Think of your typical holiday packing as you lay it out on your bed: cute flippy dresses, Ibiza-luxe kaftans, black pleather leggings for party nights on the beach, the capacious straw bag, bikinis you’ve worn so much they’re getting a little threadbare around the buttcrack. Bikinis you’ll never wear but you thought they were a good idea at the time (I blame Love Island). Denim cut-offs, vests and a few frou-frou skirts and retro tees… Well, now that packing pile is teetering in your head. Halve it. And again. And again. Keep the one bikini you know you’ll wear. Now take out the pleather leggings and your favourite skinny jeans and swap in some cargo trousers (1998 called – turns out they’re very good for travelling). Take out your heels and throw in Havaianas and some North Face Hedgehogs (not pretty, but damn they’re comfy). Take out the satin bomber and chuck in a daggy rain jacket. And a wool scarf and gloves as it’s going to get chilly in the southern hemisphere in summer. Take out any gorgeous 50s dresses you used to love to wear to parties and throw in one jersey halterneck that never creases, because, let’s face it, the only party you’ll be going to is a foam party if you join the Kiwi Express, and fancy dresses are wasted on drunk teens and cheap beer. Take out your bags and statement earrings because your daypack is the only bag you’re going to need and… Bingo! You have a capsule, all-season wardrobe, fit for backpacking for a whole year.
Trouble is, it’s a wardrobe that doesn’t feel very… sexy.
So what’s a girl to do when she arrives in tailor haven Hoi An for just forty-eight hours (the tailors here are fast)? She’s going to flick through a copy of Esprit or Vogue, that’s what, and find her favourite dress. And then get it aped.
It’s what we did within hours of hitting Hoi An, this beautiful town in central Vietnam, where paper lanterns of all colours hang from the rickety wooden shopfronts of old trading posts.
Train Man and I stood like scarecrows, arms out and rigid, while tailors measured us up so they could cut the fabric we’d chosen into stylish shapes to fit our bodies perfectly.
The next morning: boom. Good enough to be guests at George and Amal’s wedding. Train Man looks epic in his midnight blue ‘Tom Ford’ tux: his olive skin, black hair and emerging traveller’s beard making him look too cool for the red carpet. I have a Miu Miu-style dress that is feminine, sexy, playful, and only about thirty quid. And I love it! Shame we don’t have any occasion on the road to wear our threads to. And they don’t fit in our backpacks. So we’re shipping them off and sending them home. Happy that they cost so little, delighted that when we get home, the first invitation we receive, we will be wearing those bad boys. Tom and Miuccia at a children’s party? So be it! As long as my nephews don’t put ‘dinosaur poo’ slime on my dress. For now, it’s back into the Hedgehogs and cargo trousers, and back on the road. Next stop: Laos and the beautiful city of Luang Prabang.