LFW diary: Jetlagged is the new black at Jean-Pierre Braganza

“It’s fashion week here?” says the taxi man, pulling away from Paddington Station. “That’s good.” For the cabbing business? Of course. Fashion week heels and London cobblestones don’t mix.

Luckily I’ve got razor-grips on my Camilla Skovgaards, which have already been photographed, in early Jak & Jil style, more times than my face. Er, I won’t take it personally. After all, I took the red-eye quite literally; if I were any more bloodshot I’d be Charlie Sheen. Crimson was the colour du jour at Jean-Pierre Braganza, too. The Ryerson grad and ex-Montrealer is one of my favourite Canadian expats, and that’s saying a lot, because there were loads of them here by my last count. Homeboy has got a wicked way with tailoring, envelope-folding, laser-cutting… even the LBD is interesting in his hands.

Red came in bursts among black leather and wool or Breton stripes. More JPG than JPB? Sure, but he threw in a few of his dark, fantastical signature prints as a saving grace. Oh, and by the way, all the models had red washes around the eyes. That’s right. Jetlagged: the look of fall ’11. One photo for Phil of Streetpeeper and I was off to Somerset House, the beautiful central hub of London Fashion week.

My first show there, Aminaka Wilmont, was lovely and all, but let’s be real: I came for the coffee. One macchiato, please. No, two. And my god, the meringues! They come in the most beautiful washed-out pastels and each is the size of Marie Antoinette‘s head! I took a Blackberry pic, because I’m super-cool, and Imran from Business of Fashion totally saw me. Not very Business of Fashion-like at all… And then he went and bought some kind of health juice. Me? Oh I’m just eating five tonnes of Sainsbury’s salads while my driver waits. By the giant green ToyWatch that a lost elf dropped in my hotel room, I’m late. Right now? I can’t even pretend this is work.

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