Rei Kawakubo breaks my heart with the lyricism of her collection. From the crushed metal of last season to Poiret roses and bows and ballooning Venetian sleeves. Garage mechanic poets in carnival printed velvets.

Fallen for Iris Van Herpen's luminous descriptions of the spaces between . Tonal drawings . Iridescent prismic magic.

Living in the limelight

Ipads in the changing room...

Gareth Pugh's show in boarded up palais - stucco and chandeliers and heartbreak. A war zone of unrequited love - bare branches scribbled like nerve endings across mourning grey and black. Austere, febrile passionate - just brilliant!

Karl's Lagerfeld store opening. Monochrome rammed with cameras.

Back from snow lagged Prague. Haunted by black Madonnas and wide eyed saints, Kafka's pain, and jagged gravestones in the Jewish cemetery. But climbing up to the castle and finding the Casper Freidrich moonlit painting was a blast.

Sam shaved the back of my hair - I am free - and he's a genius.

Paris. Rainbows for luck. Going to buy everything by the Chromatics.

Autumn. Returned from stormy France to this slanting yellow light. Garden article hanging over my head like a spook. Keep wandering out into the turning rust and chill of the evening to pick blackberries - anything but write. Sometimes the beauty of the day or the slew of stars or the strange magnification of the moonlight makes the idea of not watching unbearable. As if to try and reproduce that feeling would mean missing another intensity.

Made my pilgrimage to the sea. I never thought I would be well enough. I was so happy to lie in the waves. Something about that breaking water, the suddeness and the whiteness in the blue makes me very happy as if every laughing snapshot of my childhood rises and falls in each wave.

Trying to piece together the drift in me. Good to be away in the dry mistral but I miss the green and grey and the old brown river at bottom of the banky field.

Harvest home. Intense relief after the months of deluge.

The barn has never been so full. Now I need to harvest the edit of my novel. Have got lost in the rewrites - a thicket of brambles and thistles.

Nuits Blanches. No sleep in the city of light. Averaging about five hours has left me jagged. Show on 3rd. Wondering if I'll get there.