I want a Jeremy Scott meat dress, but made out of poptarts.

I'm averaging six hours of sleep per night at the moment. However, unlike the guilty, educationally-associated sleep deprivation I have bemoaned before, this type is from having ludicrous amounts of fun. I'll admit it, I love the 9-5 (or 10-6, whatever). Especially when the hours you're meant to be at work are spent at New York Fashion Week shows, or interviewing your latest girl crush, or running around NYC smuggling packed-lunches into swanky SoHo cafes.

My optimism in organising my internship around NYFW's S/S shows paid off - I managed to witness four shows in as many days this week. Granted, this is hardly a packed schedule in comparison to that of Susie Lau (whom I could spy sitting opposite during Sunday's Preen show), but considering I was turning up to every one in thrift-store finds, it's not bad going.

A 1982 SLR definitely makes me out as a serious fashion journalist and not someone who just blagged their way into a Preen show...

Exciting designer newbie Ann Yee's presentation in SoHo the next evening followed - inspired by Blade Runner, her pretty, accessible silk jumpsuits and crop-tops with flouro accents suggest that she'll be hitting the NYFW schedule in the next few years. The next evening saw Samantha Pleet's Chelsea presentation on behalf of green fashion week, which was breathtakingly beautiful. With a video starring this season's muse Victoria Legrand of Beach House forming the backdrop to a collection of vintage and fishing-inspired whimsical dresses, jumpsuits, blouses and bikinis named things like 'rust red walkabout shorts' and 'ivory moonbeam blouse', there was little else I could do but eat the free cupcakes and feel deeply inadequate - in a thoroughly inspired way, natch.

All of this intelligent, classy, accessible ready-to-wear was, however, blown out of the water by Jeremy Scott's celeb-tastic, 1970s NY homoerotic punk-inspired, screamy, pouty, sexy S/S collection. With guys built like tanks being sent down in bondage-style mankinis, girls wearing everything from bodega-bag-vests to meat dresses (Gaga, eat your heart out) and only a straight-jacket wedding dress pre-empting Scott's own lap of victory around the front row in an angel-tipped leather jacket and kicks, it was beyond amazing. Sitting opposite Kelly Osbourne and Kanye in the front row was pretty surreal, too.

To round of my celebrity-stalking in a more laid-back way, I caught up with newly-discovered girl crush Rebecca Schiffman. Full details on her greatness are to come in Nylon's November issue. However, two facts: she LOVES pigeons and bought me a hotdog. 'nuff said.    

For news about what I get upto when I'm actually IN the office, my first guest post for awesome aspirational writers website Wannabe Hacks made it up this week. As for now, my day off consists of far less glamourous things - wondering what's happening to my clothes at the laundromat up the road, contemplating what new flavour of poptarts I'm going to buy and itinerising my way around taxidermfest at the Natural History Museum... Oh, and happy Yom Kippur!

G is for Gaga and Grandparents

Went on a Shire road trip to visit Grandpa Bowlface today. He's 92, lives in an unwittingly amazing house decked out in enough kitsch and vintage furnishing and wallpaper to stock most overpriced Shoreditch interior design stores for several decades, and takes me out to lunch to places where they paint 'CONGRATULATIONS' and flowers on a plate with free fudge for 'graduating' (which I haven't officially done yet, but what kind of weirdo turns down free fudge?) We drank Earl Grey, ate a load of cake and talked a lot about birds and converting to Judaism. It was the best.

As if my day off couldn't improve much, I come home to find THIS little bloggy nugget on twitter.

Yes gents, contrary to model rumour, this is Telephone-head Lady Gaga herself rocking the androgynous look. Two of my favourite things coming together in a beautiful slightly-Prince-esque way. For, nearly exactly a year after that ridiculous hermaphrodite Glastonbury motorbike scan(man)dal, Gaga has now shown exactly what her lady (gaga) bits look like in the Telephone video and demonstrated that so girly is she that she can even be a man. I've always backed the 'Gaga's a Man!'-dle, in that, hell, if she was a bloke, she was doing a bloody good job of being a lady. 

This piece of styling genius is down to Nicola Formichetti, internationally renowned stylist who I can pathetically name-drop after working the desk at Dazed and Confused during an internship. It took me at least two hours to work out how to put through calls from important types from the likes of Prada and Giles, always asking for 'Nicola' on strict first name terms. Shouty, continental fashion types are scary at the best of times, let alone when they keep being accidentally hung up on. 

Moving on, needless to say I am seriously considering getting a subscription to Vogue Hommes Japan now. Granted, I won't understand much of the text, and I'm not a Japanese man, but who knows which celeb may come under the androgyny treatment next?   

Yes, yes I am Teri Hatcher.

Sociology Flatmate thinks that he might have got confused because Lois Lane was a journalist.

Students don't relish in Bank Holiday weekends. Especially ones in May. Especially ones that were spent in Berlin this time last year. Sad, slightly bitter evidence that my life is thankfully not Groundhog Day. As a result, I'm sat blogging under a blanket (where did Spring go?) having consumed half a can of sweetcorn to constitute 'tea', rather than attending any of the five events facebook claims I am.

Might also be because I'm a little weary from working the door at a Crystal Antlers gig last night. The air of authority Sociology Flatmate and I must have unwillingly given off can only have come from How to Communicate Effectively. Man, that book is potent. Anyway, after most of the bandmates had incomprehensively nattered to us all night about how 'totally spaced out' and Californian they were, Guinness, other people's incomprehensible accents and 'Harlem douchebags at parties that, like, steal beer tokens and party in their own rooms?!', we finally got round to seeing them and they were grreeaaaattt. And more than a little naked. We disappointed them all by refusing vague 'party' offers, and oh boy am I glad because the walk home via the all-night pizzaria was an encounter with a walking cliche I hope never to forget.

Mr. Stag Night was apparently sober. He was, naturally, in a blonde eighties mullet wig, muttering racist abuse at the pizza chaps and had an air of mild aggression. Halfway through ordering the cheapest pizza on the menu (margherita, 10", £3.80. God bless Newcastle), classic 'ice-breaker' arrived in the form of: 'are you off the tel-leh?' Having not yet achieved that level of fame, I answered no, obviously. He clearly thought I was lying: 'You are. Superman's girlfriend.' Uh-huh. 'What, Lois Lane?', 'Yeah!'. Seeing as I was six when I last remember watching the early 90s Superman series, the chances of me acting as a full grown woman in it is highly unlikely. I asked him if he thought Teri Hatcher would be scrabbling around in her purse for two pound coins in an all-night pizzaria in Newcastle's (arguably more salubrious) student suburb. He replied by asking 'if he looked like Pat Sharp'. When we said yes, asking if he was meant to be him, he said 'no'.

This, however, just encouraged a whole new line of talk. Turned out matey was up from Burnley on a stag weekend. Except that he'd been thrown into a police cell since 11.30 am for 'no reason' - "the police said they'd tell me later, but they didn't". They let him out, but only after giving him a cheese and tomato sandwich. I didn't want to suggest that perhaps he'd found himself passed out in Greggs and hadn't been arrested at all. Apparently, he'd only adopted the wig after being let out of the 'cells'. Then there was another conversation about who's stag night it was, 'James Edwards', obviously (we later found out he went to school with him) and another about how Sociology Flatmate MUST like gravy because she's 'northern'; how I 'sounded like one of his mates [he] met travelling, who was from Sussex, or Essex, or Northampton' and I'm a representative for the whole of the UK south of Burnley, as well as being Teri Hatcher. Wowzers, she's a busy lady.  

Diana Vickers has my Kigu

I know, right? NEWSFLASH. Regular readers may remember the Kigu fascination last month, and I'm still hungry to run around the house looking like a red panda.  It's taken me a little while to get onto this whole number one pop track thing because I've been boycotting Radio One during the hours of daylight for nigh on five months now. I just love the sound of James Naughtie of a morning, and every now and then I learn something about Darwin or bell ringing. It's great.

Thankfully, I was checking my facebook as a means of procrastination from dissertation editing (having failed to click the 'include footnotes' box I'm over the word count by 1,000 words. I was just going to lie on my form, but now I've cut 300 out I kind of have to get rid of 700 more. Yawn) and fantastically themed blog Video Is My Radio Star alerted me to the new Vickers' video, and amusing commentary.

Had I read the commentary before the video, the blow of Vickers in a Kigu would have been considerably less painful. But, being the reckless and crazy (ha) Literature student I am, I figured I should immerse myself in the 'primary text' before settling down to the 'secondary material'. I'm still recovering now.

Like pretty much everyone situated in the north, I too have a tenuous link to the Vickers. My ex-flatmate's little sister was her best mate. She was meant to come to his grand Lancastrian 21st party but she was too busy performing on X-Factor, so during the cake-cutting ceremony his mum paused the proceedings and asked us all to take out our mobile phones and vote for her. True story.

Anyway, after due warning, should you fancy seeing how Vickers makes a Kigu look 'cool' or 'sexy' or just rips it off to reveal a sequined ballgown, she's riiigghhhttt here (embed disabled. Maybe they realised the Kigu could potentially kill). Expect a fake version in a Primark near you soon, sigh.