Fancying myself Carrie Bradshaw. (Dressed by Shaun White.)
Friday 23rd July 2010
Today I'm thinking about Sex And The City. Y'know, the TV series; the films. I've been watching a lot of re-runs just lately as it seems to fit with the whole Living in London theme. The little corner of the capital in which I'm currently domiciled is not just trendy, but affluent too. Everyone looks dressed up to go somewhere all the time and Prada handbags are ten a penny. Ha. You know what I mean.
The point is, I keep trying to smarten myself up, but it's not working. Part of me really wants to flounce around in a pretty dress and three-inch heels, but each morning when I look in the mirror I find I have somehow reverted to my standard uniform of worn-in jeans, t-shirt and (depending on the weather) Converse or flip-flops. It's not as though I don't like clothes; I do. I can spend hours at places like Vogue or Net-a-Porter caressing the clothes and shoes with my cursor. I even own some nice things (here is where Certain People will take issue with the descriptor some as applied to my shoe rack) but for Every Day, there's always an excuse for me to end up looking like I belong at Fistral Beach rather than Fashion Week.
My standard line is that it's difficult to do the necessary bending down, wiping of snot and carrying of miscellaneous toddler items that my job entails when wearing a pencil skirt and silk blouse. The truth is that I'm just lazy. I love fashion, but I prefer convenience. I have no patience for the behaviour that must accompany wearing nice clothes. Once in a while I will make an effort - and usually it will end in disaster.
At the recent kids' Sports Day in Chelsea I really tried to be that Mummy. Here follows a catalogue of the indignities inflicted upon my outfit.
- Mulberry handbag: abandoned even before leaving home in favour of large practical rucksack and coolbag to carry all the picnic gear.
- Statement necklace: taken by two-year-old to wear for himself when it became clear that he had no interest in competing and therefore would not be receiving a medal
- Jimmy Choo sandals: abandoned at the side of the sports field when I was press-ganged into participating in the Mummies' Race (heats of crawling on all fours; final feet-together jumping)
- Cream linen trousers: suffered dreadful grass stains during said Mummies' Race when my urge to compete overrode my urge to stay clean and pretty
- Black top: gained a little ice-cream during the after-race tea. Yeah, whatever.
The moral? Winning (the pointless, undignified Mummies' Race) was more fun than taking part (in the notional fashion parade). I get so much satisfaction skateboarding to school with the kids that I guess I'll just save the designer labels for special occasions, when I can pretend I'm not really an overgrown tomboy.