Juwelier Boodles, with his sparkling Raintance Garden, and Clare Hornby’s Me+Em City Garden.

With daily TV coverage and endless Instagram messages, it sometimes felt that I was the only person I knew who was not in Chelsea. Then I would remind myself that I was in Marbella.