Party Girl

Buying 130 slices of San Daniele ham in a soho delicatessen this week I got talking to an elderly Canadian lady who lived opposite Harrods and came into Soho three times a week to get her shopping. 'You having a party she enquired?', I nodded. 'The New year's Eve parties we used to give,' she sighed, leaning on her walking frame. 'Will you do an early breakfast? I would always make bacon and eggs and strong coffee at dawn so that poeple would be alright to drive home. And in June, in July, they would ring, my friends, and say are you having one of your parties?'

I explained, horrified, that I hoped everyone would be long gone by morning but added in case she thought I was an amateur that we'd be having a cocktail pianist playing downstairs and upstairs it would be reggae and ragga for dancing. She wrinkled up her nose. She shook her head. 'Bad taste. But then bad taste is everywhere. Now tell me, what will you wear?'

Every year of my life I have had a birthday party. Not to have one would make me nervous and panicky. And every year I have had a birthday dress. I think of these garments, which chart my personal history, like the Kings and Queens of England. I can remember instantly what I wore at the last six. In 1998 black silk organza layers from Nicole Farhi (a mistake, too governessy-not sexy governess either, but frumpy German governess with indigestion), in '99 it was red and white polka dots with flippy hem from Moschino, in 2000 it was a leopard print pussy bow Blumarine dress, in 2001 it was gold lace Anna Molinari, in 2002 a black broiderie anglaise Miu Miu two piece, in 2003 it was the brown lace Anna Molinari with the mink trimmed sleeves and in 2004 it will be flesh and silver Marni. It's a delicate dress which is feminine and festive in the extreme, bought yesterday at half price. When I tried it on the assistant came to me and I knew directly what she was going to say. It's almost a fashion cliche now the idea that something very delicate should be paired with something rough or harsh. A little lace here or a little frill or flounce must be diluted by a bit of leather or denim, some buckles, some hob nail boots, perhaps accessorised by a tractor or two. I find this attitude predictable and contrived. I don't subscribe to it at all. It's a style edict so universally adopted that a nice dress worn in good faith actually looks refreshing these days. I was about to protest, to stick up for myself, to stick up for, well, for the dress, but the assistant was nodding thoughtfully. She said, 'This dress is a crazy dress. You dont need anything with it. You dont need a bra. You dont need shoes. Dont do your hair. Just let the dress..you know.'

There was no, you can dress it down with your favourite uncle's cardigan or put it with jeans. There was no you can dress it up with a pearl choker which shop assistants inexplicably used to say to me a lot when I was in my twenties.

Suddenly I felt transported into a world of care free Milanese mayhem and summer nights. Suddenly I felt like going to a party. Suddenly I could imagine cooking bacon and eggs at dawn.