Talkback 82             February 2007

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Life, death and designer clothes

I was walking along London’s Bond Street the other day, reminding myself of
people who had died. Famous ones, but more significantly rich ones. Both categories, I ruminated, presumably don’t need expensive clothes. This sobering line of thought was intended to protect me from envy and gross materialism, but it only lasted about three minutes. I saw in a window this totally delectable outfit, top designer label of course, and all thoughts of the deceased ceased.

I tell myself I’m not into designer labels. The whole thing is absurd, a big hype. I can detect from the way a friend might draw attention to her cardi that it’s not M & S, but often I’m hard-pressed to know why. Though come to think of it, the designer version will always be skimpy or baggy - sometimes a bit of both - and if it’s that bad you know it must be expensive.

Of course I succumb myself at times – nobody’s perfect - and yes, the feel-good factor is big. It’s what puts the con in confidence.
The trouble for me with buying clothes - even cheap, Oxfam ones - is this inner dialogue.

Will I get good wear out of it, is my constant, nagging thought. There’s an old family joke going back to the time when my teenage daughter bought me a black scarf with sequins on it. ‘Lovely,’ I said, ‘but will I get good wear out it?’ ‘You’re not supposed to,’ my daughter pointed out. ‘It’s supposed to be frivolous and ephemeral.’ The funny thing is that I did and still do, some twenty years later.

I blame it on the war, when you were supposed to make do and mend, though my mother never did. She was not good at sewing.
Before I buy anything, my mind goes over the permutations: what will it go with, when will I wear it, do I have something like it already? This last question is becoming increasingly useless, since nowadays I tend to forget what I’ve got anyway.
 

Once home, I have to try the garment on with every shoe, scarf, sweater that I own. I do this after my husband has gone to bed, as he has a tendency to disparage the activity. But it’s quite fun really, though again totally useless because I forget most of the permutations. Also, I suspect I stand in only the most flattering poses when going through the scrutiny. Well that’s what a friend said after I commented on the way she gives this curious smirk in front of the mirror when she tries clothes on in shops.
‘Well, you always pose,’ she said, unhelpfully. Do I? I thought about it for days and concluded that she was probably right.
 

I realise you can addle your mind spending too much time thinking about clothes, but grazing the fashion mags is no less a spectator sport than reading the football results. And as for shelling out time and money, you could argue that self-adornment is less, well - invasive - than football crowds.

It is, come to think of it, life enhancing. We’re talking serious recreation here.
When my mother was very elderly, you could tell her mood by her jewellery and her dress. A brooch or necklace were signs that she felt positive. No jewellery or a dowdy dress meant she couldn’t be bothered, or was too frail or ill to care. If you’re sick or depressed, you don’t dress up. Nor, of course, do the famous and dead or the rich and dead. Like I said, life enhancing.

 

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