David Beckham and daughter Harper Beckham in NYC. Photo / Getty Images
With her cute outfits and front-row stare, three-year-old Harper Beckham* was the star of New York Fashion Week.
Mwah! Mwah! Harper here. Beckham, that is, not Collins. I'm a pre-school glamazon, and all about what's haute and happening - just like mummy. And daddy, too, come to that.
New York Fashion Week can be soooo exhausting. I'm only three, so the Cristal's off-limits but after a busy day at the shows, I need a Peppa Pig-me-up with an Alpaca blankie and no mistake.
It's been a busy time of late nights and front rows and jostling paparazzi scrums. Everyone wants to know who I'm wearing - usually Daddy, wrapped round my little finger, which is great news for legacy planning once I can lace my own gladiators.
Entre nous, I'm all about the make-under. I've done the grey thing, now I'm loving the whole severe black dress and Peter Pan collar thing.
At mummy's Fall/Winter 2015 collection show in the Big Apple on Sunday, somebody behind me (second row, second rate, says it all) whispered: "Wednesday Addams", which was a darling compliment, actually.
Just wait until the trickle-up effect sees nurseries on both sides of the Atlantic filled with pint-sized Puritans channelling the Salem Witch Trials. Yay!
My big brother Romeo has his modelling work and so does Brooklyn and my dad. My other brother is on Cruz control at the minute, so I feel quite excited to be getting an early education in Stella McCartney studies and, you know, breathing in the scent of wealth and hairspray.
It's been great catching up with Donatella and Tommy Hilfiger and Alexander Wang. Or at least I think so. Sometimes I just have a lovely nap instead or suck my hair or direct a penetrating stare at Anna. What do you mean Anna who? Durr... Wintour. As in nuclear. But colder.
Actually, more Anna-phylactic when she ended up next to North West on the front row of her daddy Kanye's New York show. You should have seen the "expression" on the American Vogue editor's face when it all kicked off. North - whose mummy, Kim Kardashian, has a bottom that almost broke the internet - was crybabying like Kate Moss on National No Smoking Day. Not a good look. Not a good sound, either.
"Girlfriend," I told her later, "Girlfriend, act cool. Anna never carries a spare rusk in her Hermes. Never. You gotta just ignore her. Let her come to you. Like frostbite."
Not that she ever would. Anna loves me the best. Really. There's photographic evidence (lodged with my New York attorney) that she smiled at me once.
Or maybe it was at my Chloe maxi dress? Anyway, I could swear I heard the faint crackle of fillers breaking into a million tiny shards.
She never said anything, obviously. But she can tell I'm quality because my ears aren't pierced. And I bespoke my first words at an Elie Saab lock-in.
I've always loved fashion. Fashion 2.0, that is! Or maybe it's iFashion 6 plus?
Mega T-bar shoes that rock (as well as supporting my arches in the correct position), swag floppy hats, fierce pea coats. Covert couture (cashmere socks? Those will do nicely) is my major lust-have and I dig, really dig, anything T-shirtable. Apart from T-shirts, obviously, because those are just contemporary trashic (tragic and trashy - snappy, huh?).
Talking of which, somebody thought I was Suri Cruise the other day. I mean, purlease?
She's like, ancient! Eight if she's a day. I know she spearheaded the whole living doll, mini-me accessory thing, but that was so last decade and there's no way my mummy would let me wear heels, because it's chavvy.
I thought tattoos were, too, but not daddy's, because he's a national treasure and (I hope I've got this right) "they demonstrate to the rest of the world that he hasn't been entirely emasculated".
All the same, it is kinda cute how Katie Holmes still carries Suri, even though they're the same height and her Guccis get scuffed as she's dragged home from late-night ice-cream parlours.
I remember my mummy once broke daddy's wrist trying to wrench me out of his arms, which was to-die-for sweet because - get this - it wasn't even for a photocall! He's lovely, my dad, but a bit
literal. When Brad Pitt said babies were the new manbags... well, you can guess the rest. Daddy started hanging me up on a peg in the hallway. I think his Nectar card is still tucked inside my Agnes b vest.
"David, what are you doing, you great big sexy man-muppet!" Mummy shouted. "She's a baby, not a cutensil! Although, now that I think about it, she might look good as a rucksack." And, you know, she's right.
That's the thing about being part of Brand Beckham. We are the ferosh first family of fashion. We're all in this together.
*as told to Judith Woods