- PW Talks with Lee Woodruff, June 5, 2017.
2. Dozens of trainers line the stairs to Tara Palmer-Tomkinson’s private world: pink, blue, green, purple, red - every imaginable colour - as if an army of exercisers had strayed into her penthouse maisonette. Does she run? “No, never,” says the whirlwind as she clatters up to her South Kensington eyrie in Jimmy Choo stiletto boots.
The theme of zany excess is repeated everywhere. In her sitting room there's not one vase of flowers but three huge ones, fighting for attention, and enough bottles of booze to run a nightclub, although she scarcely drinks. Surfaces are crammed with framed photos, scores of them, mostly showing Tara partying like crazy. Even her staff come in droves: there's a Ukrainian changing/breaking light bulbs, a Ukrainian tidying up, and further Ukrainians (presumably) mysteriously banging doors on the floor below, so that the whole place shakes.
Neither the flat, nor its owner, seems to do stillness. “Oops, sorry for flashing my pants at you,” she says as she lifts her Alexander McQueen tweed skirt to wipe enormous glasses. TPT - the original It Girl, later known as Twit Girl - is as frenetic as her surroundings. She arranges herself demurely to chat on her white leather sofa opposite a vast television screen that's belting out MTV. A second later she's up again, fetching something, dealing with somebody, or taking a breath of fresh air on her roof terrace. The glass doors are wide open, even though it is a wet February evening.
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