Fashioned like a multi-faceted glass grenade, with the landmark V&R black seal as the pin, the Flowerbomb bottle is a perfect metaphor for the Viktor & Rolf paradox: latent violence laced with seductive elegance.

Once the aesthetic aspirations of a cultural epoch are achieved, one of two things happens. Either the movement self-destructs, its ideology torn down and replaced with a more salient one or else visual statements are pushed beyond the initial goal, towards a more extreme form of beauty than originally envisaged.

In art, Michelangelo is the most famous example of this. Unsatisfied by the resolution of single-point perspective and realisation of the classical nude achieved in his painting, Michelangelo's later work progressed beyond reality, into convoluted compositions populated by figures with improbable physiques. For him, nature was not enough; only the visual complexity and emotional intensity of Mannerism could reach the extreme beauty he imagined.

The comparison may itself be extreme, but if there was ever a fashion equivalent of Michelangelo's Mannerism, it is in the designs of Viktor & Rolf. Having mastered the technical requirements of haute couture in their early shows, the Dutch designers' subsequent collections of ready-to-wear have radically extended the possibilities of what might be accepted as clothing. Multiple collars, stacked on top of each other like an armadillo, long, attenuated sleeves, oversize poke-your-eye-out cuffs with enormous buttons, asymmetrical shirt plackets, trouser legs emerging from evening gowns; this is the lexicon of exaggerated forms Viktor & Rolf drawn upon to create the most audacious garments in contemporary fashion.

Yet there is also a latent commercialism behind the Mannerist imperative that marks the designers out from other fashion extremists, maintaining Viktor & Rolf's relevance to international fashion design and their market both. That they understand the politics of global fashion branding Viktor & Rolf made clear seasons ago, when in 1996 they launched a spurious fragrance, for which only the corporate identity and packaging existed. October's Spring/Summer 2004 catwalk presentation saw them do it for real as their ribbon-strewn procession built into an acoustic crescendo, echoing the word 'Flowerbomb', the title of their new perfume.

Fashioned like a multi-faceted glass grenade, with the landmark V&R black seal as the pin, the Flowerbomb bottle is a perfect metaphor for the Viktor & Rolf paradox: latent violence laced with seductive elegance. Even the packaging has been carefully considered to represent the dual concerns. From a distance, the box looks like a Futurist car crash of force lines culminating in a central black splat. In the hand, though, it is a pretty arrangement of black and silver petersham ribbon on iridescent pink card, secured by the faux wax seal.

As fashion design struggles for ideas beyond recycling old ones and image-making yearns for new life outside stultifying re-touching, Flowerbomb poses the opposing twin options of aesthetic accomplishment: do we tear it all down or push it a little further?

Flowerbomb by Viktor and Rolf, £50 for 50ml at Selfridges 0800 123 400

Flying in the face of the prevailing desire for an accessory that communicates brand-loyalty and wealth, Ann-Sofie Back's 'Blouse Bag' eschews flashy, recognisable styling and aims to literally blend into its wearer's outfit.

Once upon a time, the handbag represented a minefield of sartorial error. For our mothers' generation, the potential embarrassment over whether one's bag was the correct colour/texture/length to match one's outfit meant buying versions in every hue, skin and handle available. More recently, anxieties have been less related to the question of 'blending' them into an outfit and more towards making them stand out. The shift towards accessories as a bankable revenue stream for the major fashion houses has been met with a changing attitude towards these products from the consumer. As prices for the 'signature' accessories have escalated, many women treat their shoes and handbags as their central seasonal purchases and for the rest of their wardrobes continue to buy the less 'fashionable' staples they know suit them.

Flying in the face of the prevailing desire for an accessory that communicates brand-loyalty and wealth, Ann-Sofie Back's 'Blouse Bag' eschews flashy, recognisable styling and aims to literally blend into its wearer's outfit. Constructed out of two inexpensive components, - a cheap gilt, clasp purse on a metal chain and a red, washed-silk shirt from knock-down high-street store H&M -  the piece speaks more of the aesthetic than commercial imperatives of fashion. Part of Back's Autumn/Winter 2004 exploration of the silhouette, the bag drapes down the side of its wearer, the blouse's knotted cuffs creating a final, pendulous ornament. Neither the original bag nor the blouse is rendered unrecognisable: Back blurs tawdry accessory into workaday shirt to create a hybrid garment of undeniable elegance. Though marketed by the designer to 'the women that aspire toward glamour but fall short of achieving it', the Blouse Bag underlines the alchemic power of Ann-Sofie Back and her singular capacity for grace.

'Blouse bag' by Ann-Sofie Back, to order at Ann-Sofie Back Stockholm +46 73 3945 505

Only a force as pervasive as fashion could divorce something as utilitarian as a ball from its ostensible function, transmogrifying it into an elegant, up-beat, style statement.

Whereas the acquisition of sportswear generally implies participation in heart-racing activities, the Y-3 volleyball demands sweet nothing of its owner. A million calf-strained miles from the sweat-stained lycra and bouncing breasts of the gym and a long - pilates - stretch from the sanctimoniousness of the terminally-Yogic, this glorious exercise in intelligent fashion branding enjoys a sporting life all of its own.

Hailing from the Spring/Summer collection of the progressive collaboration between fashion brand Yohji Yamamoto and the classic sportswear manufacturer Adidas - Y-3 - the piece is a virtuoso encapsulation of the brand values of each stakeholder. The icon of international sport, the ball, is invested with a single element that articulately expresses the spirit of the entire fashion range this season: in this case, a simple, shiny, colour coating.

The hue, a slightly feminine, 'shocking' Schiaparelli pink, hints at - but importantly avoids- the cheap functional fluoro associated with masculine sports and road-workers alike. This is not a football, remember. In a classic seasonal fashion statement, the graphics boldly proclaim 'Y-3 SPRING SUMMER 2004' in large, plain, sans serif capitals. On the opposite side, a discrete Yohji Yamamoto signature and Adidas logo invert the commercial stereotype and raise the ball above contemporary sports branding into the realm of purist fashion aesthetics.

Only a force as pervasive as fashion could divorce something as utilitarian as a ball from its ostensible function, transmogrifying it into an elegant, up-beat, style statement. In this sense, the Y-3 volleyball is the most thoroughly contemporary of fashion accessories.

Volleyball by Y-3 at Selfridges 0800 123 400

With its Hortaesque/Van der Velde-ish whiplash lines and the leather 'curls' that poke onto the face, the helmet almost supplants hair, becoming a sort of hairstyle itself.

More than one designer had a hand in this extraordinary helmet. Fabricated by the milliner Stephen Jones to the brief set by fashion designer and illustrator Julie Verhoeven for her Autumn/Winter 2004 collection for the Italian production company Gibo, the piece is an excellent example of the complexity of global fashion design production. Though as consumers, we are encouraged to understand garments as created by the vision of a single, visionary author, in fact the most progressive fashion designers are careful to credit the virtuoso artists and craftsmen whose work underpins their 'singular' vision. Far from even-handedness or generosity, this spirit of collaboration is the lifeline of the modern designer, from couture to ready-to-wear.

It is not only the hallmark qualities of these two London-based designers that the leather hat reveals, however. The mark of Verhoeven and Jones' design sophistication is in making their historical sources evident without being explicit. Both are assiduous researchers and it is in Jones' material implementation of Verhoeven's sources - effectively, he 'draws' her thoughts in leather - that we see the many other designers 'involved' in the helmet.

As its title attests, the headpiece is firmly entrenched in the Art Nouveau period. Its supple leather hugs the head, as flapper's cloches did in the 1920s, to emphasise shorter, bobbed hair. With its Hortaesque/Van der Velde-ish whiplash lines and the leather 'curls' that poke onto the face, the helmet almost supplants hair, becoming a sort of hairstyle itself. Its curvaceous edge, coupled with the Lalique/Tiffany-inspired, vacuum-formed resin discs, is a perfect foil to the geometricity created by the strips of lizard skin lined up around the helmet and the elegant copper chain that drapes down the neck, linking the head with the silhouette of the garment below.

As with the best examples of Nouveau design, sinuous, organic line is reigned in by rigorous form. Here, a tension and almost punk aggression is created that returns us not only to the purpose of a gladiator helmet, but the origins of Jones and Verhoeven themselves, whose aesthetics grew out of maverick design culture in the early 1980s. Rooted in the past, yet so very modern in execution. Of the helmet's many histories, perhaps the most important is that of Verhoeven and Jones' longstanding working relationship: a fusion of two of the most erudite and creative minds London boasts.

Leather Art Nouveau gladiator helmet by Stephen Jones for Gibo by Julie Verhoeven, to order at Stephen Jones +4420 7242 0770

The combination of truculent black-on-yellow with the heaving, frilly trim is a clever, adult twist that keeps this girlish accessory on the right side of Mary Poppins spinsterdom.

At a conceptual level, the parasol is an object of deeply serious intent. For a society paranoid about the sun's ageing effects, concerned about links between tanning and skin cancer and yet equally sceptical about the safety of chemical sunscreens, a device that naturally obstructs harmful rays is an invention of Nobel-prize-winning value. According to the logic of contemporary product design, such earnest scientific import is inextricably bound with an inflexible set of retrograde aesthetic values, situated in a stunted view of how modernity should look. In short, like any other technological object designed to create a better future - think iPod, the new limited edition Nokia 7200 or Nintendo's special edition Gameboys - you would think these cancer-averting sun shields would be minimal, Neo-Modernist and above all, white.

Not so the Eley Kishimoto parasol. This bolt of swirling, psychadelic 'Domino' print on spokes flies in the face of hackneyed Barbarella-esque restraint, creating a flirty, flouncey conversation piece. Let's face it, few of us carry parasols these days; to do so is a provocative gesture akin to wearing large hats or pince nez. Counter in all that eye covering and twirling of handles that parasols encourage (or is that just me?) and we get to the heart of what distinguishes them from other, ostensibly unisex, techy gadgets: this parasol is for exhibitionist girls.

And indeed, this girl applauds Eley Kishimotos' amazing ability to consistently source new surfaces to support the onward march of their glorious prints. Here, the combination of truculent black-on-yellow with the heaving, frilly trim is a clever, adult twist that keeps the girlish accessory on the right side of Mary Poppins spinsterdom. In view of such genuinely progressive design sense, the fact that the parasol 'support' is practical and scientifically-proven to guarantee good health seems like a mere added attraction. So, keep your white goods, boys. The Eley Kishimoto parasol is seduction on a stick.

Printed fabric parasol by Eley Kishimoto at Liberty London +4420 7734 1234

Paradoxically known as 'modern' typeface, the curvaceous numbers on Tatty Devine's belt evoke nostalgic pre-school memories of mother's sewing box or adolescent visions of the numerals stamped on rulers lurking in the average pencil case.

By definition, accessories are not the lead story. A sort of structural sub-plot, rather, contrived to support the key sartorial statement. A modest pair of gloves perhaps, trusty courts or a TARDIS-like bag; chances are you'll have them in uncontroversial black leather, chosen to match your entire wardrobe. As for belts, well, who cares: nobody's going to see them under all those concealing woollens, are they?
Yet - shocker - summer is upon us. That fleeting time when layering is no longer an option and subtle colour logic goes out the window. Take Tatty Devine's measuring-tape belt, for instance. Fashioned in scarlet leather, this accessory means to be seen, drawing attention to the waistline it so theatrically encircles. More to the point, the belt was designed to be read. Starting at the buckle and working their way round to the tip, the ascending white, printed numerals create the dreaded appearance of an old-fashioned measuring tape.

Paradoxically known as 'modern' typeface, the curvaceous numbers evoke nostalgic pre-school memories of mother's sewing box or adolescent visions of the numerals stamped on rulers lurking in the average pencil case. Not only do the hourglass lines and bulbous balls of the figures cruelly mimic the body of the belt's wearer, in a savage (and hilarious) functional detail, the fastening of the belt also simulates the measuring of one's waist ­now accepted to be the most accurate index of body fat. As the pin slots into the designated belt hole, the buckle frames the waist's measurement figure for all to see. Even worse, the holes are positioned quite far along the leather strip (beginning at 27 inches), suggesting the piece be worn with low-cut jeans, at a position on the torso closer in girth to one's hip size than one's waist.

But, wait. For the benefit of those brave enough to actually try on the demon belt, its designers have built in a sisterly twist. Underneath the buckle, there is two and a half inches of crimson grace. The 'tape sequence' doesn't actually start until it is visible, well to the left of the buckle. By the time you fasten up at the other end, you have miraculously 'lost' two and a half inches off your waist, confirmed by the smug numbers visible at the buckle's centre. So pass the cake, ladies. Thankfully, things aren't all they seem in the surreal world of Tatty Devine.

Measuring tape belt by Tatty Devine at Tatty Devine and www.tattydevine.com

The Chanel court pump is a shoe about sport rather than one for sport.

If ever Pevsner's contentious assertion that 'form follows function' were true, it would be in the case of sportswear. Since its incorporation into the lexicon of fashion (by Claire McCardell in the US and Coco Chanel in Europe), sportswear has been in a constant state of revision. With the increasing emphasis on the business of sport over the past three decades, sportswear's materials have been twisted, perforated, plasticised, Teflon-coated and manufactured in every improbable hue, to reduce weight, improve dryness and to increase aerodynamics. In each case, a legitimate physical requirement has been transmogrified into stylistic innovation and then marketed as a fashionable commodity.

According to the logic of contemporary sportswear, this Chanel tennis shoe should be light, robust and built to support the ankle and heel. Yet one look at it will tell you that it is none of these things. The fine, green and white sandal -one wants to say 'court' shoe, though its cutaway, open-toe construction stymies the pun- would barely make it unscathed through a shopping trip in town, never mind through three sets at Wimbledon. This is because the Chanel court pump is a shoe about sport rather than one for sport.

Chanel's figurehead designer Karl Lagerfeld is hardly in the business of touting out his design skills to the sports industry. Rather, he plunders the very fabric of tennis for his own means: to play semiotic games for the entertainment of his fashion audience. A tennis net's green mesh is lifted to form a pretty, criss-cross patterned heel, whilst a miniature yellow tennis ball is threaded along the white Airtex leather straps at the front in a witty brand assertion. The bobbing Pop Art 'pendant' bears the double-linked Cs logo, which is also echoed in the rubber rivulets engulfing the ball (the average tennis ball is after all constructed out of two interlinking, hairy 'c' shapes). Assiduously aimed at the youth market Chanel is increasingly aiming to, ahem, court, the shoe demonstrates that the esteemed Parisian company understand their consumer prefers to walk before they run. And as for owning a pair? The answer could only be 'love - one'...

'Tennis Court' high-heeled sandals by Chanel at Chanel +4420 7493 5040

Rather than concealing the face from view and creating a sense of intrigue over the wearer's identity, the gauzy fabric reveals the skin and hair beneath, merely gesturing at secrecy.

Regarding the wisp of lace and slither of ribbon that make up this mask, it is difficult to see how such an eccentric haberdasher's confection could be the linchpin in the most elegant collection of the season. Effectively a fine veil wrapped over a wire headband with dinky ears springing from each temple, it sounds as promising as Alexis Colby-does-Minnie Mouse.

Put it on, however, and the translucent materials take on a luxurious, deeply erotic quality, rendering its wearer simultaneously glamorous and breathtakingly feminine. Indeed, it is the sheerness of the piece - its state of hardly being there at all - that distinguishes the Lanvin mask from other, more theatrical, masks. Rather than concealing the face from view and creating a sense of intrigue over the wearer's identity, the gauzy fabric reveals the skin and hair beneath, merely gesturing at secrecy.

Never intended as a 'free standing' accessory - the masks are not on sale to the public - the piece was devised as a styling tool, a counter balance to the Lanvin designer's quintessentially simple, seamless, satin gowns. Yet this dainty, feline exercise in texture makes the most demure of statements, a playful contrast to this season's grown-up dressing.

Chantilly-lace mask by Lanvin

art beauty product, part sinister sexual iconography, the meaning of BLESS's hair brush oscillates between the art and fashion worlds.

Sometimes, an object's association is so strong as to almost cancel the artefact out. The images or feelings that it stimulates inveigle their way into the meaning of the object, its appearance even, making it hard to reach an authentic, objective experience of the piece. In the case of the BLESS hair brush, it is Meret Oppenheim's Object (Breakfast in Fur) of 1936 that immediately hijacks the mind. It is as if the iconic Surrealist teacup, with its simultaneously appalling and delicious fur surface, becomes the only way to begin to understand something as curious as a hairbrush sprouting with blonde hair.

Certainly, there are similarities between the two. Each presents a playful paradox: utilitarian objects (a cup and a brush) whose functions are negated by the presence of something animal. The fur prevents anything from ever being poured into the cup. The tresses that replace bristles stop the brush ever being used to actually groom hair. Where they differ, however, is the way in which they use hair/fur to allude to femininity.

Oppenheim's is a bold and overtly sexualised conceit. Challenging the viewer to 'drink from the fur cup', the artist not only references pubic hair and female genitalia, but also 'simulates' the act of cunnilingus. Close inspection of BLESS's brush reveals a tiny gold tag with the imprinted BLESS logo, asserting the piece as fashion product. Indeed, at first, it appears to be a much sweeter statement, redolent of ladies' dressing tables and the extendable hairstyles that unwind from the tops of Girl's Worlds.

Yet, these nostalgic notions are in fact a gateway to something far more sophisticated, demure and dark in its sensuality. Like the cup, the brush evokes the physicality of the female body. This time, the whole body is represented, traced by the serpentine outer curves of the brush's paddle and handle. But if the curl of hair unfurls from the back of the head, this means the 'woman' lies face down, her face and front half of the body submerged into the surface below. Part beauty product, part sinister sexual iconography, the meaning of BLESS's hair brush oscillates between the art and fashion worlds.

'Hair' brush by BLESS, to order at BLESS Paris +33 148 01 67 43

The swathe of transfer-printed tartan fabric recalls the punk origins of her designs and the regal orb logo stamps Vivienne Westwood's thirty-five years of audacious designs onto the rather dowdy ground.

A crazy hybrid of references contemporary and historical, this teapot is the result of a 'residency' by Vivienne Westwood at the classic ceramics firm Coalport. In such collaborations, each partner benefits from the brand values and design legacy of the other. Here, Westwood gains 'cultural capital' from Coalport's provenance as a quintessentially English firm, operating from the Shropshire town of Coalport from 1750, when the eighteenth century craze for tea took hold. Instead of producing less-expensive ranges for lesser fashion firms as many of her peers have done, Westwood instead partners with a product in keeping with hers; the Englishness and gentility associated with 'taking tea' reflecting the sensibilities and grace of her own work.

Coalport - its factory no longer in production in its original form and now controlled by the rather chintzy, conservative Wedgewood - wins 'creative capital' from Westwood. The swathe of transfer-printed tartan fabric recalls the punk origins of her designs and the regal orb logo stamps the maverick icon's thirty-five years of audacious designs onto the rather dowdy ground. The porcelain teapot is in itself a slightly non-specific re-working of an early Victorian shape, making little directional design statement.

Less a piece of creative innovation - you really need to pore over the pot to distinguish it from those found in provincial tearooms - the Westwood teapot for Coalport is a shrewd and expeditious article of twenty-first century brand consolidation.

'Bruce of Kinnard' porcelain teapot by Vivienne Westwood for Coalport at Vivienne Westwood +4420 7439 1109

Of what relevance is the Bottega Veneta suitcase to the rest of the fashion industry, or indeed life as most of us know it? Such luxury objects exist as a sort of a 'real fashion myth', where consumption occurs at the level of appreciation and intellectual connoisseurship rather than literal commercial transaction.

'When your own initials are enough' is the mantra of Italian luxury goods house Bottega Veneta. Its customers are so sophisticated in their tastes and confident of who they are-so follows the logic-that they need no universally recognised logo to signify the value of their purchase.

It is true that this handsome, chocolate-coloured, leather suitcase hardly screams 'flashy fashion provenance' to the unversed. Like knowing which one is their water glass at lunch or from which stationers to order their 'at home' cards, Bottega Veneta consumers clearly notice a secret something in the case that makes them part with some £2,500 more than they would for an average department-store suitcase. This visual clue is the latticed leatherwork; the 'intrecciato nappa' or interwoven cowhide that has come to symbolise the prestigious Bottega Veneta brand. In a word, the secret something their customers recognise is 'craft'.
Once the magic words 'craftsmanship', 'artisanal' or 'finest materials' are uttered, shoppers must understand that they are to suspend disbelief when it comes to payment. By sheer merit of having been well made from substances of quality (which we wouldn't expect ordinarily?), the suitcase in question is instantaneously vaulted from the realm of GNER sleeper trains to the world of private jets. In fact, this case-the smallest in a Marco Polo series of three sizes-can pass through the hold of your average EasyJet carrier, as it comes with a special, zippered, protective enclosure. The largest doesn't need one, though. It's so big that it can't fit an ordinary car boot and those in possession of the Rolls Royces and Bentleys that can accommodate it rarely fly on 'public transport'.

Rarely seen in public, then, of what relevance is the Bottega Veneta suitcase to the rest of the fashion industry, or indeed life as most of us know it? Such luxury objects exist as a sort of a 'real fashion myth', where consumption occurs at the level of appreciation and intellectual connoisseurship rather than literal commercial transaction. Something to be known about, rather than possessed. A knowledge that is, in Withnail's words, 'free to those who can afford it, very expensive to those that can't'.

Intrecciato nappa leather suitcase by Bottega Veneta at Bottega Veneta +4420 7838 9394

The silver, sequinned ribbon and bow motif that encircles the knickers thus appearing to slither around the hip, seemingly unsupported by fabric, its subtle lustre recalls the longing for Hollywood glamour felt by women whose lives were becoming increasingly filled with the mundanity of work.

Intention is so often different from meaning in fashion, especially when it comes to detailing. These knickers, for instance, derive from Alexander McQueen's Spring/Summer 2004 Deliverance collection; a show drawing heavily on Depression-era America in its pastiche of the key sequences from They Shoot Horses Don't They?. The film's gruelling (and often fatal) dance marathons and hysterical derby scenes were all played out in exquisite detail by an all-star model and contemporary dance cast at the fashion week performance, squaring perfectly with the enduring themes of decay and descent into madness characterising McQueen's collections.

Likewise, the 1930s historical references in this sheer undergarment are all present and correct. Well, nearly. The brevity of the briefs - a departure from looser, longer knickers worn in the 1920s - references the reducing size of swimwear and lingerie during the decade. The transparency of the black chiffon documents the introduction of new fabrics nylon and rayon and the delicious appearance of flesh and nudity they could affect. The silver, sequinned ribbon and bow motif that encircles the knickers thus appearing to slither around the hip, seemingly unsupported by fabric (with a little imagination and squinting of eye). Its trompe l'oeil effect also reinforces the dating, recalling Elsa Schiaparelli's Surrealist, bow-designed knits, whilst its subtle lustre recalls the longing for Hollywood glamour felt by women whose lives were becoming increasingly filled with the mundanity of work.

To follow this empirical loyalty to fashion history to its logical conclusion, we would expect A-line knickers to match the Vionnet-inspired bias cutting that was so crucial to McQueen's collection-defining gowns. However, these knickers hug the hips, their elasticated edges clinging under the buttocks like little shorts. Such details push the knickers forward a decade, to the chorus lines of Busby Berkley movies and an era that was far more promising for the American working class that narrowly avoided dancing themselves to death ten years previously. Moreover, the 'boy-short' shape mirrors a contemporary shift as today's knicker market moves from string to the low-rise short shape in preference. Intended as historicism by their maker but actually signifying revisionism, therefore, McQueen's knickers are a case study of sophisticated appropriation.

Sequinned mesh knickers by Alexander McQueen at Alexander McQueen +4420 7355 0088

With visible stitching and hand-knotted cords stringing it together, evidence of the leatherwork's crafty assemblage asserts its redoubtable Marni heritage

This necklace from Marni's Spring/Summer 2004 collection is no mere 'pendant on a chain' affair. It is a statement, as they say, of two halves, in which Consuleo Castiglioni's trademark vintage printed fabrics and home-crafted techniques are deftly refined in the construction of a deluxe fashion accessory.

Falling from a simple leather cord, a series of kitsch, quilted flowers start the piece, upholstered in the mis-matched fabrics that characterised the Marni designer's loving interpretation of the 1950s this season. Their geeky brown checks and patchwork construction - reminiscent of cheap Chinese pincushions - give way to a more graphic statement below, with a sequence of appliquéd characters fashioned in leather. The flat colour of the turquoise squirrel, salmon bird and mustard, leaf-patterned tree provides a clean contrast to the muddy hues and lumpy forms of the flowers. Though with visible stitching and hand-knotted cords stringing it together, evidence of the leatherwork's crafty assemblage asserts its redoubtable Marni heritage. Similarly, the lovely brown leather strap that curves up to meet the silver clasp is a nod to Italy's tradition of luxury leather-craft. Crucially, after the naivety of the Haight-Ashburyesque flowers and cartoon characters, the strap also contributes a balancing, adult note: referencing dog collar or leash?

Worn high to one side at the catwalk show, the necklace draped down the edge of necklines almost like a sash, creating a diagonal gesture that added (literal) weight to the brand's fluid tailoring and use of layering. A pretty focus for an eclectic look, the piece demonstrates how with judicious balance of materials, the most whimsical of forms can provide an invigorating counterpoint to luxury womenswear.

Fabric and leather necklace by Marni at Marni +4420 7245 9520

The real point of fashion gifts, more than an embodiment of genuine generosity or gratitude, is that they are a reflection of the design values and taste of the bearer.

Gifts are bedrock to the business of fashion. Whether they be heaving bouquets of peonies to congratulate or commiserate, bottles of Christmas champagne to show appreciation for another year of fruitful collaboration, or body scrubs to thank you for coming to the party/opening/press day/shop launch, gifts are the currency with which to ingratiate and maintain good will in the industry.

Unlike presents given under normal circumstances, however, these are expected and their recipients are rarely grateful for them. Stand outside any industry bash and you will see departing fashion folk rifling through their goody bags, complaining about the drag-queen cosmetics or fairground-prize accessories the PRs have chosen. For this is the real point of fashion gifts. More than an embodiment of genuine generosity or gratitude, they are a reflection of the design values and taste of the bearer.

What is more, gifts follow a code. Never random, fashion PRs carefully select them in order that they are carefully matched to the values of the brand being promoted and the occasion of their offering. Representatives of young, 'street' labels might seek out new products or even food stuffs to intrigue (doughnuts are currently the dish de jour), but luxury brands stick to the classics; a spray of orchids perhaps, or else an inexpensive piece from the range. If you are out of town and stuck for ideas, guides like MODEM feature 'essential information', such as the crucial contact numbers for the city's most fashionable florists, chocolatiers or patisseries.

So what to courier to your fashion friends at Easter then? Why, these Easter Bunnies from Fortnum's of course! Occasion-specific, no one could accuse you of being 'last season'. Produced by that very bastion of Englishness, the luxury Fortnum & Masons department store, these chocolate-covered shortbread biscuits come with royal endorsement, appointed as they are to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II and the Prince of Wales. Indeed, as Fortnum's website suggests, the 'handsome tin' in which the Fedex man will hand over your bunnies is the ultimate fashion touch. Its tasteful eau-de-nil covering contrasts beautifully against the 'delightful' monochrome rabbits, preventing them from appearing remotely kitsch, or worse – cute. The perfect accompaniment to afternoon tea at the atelier or meet-and-greets with potential clients, just don't expect anyone in fashion to actually eat one.

Easter bunny biscuits by Fortnum & Mason 0845 602 5694

Rather than communicating visual information about the colours, textures or proportions of the designer's vision for the oncoming season, this Canderel dispenser shifts focus away from the models' bodies onto the famously diminished physique of Karl Lagerfeld himself.

This 'gift', found waiting on the seat of every fashion editor, stylist and buyer attending the Autumn/Winter 2004 Lagerfeld Gallery presentation last week, is not really a present born out of altruism. The credit-card-sized, black, plastic Canderel dispenser is more a directive from Karl Lagerfeld to his audience: 'lose some weight'.

Unlike most front-row freebies - usually make-up in unimaginable shades, vulgar shoppers or neckerchiefs that barely span the neck of an average nine year old - the Lagerfeld Canderel Dispenser bears no trace of the fashion in the show it accompanied. Rather than communicating visual information about the colours, textures or proportions of the designer's vision for the oncoming season, the piece shifts focus away from the models' bodies onto the famously diminished physique of the German designer himself.

Save for the logos of each brand, the only decorative touch on the stickers attached to each side of the case is a silhouetted portrait of Lagerfeld, sporting his signature ponytail, shades and newly-sculpted chin and throat. Neatly timed-in with the launch of 'The Karl Lagerfeld Diet' (published by Metro since January 2004), the dispenser simultaneously announces the designer's staggering weight-loss (a reported 42 kilos) and asserts that this gruelling route is the only way to attain fashionability this season.

One might assume that such a flagrant act of narcissism and an inflammatory comment on the politics of size could only be made in jest. Yet with designers such as Balenciaga making fewer and fewer garments in sizes as 'large' as a UK 12, Lagerfeld is only saying what his contemporaries are thinking. Turn the dispenser side-on and you notice that it is roughly a third of the width of an ordinary Canderel box. Lagerfeld's message to us is clear as day: 'The dispenser has lost weight, I have lost weight, so what's your excuse?'

Canderel dispenser, part of a set, by Lagerfeld Gallery at Colette Paris +33 1 55 35 33 90

Thanks to Fleur Britten

However much of a statement the Yohji straw hat makes, its grateful bearer knows that it is one of exquisite, implicit taste.

Few of us - if we are completely honest - really wish to stand out from those around us. Should the focus of attention shift towards us then, yes, we would like to be found neat and clean; chic even. But garments that create a sensation all of their own, upstaging the wearer -or to paraphrase Coco Chanel, clothes that wear you- are nothing short of an undesirable encumbrance. How many vast, wide-brimmed hats, for instance, do you see worn outside provincial weddings?

And yet I find myself hopelessly drawn to just this. The magnificent constructions atop the heads of Yohji Yamamoto's models, positively wafted down his Spring/Summer 2004 catwalk, imbuing their wearers with the utmost grace and beauty. Qualities, surely, that most of us could live with? A modern re-working of the Japanese worker staple, the coolie hat, this sculptural object of beauty consists of nothing more than an oversized PVC disc draped over a moderately proportioned straw hat.

But Yohji's grasp of Modernist form, his sensitivity to colour - witness how the virtually colourless plastic of the enigmatic veil projects a gorgeous blush tone onto its wearer's complexion - and his audacious use of different scales demonstrates exactly what inspires such fierce loyalty from the veteran designer's consumers. In essence, it's a question of trust. However much of a statement the Yohji straw hat makes, its grateful bearer knows that it is one of exquisite, implicit taste.

Straw and plastic hat by Yohji Yamamoto at Yohji Yamamoto +4420 7491 4129

Rather than aping the work of past-masters, this cuff tells a very modern, perspicuous tale about art, artifice and the state of the contemporary fashion industry.

Like the live beetles the Surrealists are said to have pinned to their lapels, this cuff from Tom Ford's penultimate Yves Saint Laurent collection is positively crawling with garish colour and historical resonance. In a Spring/Summer season of all things Depression-era, the Texan designer also made reference to the 1930s. It was perhaps most explicit in his accessories line, however, that this was no mawkish homage to the desperation of the dust bowl, but a more characteristic nod to the Hollywood studio system of the period. Bias-cut gowns of liquid silk and sequinned chiffon were accompanied by these lavish paste and diamanté 'corsages', recalling the boom in costume jewellery of the decade, at which point the desire for the glamour of conspicuous consumption was met with ubiquitous, mass-produced glass 'gems' in non-precious metal settings.

Paradoxically, it is the two key elements of the YSL cuff that suggest inexpensive construction that also disclose the piece's highly prestigious aesthetic provenance, which extends back to two of the finest jewellery designers of the twentieth century. The two 'rubies' at the bracelet's top and centre - no more than hastily painted rhinestones- and the rather patchy enamelling on the leaves respectively evoke the Bohemian crystals used by virtuoso jeweller Miriam Haskell in the 1930s and the enamelling techniques implemented by visionary fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli in the 1950s and 60s.

Ford is no slave to the prescriptive force of history, though, and rather than aping the work of past-masters, the cuff tells a very modern, perspicuous tale about art, artifice and the state of the contemporary fashion industry. Not really a sensuous thing to be stroked, treasured, or even inherited, the floral, jewelled bracelet is a striking visual statement to be viewed from a distance or in a photograph: garment as image, not object.

Jewelled floral bracelet by Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche at Yves Saint Laurent +4420 7493 1800

This deceptively simple accessory, designed to be worn by the fashionable consumer of 2004, comes to you via mid-twentieth century design, drawing on a 1906 version of 776 BC antiquity.

Fabricated for the Spring/Summer 2004 Miu Miu collection of all things 1950s, Miuccia Prada's Feather Headband recreates a mid-century millinery trend that itself was a pastiche of a pastiche of a pastiche. This deceptively simple accessory, designed to be worn by the fashionable consumer of 2004, comes to you via mid-twentieth century design, drawing on a 1906 version of 776 BC antiquity, as interpreted by nineteenth century copyists of late eighteenth sculpture.

A swirling arrangement of dyed cock feathers sewn along a spongy, lining-wrapped headband; the Miu Miu piece emulates the kinds of deconstructed headwear that gradually replaced full-scale hat-wearing for working, post-war women. These swathes of tessellated plumes were designed to flow along the brow line, leaving the crown of the head exposed. A mere gesture at formality therefore, the glossy sheen on the luxuriant feathers spoke less of the buttoned-up restraint of the 1940s than the glamour of the Hollywood studio system of the 1930s and the exotic historicism of the fin de siecle aesthetic movement.

Separated from the 50s context of the collection from which it originates, the Miu Miu headband resonates with the passion for Græco-Roman revivalism popularised at the start of the twentieth century by Paul Poiret and Leon Bakst's designs for Sergei Diaghilev's Ballet Russe. Resembling a laurel wreath adorning a death mask from the Greek Hellenic period, the Miu Miu headband reminds us that the greatest designers need not ask permission of their historical sources to deviate from their chronologies. For all their loyalty to the structure of ancient Greek dress, even Poiret, Vionnet and Grès themselves studied it via nineteenth century casts of eighteenth century, neoclassical interpretations. In her confident handling of a distorted historiography, then, Mrs Prada demonstrates she is among the most classical of designers.

Feather headband by Miu Miu at Miu Miu +4420 7409 0900

Far from being some kind of sanctimonious homeware range, Maison Martin Margiela's white goods are fashion at its most democratic - you don't even need to be able to squeeze into them.

As with any Martin Margiela creation, the Edo Bell is a witty and idiosyncratic re-working of an existing paradigm. Ever since the seventeenth century, glass bells have been sold in Summer by itinerant Japanese salesmen walking through the streets of the old, poor areas of Edo, the former Tokyo. Whereas the traditional ones -effectively wind chimes- are highly decorated, bearing painted tickets falling from the glass tongues dangling inside, the white tickets falling from the Margiela Edo Bell feature no decoration at all, save for an almost imperceptible blind stamp at its base, comprising the numbers one to twenty-three, the number thirteen encircled. Herein lies the clue to what makes the Edo Bell a covetable fashion object.

The raised number thirteen signifies that the Edo Bell comes from Maison Margiela's 'Line 13', a collection of what they call 'white goods'. Ranging from a completely white set of (strangely erotic) Russian dolls to a white egg box filled with 'fortune eggs' that break open to reveal quirky bon mots like fortune cookies, these white goods are objects chosen to convey the core values and crucially, the overarching white aesthetic at the heart of the Margiela company - dare one say it - brand.

Not clothing, handbags, scent or any of the other fripperies that make up the bulk of any comparable fashion houses' income, white goods respect the intelligence of the consumer, asking them to read 'Margiela-ness' into a series of otherwise unrelated (albeit beautiful) objects. The imperfections in the transparent, hand-blown glass Edo Bell speak of the allegiance to the 'artisanal' craft of fashion: its materiality and objecthood. More importantly, its 'whiteness', that is its freedom from adornment, renders it an elegant kind of palimpsest, literally a carte blanche onto which meaning or interpretation may be projected. Far from being some kind of sanctimonious homeware range, the white goods are fashion at its most democratic - you don't even need to be able to squeeze into them. The Edo Bell is one of their most charming examples.

Edo Bells by Maison Martin Margiela at Maison Martin Margiela Paris +33 1 45 49 06 68

In what is surely the ultimate act of branding (both figurative and literal), these contacts present a world through the lens of Christian Dior, where everything is coloured and marked by their corporate vision.

Eyes are our last bastion of intimacy and privacy. We stop short of putting in our eyes things we happily place in or on other parts of our body. The primary reason for this is, of course, squeamishness. Reference to the iconic scene in Luis Buñel's 1929 Surrealist classic Un Chien Andalou, in which a woman's eyeball is slashed, sends people gagging in the way that the ear sequence in Reservoir Dogs does not. And as any contact lens wearer will tell you, mere mention of their daily, optical routine provokes their most iron-stomached of friends to beg them to halt their descriptions mid-sentence. Whereas private daily ablutions or the most depraved sexual proclivities may have entered common parlance, the eye, it seems, remains a forbidden terrain.

It is not only squeamishness that makes these contact lenses by Christian Dior such an audacious piece of fashion product, however. Designed to embellish, rather than change the colour of the eye as other coloured contact lenses do, these two-month 'occasional lenses' encircle the iris with a halo of golden metal flecks referred to in the accompanying literature as 'sequins'. In a further-and crucial-flourish, the letters 'CD' are printed below, letting anyone that looks you in the eyes know that you are wearing Christian Dior. This act of looking, be it at the lenses, or through them is key to their ideological audacity. In what is surely the ultimate act of branding (both figurative and literal), the contacts present a world through the lens of Christian Dior, where everything is coloured and marked by their corporate vision. So insolent and brazen is this act that it almost bypasses the tackiness of logo-wearing into a fearless new world where any part of the body may carry global fashion's scorching mark.

Contact lenses by Christian Dior at Christian Dior +4420 7245 1330

In a week of Paris shows awash with neon fur and tawdry bondage referencing, Viktor & Rolf's red shoes gave the girls that increasingly rare but often-sought appearance: they looked ladylike.

David Elkouby understands the burning, irrational desire red shoes inspire. For it was he who in 2000 paid a staggering $666,000 for a pair of fourth-hand, sixty-one-year-old red court shoes. The fact they had no particular fashion distinction and that he had no intention of wearing them did nothing to dampen his ardour; these were no ordinary shoes. These were The Ruby Slippers.

Red shoes occupy an emotive place in cinematic history, from the protective force ensuring Dorothy's safe passage home to Kansas to the runaway shoes that danced Moira Shearer to death in Powell & Pressburger's version of the Hans Christian Andersen fable. To the contemporary fashion audience, red shoes are no less evocative; loaded with sexual allusion - Sandy Bunz's porn classic Red Shoes notwithstanding. They constitute a footwear category all of their own and present a specific sartorial dilemma to those women who prefer walking home free from salacious business propositions. At a stretch, red shoes can look cute, but only when every attempt is made by the wearer to work 'against' their sexuality, dressing them down with prissy tweed or workaday denim to clean up their bad reputation.

All the more reason, then, that Viktor & Rolf's succession of vermilion heels parading down their Spring/Summer 2004 catwalk was such an achievement. Neither tarty nor kooky, these red shoes combined elegance with a Judy Garlandesque sweetness that counter-balanced the collection's slightly masculine tailoring. In a week of Paris shows awash with neon fur and tawdry bondage referencing, Viktor & Rolf's red shoes - worn with every outfit from pink shorts and Resistance macs to dramatic trouser dresses - gave the girls that increasingly rare but often-sought appearance: they looked ladylike.

The real stars were the glitter-encrusted 'shimmer stilettos', on which every detail is just so. With a vertiginous, almost 's'-shaped heel that snakes up the back of the ankle to compliment the calf and the platform sole that curves and disappears under the ball of the foot to exaggerate the wearer's wiggle when they walk, they a joy to behold. Where the molten red, toffee-apple glitter threatens to cross over into Christmas party territory, the softest matte leather knot restores the necessary balance to put these shoes on every sophisticate's wish list this season. If you are lucky enough to lay hands on a pair, take Glinda's advice to Dorothy very, very seriously: 'keep tight inside them, their magic must be very powerful, or else she wouldn't want them so badly'.

Glitter-covered stiletto shoes by Viktor & Rolf, at Selfridges 0800 123 400