The excitement of last night's iD Fashion Week show started well before the models began to peddle their wares, writes Jane Pike.
It was getting to your seat that was the fun part. As I clambered elegantly onto the longest catwalk in the southern hemisphere, my mind flashed back and I remembered; the secret was all in the face.
The models from Shanghai had it down. The perfect pout. The stare ahead. The ability to walk with your spinal cord half a metre behind the vertical. My time close to the runway over the course of many days had gifted me with the proximity to scrutinise, analyse and learn.
To forget such lessons would see me branded a fashion flop, an embarrassing failure not worthy of designer couture. I couldn't let it happen, not on my watch. There was work here to be done.
As the usher directed me to the only place on the catwalk not accessible by steps, I knew this was my test. A faux air of outward confidence replaced the inward curses of my impossibly high heels, and as I picked up the silky lashings of my dress, I strutted to my seat.
Strut, pause, hitch up frock. Strut, hold bag. Don't spill drink. Strut.
Congratulating myself on a triumphant liaison with the runway, I took my place amongst the rest of Dunedin's fashion fervent. Like an overgrown, dressed-up version of the railway children, I sat ogling the people around me, soaking up the atmosphere, the colours, the textures and the Pinky Bar from the goody bag on my seat.
Lights down, show time.
In a presentation as diverse as the faces in the audiences, the models and clothes came.
The verdict? Problematic. My bank balance was not equal with my lust.
From the space-age cool of NOM*D to the feminine fabulousness of Charmaine Reveley and edgy chic of Mild-Red, I wanted to be a wild west rocker with UNDONE and fill my car with DADA Vintage. And drive off.
Tamsin Cooper's ethereal collection made me curse my two left feet and made me reminiscent of the time I had danced into a wall in my only ever dance class. The violinist, the ballerinas, the line between fashion and the arts had never been so fine. It was worthy of applause.
Tansy Morris caught me up in her fairy tale dresses, and made me thankful, once again, to be a girl. Lilies, lace and lamingtons, I was sold.
The procession of sensory delights had no worthier crescendo than that of Stephen Jones. Watching his hats walk down the runway, I was swept up in a story. From high tea with Coco Chanel to the banks of the Sahara, the irreplaceable Mr Jones left no room for anything but a hailstorm of applause.
Lights down, reflection time. Inspiring, dramatic, edgy-feminine, rocker- chic. It was all round uber-cool.
Dunedin fashion knows success. The way, it seems, to get there? It's simple as one strut in front of the other.
Jane Pike- ODT Fashion-i