pandemian

18 June 2007

It was with time to kill and not a small amount of driving lesson to put off that this afternoon, I went shopping.

I have had visions - oh such visions! - of summer finally arriving and me with a glass of something 23% proof in one hand and an unpronounceable French cheese in the other, tripping lightly over Hampstead Heath or Primrose Hill in something flighty, light and attractively unsuitable for playing frisbee. A cross between Holly Golightly and a ten dollar a night hooker who reads Sartre in her spare time, if you will.

But I am wise. I know that two hours of trawling shops in the sunshine is likely to make you forget all objectives and come back with a pair of seventies slingbacks in royal blue instead. I go for a cup of tea and write the following forbidden words on a napkin, lavishly illustrated with the word NO in various typefaces, large red circles with crosses through them and painstakingly accurate drawings of several UR-100N intercontinental ballistic missiles landing neatly on warehouses full of Topshop clothes somewhere just north of Staines.

Orange Teal Patterned Gypsy Embroidered Footless tights Neon Skinny fit Sequinned Eighties Ethnic Kate Moss Striped Playsuit Magenta Bell sleeves Smock Cowboy Beaded Metallic Push up Slogans Brand names Irony
Pre-vintaged ("We gave your clothes personality so you don't have to!")

After three packets of biscotti and fifteen minutes of furious squinting I arrive at the only purchase possibility my somewhat restricted taste and refusal to buy into arbitrarily designated notions of style has left me with. I write the words

A BLACK DRESS

on the reverse of the napkin and smile benevolently, leaving my simple yet sage words of fashion advice behind for the next occupants of my table to be enlightened by before striding my way confidently back to the nearest shop.

Dress 1 assumed I was either 5'3" or for reasons unknown absolutely needed to display ten inches of buttock.
Dress 2 required me to maintain the perfectly vertical at all times or run the risk of loosing my breasts upon any or all random passers by.
Dress 3 looked familiar; only after 10 minutes of deliberation did I realise it was my old school uniform.
Dress 5 required pants of such spectacular and convoluted design they haven't yet been invented.
Dress 6 seemed okay at first but on closer inspection had the word 'naughty' picked out in pink diamanté across the ass and I couldn't, I just couldn't.
Dress 7 contained an unacceptably high spandex content.
Dress 8 made me look like Patrick Moore.

Dresses 9 to 12 passed in an increasingly opaque red mist and by the time I got to dress 13 and I was seriously considering buying it even though it was £225 I knew I had to stop. I put the dresses down carefully and walked away from the changing room and out on to the street in a graceful and collected manner, only pausing once to gently assault a rail full of orange and yellow swirled bandeau tops.

I will be the one in Regent's Park this July in tweed work trousers and a peevish expression.