The tricksy life and times of an LBD* (*Coco Chanel's Little Black Dress)

Black on black, endless pins, needles, yarns; a spool airflares itself at the rhythm of a steel machine like pumping a blood stream into a pre-sleep frock. Dormant, I remember being designed, chosen from wholesale bolt fabrics. Lying around, I’m stacked in huge metre ranges, an onyx kip-up act beside rainbow colours.

In and out like a backspin, I’m pricked together. Rabid clucking echoes fill the atelier's rhyming chaos. A practical, bobbin apparatus is devoted to the workings of a creative spirit: machine vs mind, influencer vs villain. Intense, spasmodic, staccatos dart my fabric.

Out I swipe. The trompe l’oeil, ink-black Midi. Each of us, identical, an equalising, tonal army, head towards power, destiny; a liberated stand alone. Then the day arrives when I lose my virginity. Scheduled, bundled up, my quintessential 1926 peerless LBD trademark, traps fads’ fickleness. Some genuine frissons whisper down my side-zip. Within my clean-cut, asymmetrical ensemble, I slip it over unknown flesh as complex as the tunic is minimal in a seamless insouciance.

“A hard act to follow,” utter haberdashery’s pretzel-like threads.

Defly, I’m discharged from an intimate runway to a single, perfect geometry. There’s only one body that tallies. Unadulterated, I stand out as the epitome to end all ebony-toned figure-huggers. A long, exposed, slender forearm drizzles gold bangles and matching, dangling eardrops haloing my CC’s LBD touch. A befitting décolletage bares her prominent collar bone with a dip for a drop. In full party scene, I’m flanked by sharp, towerblock silhouettes, moonwalking through gaps to surpass the competition.

Splashy jewels, gadgets belly-roll the attendees. Amidst them, my purring muse shoulder spins like a seductive black lynx. Mingling in the glossy circle, she sways in 6-steps. A deluded grandeur, heels and footsteps worm away. Little do I suspect my swansong, single-ownership fate is sealed.

Too soon, I’m bagged up, creased like a paperbag packaged for charity. The vibe represents a risky turning point like a hitchhiker accidentally at a transit stop. Our hopes open to a trial and error shopping spree.

The ghost of past équipages corkscrew family heirlooms to dress-up, toprocking amok like queenagers. Stained, I wiggle lopsided like an injured model affixed to a drooping smile. Freestanding in walk-ins, I’m betwixt counterfeit brogues and head-hopping civvies.

In an off-duty airchair, I recover beside lesser knock-offs, hollowbacking wishful, awkward hands to crash-land my pinnacle.

A creamy moon traps a Jackhammering streetsweeper between two orderly queues winding round La Scala’s pavements. Three tough-looking, Rubenesque guards marshal our quirky queue.

”Bags… dudes, show your toys!” Curling up heavy lips.

“Sure, I’ve loads. She’s borrowing my gear!” In pink, squeaky latex, a dominatrix, wickedly backspins towards my maiden-wearer; an excess of twisted bangles, kinky, bodysuits, high-heeled Cuissardes in blue suede, slips out.

Inside the glamorous 1920s flick venue, bolting hard-core guests hustle in handcuffed, S&M fetish kits. A maze of bondage-wear crews cypher one another.

“Strip off into these rockin' OTKs to starwalk!”

“Bear with me, Ninja,” doffing, no right or wrong way, my aesthetic LBD.