Fantasy Wardrobes

Sometimes I like to keep my choicest ticket stubs, invitations and restaurant receipts safely in my handbag so that if I am ever caught out in some major way, crushed in a scrum at a Pogues concert say, or concertina’d in bad car smash, the people who find me will piece together interesting facts about my life.

‘Mmmmm’, the intrepid, Holmes-like, witness would murmur, ‘Five tickets for The Railway Children, a Carluccio’s bill for eight scoops of mandarin sorbet, an invitation to a party called Escape From The Suburbs , a press cutting about Spinoza and a receipt for some exquisite Prada princessa evening sandals in pink silk with green and silver suede trim.’ ‘ It was a full life’ the coroner would decree.

I’d like my wardrobe to say good things about me too and at this moment it’s in excellent shape: a spring clean and some new spring summer purchases mean it puts forward an excellent case for me. Only the case, on reflection, is a little misleading. There are eight blouses all dry-cleaner fresh, or new, hanging in my wardrobe. There’s the McQueen-era Givenchy with three different sizes of silk checks, the draw string polka dots, the stretch satin, the cranberry and ocean coloured silk chiffon tops with silver buttons, the blue organza frills, the pink flecked green and white striped cotton lawn, the white cotton damask without he lace sleeves. Then there are the two new mini capes, one lace and silk and one black sequins. Yet I never go near any of these garments, preferring instead grey V necks in a choice of four different gauges and knee length skirts. What am I afraid of? Is it the creasing or soiling and the prospect of more cleaning bills? Am I saving them up for special occasions that never quite materialise, do I lack the high sprits that such clothing requires? For all these pieces take some wearing. You cant grumble in them, or criticise or make excuses or complaints. You could just about make a sarcastic quip, possibly, but that’s genuinely as low as you could go.

These good clothes and I are locked into some sort of conspiracy. We have a secret life, like the toys that go berserk at night when the children are sleeping They represent a sunnier world where jaunty and carefree I sport three or four blouses a day and teeter in the beguiling pink princessa sandals like an off duty Italian circus star.. These items put me in a holiday mood. I try the blouses in the evenings when my daughter is in bed. I rehearse my favourite jokes and best sociological anecdotes. I practise a few dance steps from yesteryear. I almost wear these garments downstairs and out of the door but at the last moment I buckle and find solace in the assorted grey things piled up on the armchair in the bedroom: the grey skirt with the two inverted pleats, the stretch tweed, the grey flannel kilt and the accompanying drab-chic jerseys with their behind-the-times Lentern flavour.

Yet if I’m never going to sport the beautiful clothes I own perhaps I should really go to town purchasing exquisite items purely for show that I wouldn't dream of wearing : slashed to the thigh rainbow hued gowns with sequins and beading; cherry print patent wedges three sizes smaller than my feet, dresses fashioned from a few roughly stitched silk ribbons or feathers or black lace frills that melt the heart a little but sure wouldn't flatter or fit me. I could compile a wardrobe full of fantasy clothes to dazzle and startle (What a dark horse! Weren’t her feet like a fairy’s!) and another full of digni fied, quietly stylish Celia Johnstone style uniforms for actual wearing. But that would be madness wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?