It’s the first day of fashion week, and I’m already on only 4 hours of sleep. I’m not sure why, as London appears to be dead - fashionably speaking. I don’t even have tickets for any of its funerals, although I hear quite a few are apparently being held at 180 Strand. Nor do I have any tickets for its wakes, although I hear there’s one at The Tate on Saturday.

But I do have a ticket for the Diane Pernet talk I’m currently at. A High Priestess card dipped in black voile. The skies grow slowly dark behind her moonlight, as she bewitches us with spells of film. The dim lit room puts all sunglass-wearers to the test, as only the perpetual remain. Miss Pernet passes the test, as expected, and so do I. Suddenly, another evident perpetual arises. My glance shifts from the moon to the sun, as fluorescent yellow hair can be glimpsed every now and then, among a forest of hats. That’s so Pam Hogg. But in my friend’s words the other week, ‘That’s not Pam Hogg for me, that’s Lady Gaga, look’, as he showed me a picture of Fame Monster era Gaga, in a skin-tight red suit, adorned with black latex. ’She’s literally wearing Pam Hogg.’, I had said.

But of course, if we go way further back, bright yellow hair’s a lot of things. It’s Lichtenstein’s cartoon characters and Warhol’s superstars. But we can’t bump into illustrations, only people. This is real life. Yet I thought the yellow-haired girl next to us at the cafe the other week was Hogg, granted, I was not wearing my contact lenses. ‘Why would Pam Hogg be here right now?’ my friend had said. ‘How would you know where she would and wouldn't be?' I had asked.

I don’t know if Pam Hogg would be at the LFW 2025 Diane Pernet Talk in Spitalfields but today’s Hogg-alias is very convincing. I don’t have my contact lenses and she’s very far away, but I can spot sunglasses and red lipstick as well. There’s no way this isn’t obviously referencing Pam Hogg. How silly. One thing I do know is that no admirer of Pam Hogg would try and copy the exact look of Pam Hogg, that’s the least Pam Hogg thing to do. See, no one’s original anymore, that’s the problem.

Already pondering an article on the current lack of originality, I walk towards the exit after the talk, which is placed next to the Hogg-alias table, allowing me to have a better look. Through our dark frames, I can somehow tell we’re looking at each other. And I can tell one other very important thing. That’s Pam Hogg.

A smile and hug later, I am sitting down with her. ‘You know, the problem is,’ she says, ‘no one’s original anymore.’ I’m not quite sure how we got to talking about the problem so soon, it’s probably because it just bothers us so. I myself began feeling very ardent about the problem only a couple years ago, when discovering the ghosts of London’s fashion past. The Blitz kids, champions of creativity, of which I often read of as one would read a Greek myth. Hogg was present on Mount Olympus herself, but that was ‘a very different time’. Olympus is nowhere to be found anymore, yet some of the Olympian gods remain, carrying the same zealous spark they did then. And hers is unmistakably unique. A punk poet with scissors for words. A new romantic that needs no romanticisation, personifying an oxymoron - the free designer.

She’s ‘tired of nonsense’. which is also why she doesn’t usually give out interviews. ‘They always tend to ask nonsense questions’. I wonder if she would perceive an astrological inquiry as a nonsense question, but I simply must know her sign.

She then asks me what my zodiac sign is. Gemini, and I expected hers to be a fire sign. That would be her Sagittarius moon, the sort of fire that lights up from within and sets everything ablaze. But she’s a Capricorn sun, a fire controlled, and directed towards her craft. She’s been rather sick as of late, so her current work-in-progress is ‘getting better’. This means she definitely will get better. ‘Your eyes are dancing’, she says, after we’ve both taken our glasses off. But we still share the same red lip, fake beauty mark, and disdain towards superficiality. ‘I can’t stand small talk’, she says.

This has been big talk.

As I leave, her cross-tattooed hand grabs my own to say goodbye. I feel blessed by my favourite sinner.

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I enter my hall and almost step on a Dior by accident in this divine disorder. I wonder if I’ll need help with it at one point, as Hogg needs help with her studio. ‘Oh my god, it’s such a mess’, she said. Why is there a tornado that selectively attacks, and what are the characteristics which determine its targets?

My own mess of black, white and red has not spared any room this time, on grounds of ‘fashion week’ which is an exceptional excuse when dispatched to one’s future self but terrible when received from one’s past self. But I am a professional decipherer of my own complicated codes. I head straight to the couch for the black

catsuit and to the kitchen counter for the latex corset. My ruby red heels brawl with the gritty sidewalk, as I follow its yellow lines. A cross instead of a star on my forehead, from Glinda’s kiss of luck. Visible only to me, but somehow sensed by all. On the way to one of the shows I had no ticket for, as tickets suddenly seemed superfluous. It turns out that they were.

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It’s February 25th, and I place my clothes in a very strange and unfamiliar place - the closet. I’ve attended the funerals and wakes, and even got backstage for the autopsies. London is dead, confirmed. Yet eyes still danced to the memory of its heartbeat, knowing that no city is ever beyond resuscitation. It only need to be reminded how to live by those who are alive.

Dr Hogg - it’s time to operate. 

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In memory of Pam Hogg, who passed away a few months later.