It must have been fashion week...

The 6.30am London-Paris Eurostar last Monday must have been the chic-est train of the week. As it was Paris fashion week, it may well have been the chic-est train of the year.

I notice it immediately. The groups of powerful-looking older women in black coats, big scarves and bags with plenty of hardware; buckles, bag-charms, chain handles. I even see a reasonably heavy-looking padlock. (OK. I'm not stupid. I know these hang outside bags. But why is she carrying one inside?)

Each group is attended by one or two unnaturally fashionable, very young men. They run along the platform as the train's about to leave, trailing flying accessories.

So what is the famous difference between French and British fashion players? Let's play the game of, 'Is she British? Is she French?'.

Ok. The French are wearing trousers; the Brits are wearing skirts. Their skirts are mostly knee-length and flare out a bit at the bottom. The French trousers are uniformly black. The Brits are wearing colour; the French won't touch it: strictly black, grey and cream. One crucial difference: British pashminas are bigger, MUCH BIGGER, I mean SO MUCH BIGGER than the French equivalent. They're so big that, if bounced from their hotel booking, I think the Brits could camp under them. The French compensate for this by adding odd rows of little bobbles, crinkled textures and embroidery to theirs (so long as they're in a neutral tone). Oh - and the British tend to wear novelty knitted and felted hats. Cute, huh?

That said, the Brit look is fantastically difficult to carry off - and some of them are even managing it.

The most chic person on the train, however, has to be the guy below on the right...

The  French woman beside him looks fantastically stylish too. She's in her 50s, smartly dressed but un-made-up. I can see (tiny) wrinkles and age marks which add to her allure. Bare skin is daring; in age, even more so. She looks bold and confident.

We approach the outskirts of Paris. She takes out a small mirror and begins to apply makeup with a sponge. Her skin becomes uniform in texure and slightly unnaturally peachy in colour. You know that if you got close to her it would no longer feel or smell like skin. It would smell like powder and feel like ultrasuede. And you know that, if you kissed her, you wouldn't be kissing her, and that little bits would stay on your skin when you pulled away.

She takes out a concealer pencil.

And, as we pull into the Gare du Nord, she slowly erases every trace of herself...

(An un-made-up photos of me can now be found at www.stylebible.com where I have just become a contributor.)