Monday was quite a relaxing day for a change. I went to bed early on Sunday night, so I woke up fresh, fit, and fruity in the morning. Let me start by revealing a very peculiar fashion week phenomenon. Something that occurs in New York, London, and Paris, and for which I still have no explanation or solution, but which is indeed bloody annoying.

Fashion week takes place in a strange time vacuum. As in, time disappears here. Just like that, suddenly, bang boom, it's 4 hours later in 5 minutes. Just like yesterday morning, the alarm went off at 08:00, I hit snooze once, and then suddenly BANG BOOM it's 10:30 and I have to run to my first appointment. What happened in the meantime? No idea. I sent the photos from my diary from yesterday to the editorial team, checked the video from Galliano sent a few emails but that was about it. Where the hell did those 2.5 hours go for God's sake? And this isn't just in the morning, but throughout the whole day. Just watch.

Well, that first appointment was a visit to the Longchamps showroom. The new collection is inspired by the Memphis of the 90s. The pieces are divided into four color palettes and the whole is very desirable. The showroom is located on Rue de Rivoli, near Place de la Concorde, and about 20 minutes later I step back outside. The sun isn't really showing yet but the weather is quite nice, so I walk a little and then pop into a Zara. Because, I thought, the next item on the agenda is the Hermès show and that's not until half past 5 – plenty of time. And look, now that time vacuum is working again. I'm just standing with one leg in Zara, stroking a few clothing items and then BANG BOOM it's 1 o'clock and I have to rush back to the apartment because at 14:45 a post of mine went online where the text still needs to be added.

So hop hop home, behind the laptop and type the diary from yesterday. Then I have an hour before we need to take the metro to Hermès and I spend that whole hour watching 5-minute shows on style.com. Really, time is a mystery here.

Anyway, we take the metro to Hermès in the 4th arrondissement. While Galliano's show was still relatively calm, now it's a gigantic spectacle and enormous chaos. Barricades, paparazzi, endless street style photographers – the works. We ask some deep questions, marvel at the peacocks, and are especially very jealous of all those people who have a ticket and are being escorted inside – while we stay outside.

Afterwards, I have a glass of wine with Cécile and Astrid from Bazaar and then go back to the apartment to type. But, and pay attention, first I pop into a supermarket for some nice things. Beers for Sacha, white wine for me, baguette, cheeses, hams, that kind of nice French stuff. Jet, are you reading along? Are you paying attention? Are you proud of me? I walk home and look forward to that cold glass of white wine while typing my diary. Once home, I put the wine and beer in the freezer, put on something comfortable, and park myself next to Sas at the table behind the laptop.

And then, as I cheerfully pull the wine out of the freezer, it turns out there is not a single corkscrew to be found in the whole damn apartment. Nowhere! I make a desperate attempt to push the cork through the bottle but the thing doesn't budge. So I look for my luck with Sacha's half-liter cans of beer. So there are actually two mysteries, that of time, and how it is possible that I managed to find the ONLY apartment in ALL of Paris where there is no bottle opener. Whoever knows may say it.