Whenever the human art installation that is Daphne Guinness walks into a party, the conversation stops. First you notice the hair, a punkish, white-blonde updo edged with sweeping black streaks, then the armour-like silver jewellery covering the length of every finger. But it’s her improbably vertiginous shoes — platformed at the front but heel-less — that make you gasp. How on earth does she walk in them? She will tell you they are as comfortable as trainers. They look treacherous, a little sadomasochistic, but rather fabulous too.
So it’s a shock when I arrive at Guinness’s imposing Chelsea townhouse with its grand sweeping staircase to see her running down the steps in mary-jane flats and dressed down in loose black thinly pleated Issey Miyake trousers,