There comes a time in every woman’s life when she flings open the door of her clothes closet and realises that it is crammed with a load of old rubbish. Men may curl their lip at this but consider for a moment what we are up against. It isn’t just a matter of wear and tear. Or even of extra inches on the waistline. There is also the depressing fact that, as we get older, fashions get younger.
Well my moment of truth dawned the other day. I wouldn’t say that I have reached full-blown maturity exactly. But I certainly won’t be seen around in full skirts or puffed sleeves any more.
My daughter’s dressing-up box benefited mightily that day. She couldn’t believe her luck when I sadly tossed her a fabulously expensive crinoline petticoat, which alas, now makes me look like a Christmas tree. This was swiftly followed by a billowing red taffeta evening dress, worn once and saved for eight years just in case a formal invitation came my way again. If it ever does now I certainly won’t be turning up in billowing taffeta. Armfuls of skirts, stoles and nameless sartorial misfits were carted away and I studied the result.
At least the wardrobe looked tidy. Austere, even. Now, I’m not one to go berserk over fashion, but even I could see that the remaining collection of clothes was pretty pitiful. The best that could be said of them was that they still fitted me and would see me through the housework.
I decided to tackle the problem scientifically. Two dresses to be cleaned. One coat to be dyed. Several hems to be hoisted. Pause for reassessment.
Just then a wedding invitation arrived – not just any merry old do in the backwoods, but a Courrèges bespattered London affair. The time had come to Buy A New Outfit.
After going into a huddle with the housekeeping accounts I decided that I might just get away with it. Towards the end of the month I could always do intricate culinary things with the odd breast of lamb. So much for financial backing.
The next step was to survey the current trends. And this is where I found myself up against it. Dipping into various glossy magazines I was amazed at the number of exceedingly leggy girls sprawling about in shaggy fur coats and stockings like hand-knitted totem poles. Mondrian prints seemed to crop up quite often too, but I would really rather hang these on the wall. My figure leans towards the pre-Raphaelite anyway.
Nevertheless, I trotted out to the shops and tried on a few outfits just to get into the swing of things. It became all too obvious that my dollyrocking days are over, but I refuse to think of myself as matronly. I even went so far as to rush up to a capable looking assistant and cry: ‘I put myself entirely in your hands.’ Unfortunately it wasn’t her day for enthusiasm. Briefly frisking me with a pair of disenchanted eyes, she led me to the thin end of the rack and left me to choose between a draped crêpe with dickie front in Air Force blue and a wraparound cotton housedress in brooding shades of brown. I wouldn‘t be surprised if it bore a label saying ‘Comfy for Mum’, but I didn’t wait to find out.
Sneaking off to the Mod end of the department I tried on a black and white PVC mac. Worn with a leather peaked cap I was immediately transformed from homespun to sinister.
Then I read that those beaded dresses from the Charleston era were being snapped up in second-hand clothes shops by the really avant garde. The troubIe is they are a bit too much like the stuff I have only just managed to discard. Oh well, there’s nothing else for it. I shall just have to take my daughter on one side and see if she will lend me something from her dressing-up box.