FOR most of yesterday the air in Paris was humming with tension. Would Christina Aguilera topple off her heels into one of the antique upturned urns at Dior or impale herself on one of the galleon-sized chandeliers littering the ground. Would Naomi Campbell find anything throwable backstage? Never let it be said that couture isn’t an extreme sport.

And somewhere, so rumour had it, a momentous decision concerning athletes and dodgy Lycra was being made. By the time champagne was being sprayed over Trafalgar Square, I was in my seat at Dior looking for distraught faces among the French contingent. Say what you will about knee-deep smoke and synthetic cobwebs but they’re excellent at hiding the things that no one wants to see — not unlike the house of Dior, which has always excelled at padding, boning, corseting and contouring.

Christian Dior was born 100 years ago this year — cue much lavish expenditure to celebrate. Cue also, not one, but two horse-drawn coaches – one for Erin O’Connor, who played Dior’s Edwardian mother, and one for John Galliano, arriving for his bow at the end. And cue those fallen chandeliers and cobwebs. My, how they dangled and got caught in my hair as we were transported to the gardens at Granville, where Dior grew up and which was heaving with celebrities.

Galliano is at his best when referencing history, but this time his approach was from the inside out. Every dress, from the opening Gibson gowns to the cinched, fitted 1940s suits of past couture clients, and the billowing court dresses of the 1950s (think Princess Margaret with turquoise hair), were made from tulle.

The delicate, sheer-silk netting makes the internal workings visible, from the sinister fin de siécle bustles and corsets to the sinister corsets of the contemporary flesh-coloured dresses, with their overlay of jet beads (and underlay of naked buttocks). Some dresses were deliberately half finished — with scraps of satin, pins and tailor’s marks on show.

Did it tread new ground? Only in terms of presentation. But watching a conjurer reveal secrets from the Magic Circle was fascinating and enjoyable.

It certainly meant that Armani’s second couture show suffered in comparison.

His fitted, 1940s-inspired silk satin jackets and fish-tailed skirts were absolutely fine, and they’ll do the trick on the red carpet, but they lacked the excitement of Dior. Watching this venerable French house brought alive by a south Londoner gave one another reason to feel chipper as one walked the Paris streets yesterday — until one realised that one still had cobwebs in one ’s hair.

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