It’s a thin line, really, between being a real and a faux Plastik. In the fickle world of fashion, this line is getting even thinner; it takes as little a gesture as the way you nibble on your canapes in a Marc Jacob’s after-show party and come the morning review, you instantly have another label on you. Either you’re one of those who pretend to ignore the shrimp bisque, or those who gracefully indulge in a spoonful of gaspachiio before lighting a cigarette and stumping it in a half-full. But, Lara Stone has never been a gal who would turn down a foie-gras for a fag; not so much for the horror of having some un-masticated parsley dwelling in that infamous gap between her front teeth, nor for the notion that it might turn up as extra meat on her thighs the next day. She is real. And judging by the fashion menu of late, reality is the plat du jour. Welcome to the Stone age.