It’s officially winter, boys and girls. It’s fucking shit.

Look outside. No sun, no warm, no comfy. The sky is grey and the ground is wet, so you better check the tread on your shoes. Otherwise you’ll fall over heaps.

Everyone is constantly in a bad mood. Look at their faces. Oh wait, you can’t see them because they are muffled under a scarf and various other woollens. We all put on winter weight, even if it just consists of another layer of clothing. Remember the good old days—in February—when people laughed their way down the street, the sun glinting off their dark glasses, their bare shoulders a lovely shade of sunburnt. Oh god it was good.

I think the fundamental problem with winter is coats. They are too expensive to have a huge variety in your wardrobe, so you end up only buying and wearing one or two. Every time you put on clothes for anything you want to do that involves going outdoors at some point, you are putting the same thing on. It becomes your personality. You are your coat. Last year I was a brown faux fur. This year I want to be huge hooded comfy knit that is somehow waterproof.

Another problem is hibernation. Why would you want to go anyplace when it’s raining? If you have to get out of the house, you might as well just step into your overcrowded wardrobe and see what falls onto your body. Same shoes, as they are the only ones without holes in the bottom. Hair straighteners are completely useless at this time of year. Don’t even bother looking at that mirror, because you’ll just see that same fucking coat again. What’s that? You just got out of your warm bed five minutes ago? You’re not awake yet? Oh yeah, me too.

Winter survival rules:

Number one: Do go out. See your friends. Anywhere you go will probably be warmer than student accommodation anyways.

Number two: Go out and buy five coats, right now, if you can. They last forever and you can always sell them at Ziggurat in future years.

Number three: Get a significant other. They have to like you, no matter what you wear. They can’t complain that you haven’t got in the shower because the walk from bed to bathroom is too cold. They won’t mind seeing that coat again.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when I visit my home town I take an empty suitcase, which I quickly fill with all the op shop finds Christchurch has to offer. There is too much choice, which has resulted in a heap of clothes left in my parents’ care, which, as my mother laments every phone conversation, seems to be breeding of its own accord. I also have my own personal pile of garments necessitating alterations next to my mother’s sewing machine, those dresses and jackets which although might look awful at the time of purchase, are only two dollars after all, and just need a shorter hemline or a quick tuck.

While my visits to Christchurch may seem excessive, I cannot help but assume that without them my wardrobe would be very similar to the one I had when I moved to Wellington in February last year. That is, it would be almost exactly the same. What is the answer? Is it not enough of a trial to be spending more in rent than students in the Dunedins, Christchurches and Palmerston Norths of the country without being constantly reminded that we cannot get a meal for $4, let alone an amazing chunky knot or two pairs of little brown boots? WHERE ARE THE OP SHOPS? And don’t get me started on Petone; the only purchase I made in that dismal place was a bejewelled cat from ‘Cats a Wrap’ or whatever that silly store is called.

Why is it that we have to travel as far as Carterton to immerse ourselves in the available stock of a reasonably priced Salvation Army? Does Masterton deserve to have its otherwise horrible reputation and aesthetic ignored by me, to make way for sighs of envy and a barrage of questions about the fate of various opportunity shops? Unless you have cash to spare, and a willingness to spend it on vintage dresses, you are fucked.

Although Christchurch has many bad points, and the Wellingtonians I know consider it to be populated purely by dead prostitutes and racists, it has a fine array of reasonably priced, enormous second hand stores. I have access to a car there, which might be what makes the difference. Maybe there is a circumference of great cheap shops just outside my walking zone. Wellingtonians, prove me wrong. Drive me there.

It is 2am on a Saturday morning. My boyfriend and I are standing outside Logan Brown, having a heated debate. (No, we hadn’t been eating at Logan Brown, we just happened to be outside it. Just setting the scene, people.) (Also, as a side note, you would think that when you date a law graduate you would be taken, at least once, for a ritzy meal at Logan Brown. Don’t count on it.)

Anyway, this group of people, who are clearly bound for Courtenay Place, surround us saying “Oh girl, don’t you frown,” et cetera. Which is fine, don’t get me wrong. It was when they were sternly told to move on that they turned nasty, accusing us of being “fucking hipsters”.

Which led me to write this article. When did this warring commence? The town shirts versus the skinny jeans. Going to either a toga/foam/21st party or a gig, but not both. What is it about a stranger who follows a different trend that infuriates people enough to insult them on the street? Or make snide offhand comments insinuating that people not only do not know how to dress themselves to your satisfaction, but that this also reflects their intelligence, tastes, and promiscuity?

My experiences of Courtenay Place have been, to be honest, less than pleasant. A certain bartender tried to pash me on one memorable night. Later I was kicked out of Fringe Bar, which illustrates that his intentions were anything but noble. But as to the clothes others wear on these excursions, I am almost completely apathetic. When girls wear all white they look good under the ultra violet light of Public. In some bars you would feel underdressed wearing a second layer of clothing, no matter what time of year it is. In some groups it is unacceptable to look like you slept in a bush or purposefully ripped your tights. I understand. Everyone is different, everyone is the same, we wear clothes to please ourselves and others around us. Girl, you can wear whatever you feel like.

I might be wrong. Perhaps you can distinguish a person’s character from what they wear. Perhaps all girls in short skirts are looking for a hoon. I doubt it, but I could be wrong. Maybe the group who accosted us that night were on their way to Mighty.

I giggled while scanning the invitation to Wellington’s new ‘fashion space’. Invite only, refreshments provided, and clothes from the A-list of New Zealand designers? Sounds wonderful, thanks. What I believed to be an exclusive gathering of Wellington’s fashion elite turned out to be, of course, an evening of drinking, smoking and socialising with anyone who had heard about the free booze. The cocktails were silly—coffee vodka or minty pineappley yum—and free. I have never seen so many DSLRs slung over shoulders in my life. A shaven-haired goddess entwined in a sea of drapery swooped about, her leggings simply continuing to cover her feet, with a wedge heel attached. The ‘entertainment’ was bizarre, the queue for drinks seemingly eternal. People I had never seen nor heard of introduced themselves to me, confessing their hope to ‘make contacts’. Walk, walk, fashion baby. Pretentious much?

But the designs, the designs! When I last visited they had a small range, but supposedly this has increased somewhat. Go take a look for yourself. I enjoyed bending over glass cabinets trying to determine the uses of the hand-made Deadly Ponies accessories, as they were almost incomprehensible. Lela Jacob’s range includes a lot of beautiful, monochrome drapery, including some particularly lovely, simple mesh dresses. That seemed to be theme of the Service Depot; as a friend described it, it is “a lot of chunky knit and drapey mesh”. This, however, should not turn you off; the combination of Lonely Hearts, Company of Strangers, and Stolen Girlfriends Club alone should be enough to lure you in for a browse. But let’s ignore the Deborah Sweeney designs.

It is a lovely large space, which could be used for shows and events in the future. The grungy warehouse feel is a nice contrast to the beautiful fabrics and immaculate accessories. And it is, apparently, “destined to become the fashion destination of choice for Wellingtonians, and visitors alike”. It’s located at number 2 Lombard Street, behind the Manners Mall Post Office. Go have a squiz. Even if it isn’t on a day when there is second-hand smoke and booze to be consumed in huge quantities, you will find it an enjoyable experience; in fact, it is surely desirable to avoid being papped by Sunday Star Times photographers.

Visit their fashionably minimalist website at www.theservicedepot.co.nz.

I went through a range of emotions during my time in the TSB Arena. At first I was overwhelmed. The entranceway was crammed full of pikachus and gothic lolitas. After cooing over these adorable outfits I was able to make my way to the comic stands, where I met a couple of independent graphic novelists who work in Wellington. My favourite was Drake, to whom I confessed my feelings of alienation. I was completely won over by his Ninjet series, which features a cat who is implausibly talented at martial arts, clad in a black ninja suit. Other stalls showcased manga, figurines and a $275 buster sword. I had a conversation about kiwis with Robert Rankin. I cringed as one of the hot Native American werewolves from Twilight, Chaske Spencer, answered question after question about Taylor and R-Patz. I waited impatiently in the queue to procure signatures from various anime actors, surrounded by overly confident geeky teenagers attired in Naruto garb. The conversations I was exposed to during this time were inane beyond belief. Get back to the bottom of the social ladder, you.

After an hour I was finally standing in front of the love of my life. Steve Blum, the voice actor behind anti-hero Spike from Cowboy Bebop, along with many other notable anime characters (Geomon comes to mind). I blushed as he mispronounced my name, simpered as he signed ‘I love a woman who can kick my ass’. Oh, that voice. Never mind that he was an aging, slightly overweight silver fox. I made fuck-me eyes at him until I was inevitably told to move on, dazed and confused. Oh, Steve. I adore how you valiantly stormed out of a hentai recording where you had to play a tentacled monster raping a six-year-old girl. My hero.

I watched ridiculously choreographed wrestling, over the top kamehamehas and uncoordinated zorbing. I heard Paul McGunn describe himself as the “pioneer of Doctor Who snogging”. I was surrounded by Tifas, pokemon and ghostbusters. I had chips with carny sauce. Eight-year-old Anakins lovingly held hands with Storm Troopers. Am I going back next year? Fuck yes.

I find myself surrounded by a crowd of identical girls, each with a hairpiece perched upon her head. In a fit of camaraderie, I buy myself a flashing martini glass filled with what the bartender can best describe as ‘alcohol’. I bravely step up to the doors to have a green band clamped around my wrist while a burly bouncer rummages through my bag. The arena is dark, the crowd gazing awestricken at the silhouette up on stage. I push through to the front, upsetting hairpieces and sunglasses as I go, which the high-heeled, scantily-clad fans frantically fix.

Where am I, you ask? Who would have this effect on me? The ability to turn me into a frenzied fan belongs to one woman, the be all and end all of style, glamour, and the absurd.

You guessed it. Gaga.

What a woman. Together with stylist Nicola Formichetti and creative director Matthew Williams, she has shocked and impressed the worlds of pop music and fashion over and over again. Have you seen the ‘Telephone’ video? Her live show was better. That sexy, slinky, outrageous, egotistic 23-year-old created the most visually stunning show I have ever seen.

Her outfits ranged from a studded leather bikini to wind-swept coif, a sparkly purple thong leotard to a red cape complete with enormous shoulders. She played a burning piano, covered herself in fake blood and spent the entirety of ‘Bad Romance’ lying on the floor. Best hundy dollaz and 12 hours on a bus I have ever spent.

One of my favourite costumes was her motorised white queen fairy outfit; the headpiece and skirt had fans of white glittery fabric that breathed in and out as she was raised up on a platform at the end of the catwalk. Another was a geometric reflective head piece and dress combo, which she wore while encased in a rotating metal orb. The next surprise was a bikini which shot flames from her nipples and pubic region. This young woman’s notoriety is a far cry from the pop artist who opened for the Pussycat Dolls in May 2009. Since then she has collaborated with a myriad of designers for her videos and performances, with her ‘Telephone’ video alone containing a number of custom-made designs, from London-based Fred Butler to Dutch designers Viktor and Rolf.

Don’t like her music? It doesn’t matter. The thing about Gaga is that people, literally, go gaga over the persona she has created. I’m no better; I lapped it up. I cheered my heart out. My hand is now locked in the monster claw position. But you know what; I enjoyed being one of many. Individuality is overrated. Gaga is distinctive enough for all of us.

As a vegetarian you tend to get pretty tired at the barrage of uninteresting, repetitive debates that your lifestyle choice invokes in others. No, I do not agree with testing pharmaceuticals on lab rats. This, however, does not stop me from throwing back painkillers every time I have a headache. Although I like the aesthetic of taxidermy, I certainly do not condone the slaughter of animals for that purpose. I wear leather boots because there aren’t many alternatives.

This is just the beginning of many inconsistencies. My biggest not-so-secret shame is my love of fur. I can’t help it. The only texture which surpasses its loveliness is, of course, live animals. A fur coat is an obnoxious, oversized must for those who don’t quail at the thought of being embraced by a corpse. Admittedly, I only own faux and or second-hand fur, which helps to ease my conscience. I would never buy new fur, but—as this is a student magazine—I don’t suppose you, reader, are going to buy a brand-spanking-new mink muff anytime soon, either.

I have a huge amount of sympathy for animal rights groups. As an angry, politically minded teenager I was targeted by many people who wished to know why I was vegetarian. Campaigning for animal rights doesn’t necessarily mean red paint or Pamela Anderson clad in a lettuce bikini.

US figure skater Johnny Weir supposedly received ‘death threats’ as he planned to have a fox fur costume for the 2010 Winter Olympics. He decided to replace his costume with faux fur. As recently as 23 February, the Jesus Lorenzo show at Madrid fashion week was interrupted by campaigners protesting his (admittedly rather excessive) use of fur in his Autumn/Winter line.

Two members of Animal Equality have been charged with public disorder, which I suppose is what inevitably happens when hippies exercise their right to protest. The fur trade, similar to the meat industry, has its own dirty secrets: the 50 million rabbits which are slaughtered every year for their fur are often kept in similar conditions to battery hens. Caged minks are known to display abnormal behaviour similar to that of zoo animals, such as self-injury. Which is a bit shit, really.

I buy free range eggs. My leather boots are all second hand. And that coat you’ve seen me in—it’s 100 per cent viscose. But who am I to talk—hell, yesterday I had a cheeseburger at four in the morning. It was awesome.