"Nobody does it better, makes me feel sad for the rest." Phoebe, nobody does it quite as good as you. There are imitators, oh yes, they populate the other brands, they've infiltrated the high street, they think they dictate the trends and blaze the trail but the fact, the sad, sad fact, is that they've got nothing on you. They can't cut a coat the way you can, cropped and swingy, sitting with the lapels closed just at the right spot, or hanging low from the shoulders, flaring at the back, cinching in fold after wonderful, wonderful fold with an oversized belt-tie. They can't conceive of a skirt the way you can, fitted at the waist and darting out, softly, with feminine grace and elegance, from the hips, curving at the hem with the sophistication of a ballet dancer. They can't reclaim the turtleneck like you can, not harsh and severe but reserved, beautiful, a winter's morning in an Impressionist painting, a lovers' farewell at a train station. They can't put it all together the way you can; the unstudied tucked-in ponytail, the non-existent makeup, the gold choker with the oversized bead, the handbags clutched against the side like a shopping list or a bag of groceries. You make it seem so easy, Phoebe. A lover and a fighter, a mother and a designer, everything all at once. Other designers make it look like such hard work, but Phoebe, well, you make it look like glorious, glorious play.