The Lemon Dress

My next door neighghbour who is perhaps the world’s most glamorous Organisational Psychologist - I can see her now walking down our street in elfin crop, a bit of Dries, some vintage Bella Freud and her trademark principal-boy high boots - recently gave me an envelope with ‘Read This’ written on it. Inside was an article which appeared last year in a publication called Gender, Work and Organisation. (Volume 11 No.5). It’s called The Case of the Lemon Dress. The paper begins when a woman who’s interested in a certain job in government policy development attends a lecture given by the person who will shortly be interviewing her. It is a chastening experience. “There she was all chief executive and in her lemon dress. I knew then there was no point in applying. I’m not the lemon dress type.” I’m not certain of the exact significance of the lemon dress-there are so many meanings. It could be Kate Moss at a party breathtaking in pale yellow Madame Gres but it might just as well be Patricia Routledge chatting over the garden fence in daffodil shades. What I do know is that anyone sporting a lemon frock will in all likelihood be feeling extremely sure of herself. The lemon is a humble fruit, but the fact remains, a lemoncoloured dress takes an awful lot of wearing. If I understand The Case of the lemon Dress correctly its thesis is this: when it comes to the work place one person’s confidence can be another’s oppression.

No one could accuse me of oppressing my fellow man. The garments I’m drawn to at the moment, for the first time in my life, are actually things that don't suit me, clothes that look odd and make me feel uncertain and askew. Clothes that cause my husband to remark, as we leave the house, ‘Is it Eastern European national dress week?’

Out shopping now I try on the things that suit me, sensible stylish elegant Italian skirts and interesting, sweet French tops with very high heels, for my customary urban librarian/ kindly midwife out-on-the-tiles look (minus bicycle), but suddenly these things don't hit the spot at all. The clothes I seem to like right now make me look not so much wild spree as day-release. There’s a rainbow striped Sonia Rykiel skirt I’ve tried on in department stores in three different countries. It’s very flared with the dearest little patch pockets, shaped like cornish pasties complete with crimped edges but in it I resemble a stuffed extra from Andy Pandy or a chunky playworker from a centre for troubled tweens. Yet I absolutely adore it. Yesterday I bought a bright green skirt from Marni that is so gathered it actually gives you two extra inches on each hip, but it was made from the same fabric as our school chemistry overalls, and at the time of purchase that seemed important. I chose this over a beautiful sailor-ish Margaret Howell thick linen kilt in my garment colour of choice which is silver grey. It was highly flattering on me. It was really my dream skirt, but I was having none of it.

I wonder if some sort of pneumatically cheery but masochistic alien has taken over my person, prompting these bizarre fashion choices. Is it self sabotage? Am I trying to follow new trends blindly without taking my own form and function or even my preferences into account?

I thought I’d grown to accept myself at this late stage in life. I’ve never exactly applauded my taste but I do know it well. Given free reign it’s a refined, unoriginal pools-winner -deluxe-concoction of white carpets, Old Master paintings, unhoned marble and diamonds. I’ve always shied away from any item that could be described as fun , yet last night I was out and about grinning n geranium pink and green and silver high heels. Something’s definitely up and yet it’s not all bad. When I catch sight of myself in these unbecomingly quaint get-ups one thing’s certain absolutely no one’s going to feel intimidated or afraid of me.