Grown Up, Own Up Spree

Although I go to Paris often, my shopping trips are always confined to a single street , Rue de Grenelles, just where it crosses Rue St Peres. This is not only shoe heaven but also home to Moschino and Miu Miu, my two favourite brands. Of course I often wander over to the Bon Marche nearby for stationery, baby gifts, doll’s clothes, picnic wear and cake decorations, but that’s a more relaxed and casual sort of a spree which for some reason I don’t count.

The Rue du Faubourg St Honore where there are about a hundred other outlets more than worth perusing, I avoid completely. It feels too rich a selection for a brief spree and I never have more than fifty minutes before it’s time to race to a carousel or a pony ride or a picnic (This is in no way a complaint.) Besides, I’m afraid of that street. They wouldn't get me there, I’m too much of the wrong things and not enough of the right. I wouldn't begin to know how to shine let alone be a success in such a setting.

The last time I went there, years ago, I was providing moral support to a friend who was going to a wedding dress fitting where she was repeatedly overruled and criticised for her shape and her ideas. (Both were excellent.) The august ladies who were constructing the gown would ring her up in London to check her latest run-ins with the bathroom scales. ‘When you are hungry, you must be disciplined: take a black coffee and a few cigarettes’,was their advice. The service advertised was one of made to measure but it was my friend who was being made to measure their dress. She did their bidding and went from a size twelve to an eight in a few months. It was nothing less than they required. The dress fitted at last and everyone was happy. It was all very old school.

In Paris, at the weekend, I decided the time was right to revisit this hallowed, long-avoided quartier. Were my euros not as good as the next person’s, however crumpled or dishevelled I appeared? I dressed neatly, took the precaution of having my hair blow dried, then I was off down the Rue de Rivoli.

As I walked I practised out loud some random idiomatic fashion pronouncements picked up from French magazines such as ‘le blue jean ne se demode jamais’.

My first stop was the Lanvin boutique where the assistant, Annie, a white haired lady with beautiful manners made me want to adopt her. When a midnight blue velvet dress didn't fit me, the dear woman said it was because I was so lovely and sporty! She answered my French with French and my English with English, which was the last word in politeness. She even agreed with my gratuitous comments about denim. Then, less ambitiously, I tried on the matching midnight blue velvet round toed court shoes. How elegant they would look with a black dress I thought, a tiny bit wrong or ‘off’ to add interest. Just then I remembered that my very first pair of high heels were dark blue suede and when I wore them with black, as a teenager, I felt ashamed on account of the mismatch. How times have changed.

Next I stepped into the Bottega Veneta boutique to try an extremely plain short sleeved velvet dress I had seen in a magazine, but close up it was embellished with embroidery and beading which made it unsuitable for me. In La Perla, a couple of doors along, I spied a grey wool jersey evening dress with an invisible but undeniable built-in corset. I asked if they had the dress in my size and was told they did, but that it was on hold for someone. else To tantalise they allowed me to try it. It was really quite transforming. The dress had some elaborate pleating on the bodice but the plain thin grey wool was rather humble, making it casual enough to wear easily.

‘We may call you’, they said grandly, jotting down my number, ‘if our lady doesn’t....’ They did call so I returned that evening en famille. Mary examined the lilac silk satin lace trimmed underpinnings on display with extreme interest. The original lady who wanted the dress couldn't quite fit in it, the assistant indiscreetly let slip. There was, however, another lady in waiting should I decide against. She would be along any moment. I felt as though in was in some high end, Parisian food chain so with the family’s approval I snapped up the dress pretty quick. I admired some black and neutral coloured brief chiffon capes which would look very tender over a sleeveless dress, but general family patience was running low. We made our goodbyes and left.

This shopping in Paris is child’s play, I thought merrily, clutching my velvet shoes and my hidden corset dress. I am acceptable to these people. They’re only too happy to sell me their stuff, I thought proudly, giving myself a little pat. We went to a nearby cafe and ate rose flavoured macaroons to celebrate, en route to the Tuileries trampolines, where I didn't have enough money in my purse for even one ticket.

Swathed in guilt I remembered a little incident that happened lately. A friend came to visit bearing a delicious sweet confection from the Green Valley Lebanese Supermarket near Marble Arch. ‘What is it?’ I asked, enchanted.

‘It’s made from deep fried cream’, my friend announced guiltily. That’s one new habit I don't need, I thought sadly. Perhaps the Faubourg St Honore is another.