Monday, September 13 Just flew in on the Red Eye from Los Angeles. After two weeks there, my chakras have been attuned, my psyche balanced and I am loaded up on herbs like St John's Wort - the conscious fashion person's answer to cocaine. Armed with a bottle of Bach Flower Rescue Remedy and my healing crystal, I am, like, so ready to do fashion week. 3 pm: My colleague Tim Lim and I are outside an art gallery in Soho, where Bottega Veneta is showing for the first time in New York. The president of the company, Vittorio Moltedo, was in Hong Kong a couple of months ago doing the whole 'Asia-rah-rah-rah' thing. We're told we are 'standing' but before we get inside, the doors slam shut, photographers are swearing. One journalist, holding a card with a seat number on it, screams out: 'Why do you invite people and not let them in?' It's all over in 15 minutes, and an Italian fashion editor emerges saying: 'You missed nothing. It was a disaster.'. Then over to BCBG Max Azria. I go up to the desk to get my seat assignment, and am told I'm not on the list. Did I RSVP? Days ago, I insist. Sorry, I'm told. No name, no seat. I'm directed to a holding pen where 100 people wait until everyone is seated. At last we're allowed in, and I'm standing behind 37 people and can see the tips of the models' heads. I leave. Marc Jacobs is on next. My ticket never arrived, but I had spoken earlier in the day to Rebecca Carcelle, whose hubby Yves is the president of LVMH, which owns Marc Jacobs. She says to meet them outside and they'll take me in. But in line with the new unfrazzled me, I opt out. Tuesday 1pm: I'm lunching with Rebecca at the chic little restaurant in Henri Bendel. She's in Jil Sander, Michael Kors and trendy Hogan sport shoes. And, of course, a little Vuitton waist-pouch. I tell her that, given my new Zen-like outlook, I refuse to participate in anything that's a struggle.'This is fashion week, and it's New York,' she reminds me. 'Everything is a struggle.' 3pm: Daryl K is showing in the terrace of an office building on Park Avenue. I'm chatting with a Sydney fashion editor who says she's seen some terrible shows since the weekend, when fashion week officially began. 'I don't need to come to New York to see bad clothes,' she says. 'I can do that in Sydney.' At least Daryl K is pleasant - pretty colours like pistachio, satin shirts and some dresses with volume and draping. The show has run an hour late. I run down Park Avenue to meet with shoe designer Bernard Figueroa, who is regaling me with tales of spoilt fashion brats who, as he says, 'are 22, gorgeous, don't have to work because their daddies are rich, and still don't know how to smile'. At 7 pm, I head down to the theatre at Madison Square Garden where Tommy Hilfiger is showing his much-ballyhooed show. Flashing neon lights outside scream: 'Tommy Rocks.' Inside, in the thousand-strong crowd, Debby Harry and Samuel L Jackson are part of the audience, while British rock band Bush are providing the background music. This is part fashion show, part rock concert, and it's all ghastly. The music can be heard as far as Alabama, so there goes my finely-honed-in-LA equilibrium. The clothes should be torched: spangly rhinestone-cowboy outfits, all red, white and blue fringes and sequins and mayhem. People start walking out before it ends and Bush band members shout into the microphone: 'F*** you very much.' I head downtown to the Pucci gallery, where Concord watches is having a bash to celebrate its re-launch. Stiff competition on the social circuit tonight: Mario Testino, Harper's Bazaar and edgy magazine Visionaire are all having parties, but there's a pretty respectable turnout at Concord. I've just missed Rupert Everett, dash it, but run into Donald Trump on his way out, as he leaves with his new chick-of-the-second, Melania Knaus who just happens to be the Concord model. There is also celebrity memorabilia up for auction to benefit an Aids charity. A ring bell from a Muhammed Ali fight brings in US$6,000, a weekend at Mar-a-Largo - courtesy of The Donald - nets US$4,500, while some fashion-mad chump spends US$700 on a white T-shirt made by Marc Jacobs which once belonged to Gwyneth Paltrow. Later, I'm chatting with someone from American Elle about the Hilfiger fiasco, and ask him what he thought. 'Er, horrifying?' Wednesday The Miller girls - Marie-Chantal of Greece and Pia Getty - are seated next to Vogue supremo Andre Leon Talley. This show's great - upbeat and sexy, with clothes in juicy colours like lemon and lime, soft jerseys, sexy shapes - the kind you want to throw into your Vuitton case and head off to Capri with. Then to Anna Sui. I'm waiting outside for the show to start and I'm blanked by four people I had deep and meaningful conversations with last season. I load up on the St John's Wort and a couple of drops of rescue remedy and push on. Inside, as pretty, gypsy-ish clothes come streaming down the catwalk, I see Steven Meisel and Vivienne Tam opposite me, and James Iha who plays the guitar for Smashing Pumpkins. It's started raining heavily. Next, Tiffany is having a party at the Sky Club - a private penthouse club. I find the building because there are blue lights emanating from it and squelch over in my beaded sandals, taking some comfort in the notion that the suede Blahniks and Gucci mules worn by the fashionistas who blanked me earlier are now veritably destroyed. Hooray! At Tiffany, Christy Turlington is swanning around in a slinky red number, while rich Manhattanites are 'oohing' and 'aahing' over the ring. It's patented, so those Tsimsy stores dare not try to rip it off. Thursday Hurricane Floyd is close to hitting. But I have an 8.15am breakfast meeting at the Royalton Hotel, so make my way down there in blustery winds and rain. Later, I'm chatting with someone who lives in the same building as Michael Kors, who says they saw the designer leaving his home this morning in a pair of flip-flops and shorts. I find out that all the shows scheduled for the tents in Bryant Park have been cancelled for safety reasons. The big question is whether Alexander McQueen is going to happen tonight. His show was rumoured to have cost US$1 million, and was set to take place at 9pm in a vast space at a pier near the Hudson River, just off the West Side Highway. It's the hottest ticket of the season, and I shockingly have one. I call the PR office and ask if it's still on, and some snappish girlie says: 'Of course!' Later, a recorded message at the same office says the show 'will definitely not be cancelled under any circumstances.' At 8 pm, winds are still blowing, the rain is still coming down, and it's cold out. Only an idiot would venture out in this weather. 9pm: I'm standing outside the McQueen show. The models come striding down a shallow pool (some poetic metaphor of what's happening outside, perhaps?). The clothes are neo-Islamic fundamentalist: purdahs, mehendi, that sort of thing. I see it as a bit of a piss-take. McQueen: beware the fatwah. The finale is a succession of women in his purdah-esque clothes suspended on wires hung from the ceiling. The lighting is such that they look headless, then they start convulsing and 'coming back to life'. It's all too spooky. There's a big party after for Moschino which some fashion fanatics are heading to, but even I'm not that much of an idiot. Friday I'm at Vivienne Westwood. Milla Jovovich, sitting front row, seems to love it as does Peta Wilson, the star of La Femme Nikita, who's getting heaps of paparazzi attention. The clothes are bright, sexy, semi-sluttish. Typical Westwood fare. Then to Calvin Klein - it's his signature spare, clean, pure clothes. Beautifully made and horrifyingly expensive. He's also showing off his new make-up line. I sneak out early to avoid the elevator crush - 500 fashion people trying to get into two lifts is not my idea of a good time. I head back uptown to Madison Avenue, where I go to the opening of the Roberto Cavalli boutique. The designer is there in faded denims and tatty trainers, surrounded by jazzy women, none of whom are shorter than 5'9. After two glasses of champagne and some inane talk ('Gorgeous! Great clothes! Great store! Love it!') I head out to dinner with my shoe designer friend Beverly Feldman. After, she wants to take me clubbing. There are no taxis so she approaches a policeman who drives us to Le Bar Bat in the back of his police car. Inside, skinny women in tube tops and tattoos are doing odd things with their hips. I am standing in a corner minding the handbags. I want to go to the tube top girls and tell them to go home, have a glass of Ovaltine, and go to bed. I do just that. Saturday This should be a no-show day, but a lot of the cancelled shows from Thursday have been rescheduled. I go to Vivienne Tam, which is less-than-full as so many of the European press and buyers have left. Great colours (turquoise, lilac), lots of sparkle (sequins, embroidery). Afterwards outside, a fashion official is trying to drum up interest in the Ghost show, which is going to be empty, as it's happening at 2pm this afternoon. 'Stay here for Ghost,' he pleads. 'You don't need tickets to get in.' People walk by. I should be flying to London tonight. More shows and dramas there, before carrying on to Milan and Paris. But my chakras have come undone and my psyche is out of whack. Plus I'm out of Rescue Remedy. I get on a plane and head back to LA.