I love being a writer. I have a great life. I get up in the morning and pad around in my dressing gown and listen to Radio 4.
To me, it is not about the kind of gown or makeup you are wearing, it is about how confident you are and your beliefs.
I love being a writer. I have a great life. I get up in the morning and pad around in my dressing gown and listen to Radio 4.
I remember wearing old long johns, my dad’s silk paisley dressing gown, chopped off at the waist, and lots of crucifixes – trying to look like Madonna. But I wasn’t breaking any moulds, I was just trying to follow somebody else.
When I do my concerts, you have got to think about everything else; so you have got to think about your gown, your hair, your body, and how you present yourself on stage.
Since I was a child, I’ve gone to bed when things get too much. As a result, I have more trouble winding up than winding down in the morning. I need a second cup of coffee and then I potter around in a disgusting white towelling dressing gown for as long as possible.
I remember somewhere in his 70s, my dad started wearing a nightgown – like an old-school grandpa gown! I can see how that might be somewhere in my future.
They see me wheeling around in a beautiful gown, and they realize you can look elegant, and you can lead a happy life in a wheelchair. I know I’ve helped handicapped people, because I’ve received many comments.
You feel very romantic when you’re in a ball gown. Everyone should wear one once in a while.
A burger is a black dress; a kebab is a Met Gala gown.
Once upon a perfect night, unclouded and still, there came the face of a pale and beautiful lady. The tresses of her hair reached out to make the constellations, and the dewy vapours of her gown fell soft upon the land.
I always like to sing barefoot, but when I first started doing these dates with the symphonies, I of course thought I should clean up my act, being a Jewish girl from Long Island with a little bit of a trucker mouth. So I wore a gown and some high heels.
Give me a strapless gown and a rhinestone-studded guitar and some 55-year-olds in my audience, along with their kids and grandkids. Don’t give me ‘boogie’!
When I planned my wedding the first time, my ex-husband and I, we were both struggling comics. I had a TV show that had gotten cancelled. Basically, I rented a wedding gown; the reception hall smelled like feet.
I remember somewhere in his 70s, my dad started wearing a nightgown – like an old-school grandpa gown! I can see how that might be somewhere in my future.
I wake up every morning and I feel like I’m juggling glass balls. I live in Los Angeles, my business is run out of London, and most evenings I’m cuddled up in front of Skype, in my dressing gown, speaking with my studio in London. I travel a lot, my team travel a lot, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Well… Actually I got picked because I was the only one who fit the wedding gown – they had my size.
Don’t judge me. You wanna judge me, put on a black gown and get a gavel. Get in line with the rest of them that’s about to judge me. I got court dates every other month. It’s me against the world – that’s how I feel.
My biggest fashion tip for quarantine is, honey, just because we’re homebound doesn’t mean you can’t put on a gown or a nice jacket, do your hair or put on a winged liner, just go for it.
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