W I T H . L O V E . F R O M . M A R C

I was petrified I'd get mugged in New York. I had no idea how to navigate my way round its grid system "And where the hell is Barney's?".

If six days on my own in NYC was like a crash course on how to be a New Yorker, then I passed with flying colours.

Within hours of touching down in the US I was standing in Times Square eating one dollar pizza and chatting to a bunch of NYPD cops at 1am. Day two I went to a the Ezer fashion show and had $40 nicked, and by day six I was arguing with cab drivers with true gumption.

Of course it was fashion week and the Fash Pack were out in force. Lots of people wearing attention grabbing garms in the hope they'll end up on someone's blog. Je n'aime pas. I however was dining in Pastis while Anna Wintour sat a few tables away and someone else picked up the tab.

If there was one NYFW highlight which still makes me smile in a very coy 'I'm-Victoria-Beckham-and-I-don't-want-wrinkles' type way it was this. The mental images I was taking were exact to the ones I would spend hours trawling through on blogs and looking at in magazines. And yet here I was, touching distance away from a world previously only available on Style.com.

Presented with my ticket I walked inside. The sharp elbows London has gifted me got me a good spot between the front row and the photographers stand.

I was exactly where I am supposed be.

J E S S . R U N C I M A N - Sent from my BlackBerry®