by Alexander Fury .


Paris, I am constantly told, is a very very small city. Unfortunately it proved far bigger and more confusing than I anticipated this evening, as I managed to miss the first half of the Yamamoto show. Westwood started an hour late, yet before many guests were in their seats: Yamamoto evidently waits for no man, or woman. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) I was not alone in this unfortunate situation, and thanks to a kind security guard a vertiable throng of us clustered around the photographers to watch Yamamoto's riff on subtle black and white contrasts, oversized twisted and misshapen shirts and skirts hitting well below the shinbone. Of course, these are Yamamoto classics, and there were echoes of his eighties and nineties work that hardcore fans won't mind buying again, and that new devotees are more than willing to discover afresh. The final outfit was a soft, billowing crinoline, bringing to mind a similar exit ten years ago to the season - except this one wasn't so wide as to swipe the make-up off the faces of the front - and second - row.