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Me Me Me
Coming back from Paris on the Eurostar last night, with Mary lying on me
watching Oklahoma on the laptop, I glanced at some French magazines and came
across an interview with Muccia Prada. Something she said struck a deep chord.
In order to be happy, (or so my translation had it), it was important
that women make a concerted effort every day only to do what they want. It's
official! It's the fashion!
I wasn't exactly feeling downtrodden as Herne Hill loomed by, but a nasty
sore throat and the usual family dramas had rendered me a little lacklustre. It
hadn't escaped my notice either that when I had opened my suitcase in Paris
the (I thought) delectable assortment of clothes that greeted me were, to a
number, grey. It was tragic. They wouldn't have disgraced a moderately committed
nun. It's not that I want to emulate the mother I spied at my daughter's
parents evening who was sporting a badge on her lapel that said CRACK WHORE (oh
the shame!) but I thought my clothes really did need an injection of, well,
interest. In my travel jotter I scribbled a little note to my self. Be
fabulous. Live for maximum glamour. Only do what you want. Ok, I nodded inclining my
head thoughtfully. Let's give it a go.
I used to think the answer to dressing was to have a very nice everyday
uniform you didn't have to think about: elegant French schoolgirl about town or
intelligent staff nurse, say, mainly bought from APC and the cashmere emporia of
the Burlington arcade. For day I'd leave it at that and then go absolutely
crazy at night flinging on the spangles and bows and the eye make up. At
night I used to like to look-and I'm not saying it's ever been in fashion- a
little bit Christmassy. Well perhaps it was time to revisit my former yuletide
self.
As highly decorated and embellished clothing does seem to be in the shops
this season I thought the thing to do is to buy two or three amazing things and
then wear them until they dissolve. So this morning, armed with all available
funds, I set out on my spree. I glanced at Prada's canary yellow snakeskin
courts but the words 'Ahoy there bananafeet' sprang to my lips. I tried on a
blueish tweed coat trimmed with mink in Dolce and Gabana and an emerald
coloured brooch but the mannish cut of the coat and the harsh colour of the green
stones made me feel, somehow, as though I had got a bit lost in translation,
like a slightly uncertain rich person trying to be in fashion. There was
claret coloured satin dress at Moschino which was gorgeous but too skimpy, a
pale gold less frock at Colette Dinnigan which was too small, a white fox shrug
at
La Perla that turned my shoulders into boulders, a liquid silver dress at
Burberry that did me no favours, a red Mark Jacobs gown with elbow length sleeves
that already had a waiting list......
Returning home empty handed I would have noticed how terribly messy the house
was since my resolution only to do as I wished, but I was perfecting the art
of keeping my gaze at about seven foot high, where, generally, things aren't
too bad.
Just then the telephone rang. Four months ago I saw a pair of frilled satin
velvet trimmed Louis Vuiton 10cm pumps in rose and in 'vert bouteille' in an
American magazine and had phoned the store to see if they could keep some to
one side for me. I had given up hope by now and decided that higher powers
must have decided that I didn't quite deserve them. Well, they've arrived and
they've got my name on them. I'm shooting off to get them now. My expectations
are sky high. This could change everything.
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