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.