Sartorial Splendour

Jeans and a T-shirt, that's what I wear. Sometimes a long skirt and some kind of top that's not made of slippy material (I hate slippy material).

That's it, really. One of my friends once said to me "Of course, when you get to our age you start wanting to wear more sophisticated clothes."

I am waiting for this wanting for it hasn't happened yet.

Emily, of course, is a standard size Very Slim, with long slim legs and long slim arms. Clothes just take one look at her and want to be worn by her. I, on the other hand, am a standard size broad-backed Russian Peasant - which is, indeed, my ancestry. Whenever I see photographs of Eastern European peasant women toiling in the fields in their long skirts and headscarves I think - - oh yes, that's me, that's how I should look. None of your nasty slippy material. Bring out the cheesecloth and the cotton.

But clothes are not made for Russian Peasants: they are made for Victoria Beckham, all of them.

So there I was in town today, buying clothes. This, if you are a woman (and I am), is supposed to be enjoyable. You see them standing there, bored man in tow, picking up top after top, having a great time.

Well, I wouldn't take any man with me, nor no woman neither - they couldn't stand it. Sometimes I walk into a clothes shop, stare round bemusedly and walk straight out again.

Today I wanted some clothes for work and some for leisure. Looking round at the brand new distressed-denim jeans being worn by all those around me, it occurred to me that my jeans were more than distressed - they were gravely ill, because of old age, every single pair. Why is it that jeans which are new are allowed to look old, and jeans that are old aren't allowed at all?

But hey, the job had to be done, and I assembled an unwieldy pile of garments, thinking well, that'll do for winter, I'll be back in the summer. Then, thinking I'd get another identical pair of black cords, since I'd found a pair that fitted, I left my little pile on the desk, asking a Helpful Assistant to look after it.

It took me a few minutes to look, and I couldn't find another pair of cords the same, so I returned to the desk, where I discovered that my unwieldy pile now wasn't. I drew Helpful Assistant's attention to this interesting fact and Helpful Assistant asked her co-worker, whom I shall call Thick As Pig Dribble Assistant - Bill Bryson I love you for giving me this phrase - where they were.

And Thick as Pig Dribble Assistant, clearly responding to some kind of electrical impulse in her brain, had returned each item to the rail whence it came. Why? - - er - - she could not explain. So, whilst a long and grumpy queue grew e'er longer and grumpier, Helpful Assistant and Thick as Pig Dribble Assistant spent twenty-five minutes scouring the shop to find all my prospective purchases. And in the end they did it. It caused chaos.

If there is a God, and he is trying to give me a sign to avoid clothes shopping as much as I possibly can, then I grasp it gratefully. I shall put off any such thing until July, when I shall belatedly realise that I need some summer clothes, and will as usual find all the shops full of autumn colours and Christmas cards.