It might seem strange that the fashion world is shocked by the death of a man in his eighties, but I suppose we assumed Karl Lagerfeld to be immortal. The outpouring of both surprise and sadness since the prolific and protean designer for Chanel and Fendi passed away in Paris on Tuesday is genuine; as is the realisation that has been dawning on some of us that we owe so many of our favourite fashion memories to Karl.

Karl always claimed he didn't care if the press liked him. (He also claimed that when he died, he wanted his ashes slung down a chute – no funeral – as if that's going to happen.) He could say hilariously wicked things and he'd absolutely make sure they got back to you. But it wasn't until after his death, when I looked at the faxes and cards he sent me over four decades, that I remembered he could also be so kind. I'm not claiming that he and I were close friends, but before I moved to Australia in 1997, he did hold a lunch for me at his Left Bank mansion; lobster bisque – I've never been good with soup.