Queen Victoria’s mourning dress is fretted and frayed. Black lace is torn, layers fall apart. Make way for flowerbombs of motorbike helmets and industrial curlicues, dresses of picture frames, white outfits imitating corners of permanent cubism. Tulle is shorn by chainsaws and hundreds of tiny bells cascade down nightgowns, frozen freefall. Haute couture survives on entrancement fees. It’s hot January and where to sit? Only next to an old lady in cotton like a sheet. We rest, our gaze on the floor where endless runway movies cannot impose. Some people don’t even own a coat, only the rags they’re in.