For those of us (a small group, admittedly) who have worked for Vogue, the release of The Devil Wears Prada 2 brings the memories flooding back.
I was there in the early 1990s when British Vogue occupied most of the building on the south-east corner of Hanover Square in London’s West End. There was no Miranda Priestly in a glass office on the fifth floor, but there were many unspoken rules, codes and status brags you were expected to comply with: labels you should be wearing; brands and bands and books you should be loving; people you should know about and
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