Double D vision, they come in 3’s: hoorah for a week of tits and tassels!!!

London Fashion week was it’s usual mix of the beautiful and the damned – more on this later – one cocktail party which summed up London’s esoteric/erotica myxomatosis was to celebrate the opening of the new Coco de Mer store on Draycott Avenue: sexy has hit Kensington guys!..  A rather comforting 4 foot bronze penis stood proud in the centre of the shop, while a ranting Johnny Blue Eyes stripped from cassock to thong in the bay window.  A burlesque beauty rocked the dj booth, as naughty maids in satin uniforms and stockings sauntered down the stairs and through the throng.

The Tuesday after LFW I was in St. Gallen, a super-rich alpine city, close to Zurich, to style a lingerie show. Chantal Thomass, the creator of some of the best lingerie ever and possibly the reason why French women know how to keep their men  was also involved and fast became my latest chic mama crush – she’s amazing: 65, immaculate in patent Chanel boots, Louise Brooks bob and red lipstick.  We styled our silhouettes in a studio located under the cathedral, which added a certain Swiss perversity to the whole affair!  Like Gaul, which as anyone who laboured with Caesar’s ‘Gallic Wars’ in Latin will remember (sorry Latinate/Swiss in-joke: you need comedy after both!!!), was divided into three parts; so my looks came in three blocks: Marie-Antoinette coquette, wholesome in the snow folkloric and London calling gothic Victoriana.

Back in London I was invited to the Agent Provocateur party to launch their DD perfume, the hint is in the title…  Huge bottles of vodka, so chilled they smoked, rested in ice on our tables as we sat and people watched and watched, waiting it seems for Kate Moss to finally show up. Since as soon as she did, the show began with Daisy Lowe sauntering out from behind then satin and crystal perfume bottle set, in – well to be honest, not very much – looking fabulous in cream knickers with pearls on the derriere and a lace cut-out bra and satin bow.  My other favourite model, Jen Howe, was all witchy in a sheer chiffon cloak and thigh high boots, as she swayed to the gangsta pimp’s tune on stage.  The J. Howard Marshall in a wheelchair pastiche, lapdanced into oblivion by a blonde in black stockings, had us howling; but it wasn’t Jodie Harsh which brought the house down, it was Fran Cutler’s Cleopatra, carried on in by two tanned hunks in gleaming white tasselled thongs. This was London at it’s most irreverant: sexy yet hilarious, a knowing wink with come hither eyes and promises of hot nights to ward off credit crunch concerns…