So where's Gok Wan when you need him? Not in my cubicle, that's for sure. I look in the mirror. I like the dress, it's a nice dress, it's the right size and it fits a treat. I look at the dress. The dress continues to look nice. It's very pretty. I look up, at the face above the dress. Hmmm, not so sure. Is it enough that I like the frock and it fits, or do I have to give long and careful thought as to whether or not it is a suitable item for a woman of my age to wear? Is there a danger I might be mocked in the streets if I step outside in this garment? And should I give a damn, either way? It's tricky.
I was a child of the sixties, when we all rejoiced in having fashions designed purely for us, just us and only us. Bliss! All of a sudden, overnight as it seemed, we were no longer destined to swap our gymslips for a replica of what our mother's were wearing (which, in my case, would have been florall pinnies and head scarves - not a good look) because there were whole shops full of clothes aimed at nobody but us teenage girls, and we loved it, we embraced it and life was made simple and joyful, all in one go. In a swirly patterned mini-dress, with white tights, white Courreges boots and my hair carefully ironed straight with the aid of brown paper and the essential ability not to singe my ears in the process, I was ready to face the world unafraid, confident in the knowledge that I'd got it right. No question. And thus it went on, pretty much. I got married, in a white, satin mini, naturally. And I looked bloody marvellous, though I do say so myself. Then, expecting my first baby, I wore bright, mini length smocks which drew the disapproving glances of elderly ladies, which pleased me no end as I gloried in my youthful fecundity, and brazonly cast back pitying looks at them, and their shrivelled, barren bodies. You have to forgive me. I was young, naive and, yes, a bit full of myself...as well as baby.
Life progressed. Fashions changed. I tried to keep abreast but, with a growing family, diminishing bank balance and little time for anything other than the more basic realities of life it wasn't always easy. After a night with a sleepless baby, and older children to get ready for school I considered it a good day if I'd had a wash and got the toast out of my hair (now left to go its curly, shapeless way) before leaving the house to do the school run. And that brings me to another thing! Sorry to head off on a bit of a tangent here, but what's all this with the Yummy-Mummy phenomena? I see them all, sitting outside the coffee shops of Blackheath or Hampstead, or wherever, sipping a Skinny Latte with the Bugaboo parked by the chair and their perfect size eight figures, and immaculate make-up and swingy hair and I'm filled with a mixture of admiration and loathing. How do they do it? It seems that the current fashion is both to have the ultimate accessorie of a baby whilst not looking, in any way, as if you have ever given birth. The pressure must be immense! And when on earth do they find time to do anything at all with the poor baby when their own beauty regime must be so high maintenance? It exhausts me just to think about it. But I digress. Back to what I was talking about. For me, young motherhood, meant doing the best I could on a severely limited budget. Jumble sales and charity shops came to my rescue. Not only was there the fun of rummaging through piles of other peoples stuff and wondering why on earth anybody would have wanted an orange brocade jumpsuit ( a bit Guantanamo Bay ) in the first place, but there was the added thrill of knowing that, at any moment, you might hit upon the Holy Grail of a fabulous garment, in the right size, and just what you're looking for, for the princely sum of forty pence. Result!
If you're youngish and prettyish you can get way with wearing all sorts of stuff, no matter how eclectic, and still look reasonably ok, still getting an occasional admiring glance, if you're lucky and not too fussy about the glancer. I was content. I was a happy mum, enjoying life and managing with whatever came to hand. It was fine. At least I thought it was until my children got to secondary school age and the 'Parent's Evening' event loomed large each year. It was the day before this nerve racking date on the calendar, when I would be required to sit in front of my middle daughter's teachers, smiling proudly and hoping I would not be told that the child I adored and saw as perfect in every way was actually the terror of the classroom and despair of her teachers. Middle daughter was just off to bed when she paused at the living room door, hesitated for a moment and then said these words, 'Mum, what were you thinking of wearing tomorrow?' I looked at her dear, little face. There was anxiety in her blue eyes, and I understood immediately. The entire school would see her mother and I would be judged, not by my intellect, wit or charm but, completely and entirely by what I was wearing, and there was a grave possibility that I would not come up to snuff! By some miracle I was sensitive enough to understand what was required and mentally searched my wardrobe for the most sober of its contents, presenting them as my costume of choice. A flicker of relief crossed her face and she went off to her bed, comforted by the knowledge that I would not turn up in front of nice Mr. Clayhorn (who they all had a crush on) or critical Mrs. Benthom in my patchwork pants and floaty, mirrored top, completed by a fringed scarf wound round my head. At least I had the sense to see what had happened. I had become an ageing hippy. If it was brightly coloured and baggy I was on it like a hawk on a field mouse. It was easy, it was comfy, it was embarrassing. It had to change.
The uniform came to my aid. My children all reached an age when I felt able to return to the workplace, first with the NHS, where I was required to turn up each day in a navy skirt teamed with a vile, nylon blouse with a sludge-coloured pattern that turned my complexion to mud. It was awful. I challenge Angelina Jolie to look good in that outfit, but it solved the problem of what I should wear. I got out of bed, showered, put on the uniform, pinned my name badge to my lapel and I was ready to face the day. It rendered me invisible, but when you spend your days confronting irate drug addicts and overwrought psychotics that's not, neccessarily, a bad thing. Onwards and upwards, I got a position with the management team in an Arts organisation. Thereupon, I joined the suited and booted brigade. Another uniform. No thought required. Plus, of course, I was earning again so could actually allow myself the luxury of an occasional shopping trip, to proper shops, to buy things that nobody else had worn before me. Such Luxury! But unused to so much choice I found it hard to know exactly what it was that I liked. If a friend gave me a hand-me-down I inevitably loved it and wore it to rags, but left to choose something from rail upon rail of clothes I discovered I had no idea of what it was I was I was searching for. Sometimes I'd drag a daughter or two along to help with the decision making and they were absolutley wonderful...at telling me what I'd look awful in. But not so hot on finding something they thought I could be allowed out in. It was dispiriting and left me convinced that the clothes that would suit me had simply never been made. And yet, purchases were made, of necessity if nothing else, and outfits put together, but I have never gained true confidence about what could be considered 'my look'. I know I'm lucky in that I'm a standard size and their's plenty of choice out there. It's just that so little of it turns out to be the choice I would choose! I have stood in the middle of town, surrounded by all those huge shops, every one of them packed to the rafters with items of clothing. Thousands, maybe millions of garments are on display, and I have traipsed in and out of dozens of those shops and not found a single thing I wanted to wear. Why is that? How can it be that the one thing I'm looking for doesn't exist? And it can be intimidating. All those emporiums seem to be full of beautiful, shiny young shoppers and beautiful, shiny young assistants who look at you as if they want to ask you if you're lost, as you can't possibly imagine they cater to geriatrics in their lovely, shiny shop. I see other women, knees buckling under the weight of their many shopping bags, doubtless packed with dresses and tops and shoes and heaven knows what, whilst I, shamefully empty handed, trail dejectedly homewards.
And now it's getting worse, of course, and that's my point. Maybe I'd have coped better when, apparently, ladies were presented with a pair of beige, Crimplene slacks (whatever happened to the 'slack'?) and an all concealing, shapeless cardie, on the eve of their sixtieth birthday and, thus clad, were sent out into the world to advertise the fact that they'd given up on fashion and no longer gave a fuck. But no, we've moved on, we have to be foxes, or cougars, or aardvarks or something. We cannot relax. We must maintain standards, but without ever tipping over that fine line that lands us in the area that is 'mutton dressed as lamb.' That is the cardinal sin. Now, I draw the line at surgical interventions to keep me looking presentable. And anyway, I don't think immovable eyebrows and skin stretched so tight you have to talk through gritted teeth is particularly presentable. But I'm sufficiently self-aware to want to be able to think that, if someone looks at me in the street - and I know, it's a big 'if' - they are at least thinking, 'She looks ok, for an old bird,' and not, 'Dear God, who let her out looking like that?' So, back to my cubicle. Can I wear this dress, in the outside world, without fear of frightening the horses and sending small children scuttling to the safety of their mother's skirts, or not? Frankly, I haven't a clue. Bugger it. Coffee and cake, here I come!
