THE phrase “I’ve nothing to wear” is an infuriating one.
Usually because it is followed by a pan shot across a messy room with someone moaning under a mountain of clothing.
It’s not because there is nothing to wear, rather the wearer has run out of ideas. In these situations one should be sectioned before being allowed to shop for something new.
This is a mantra I swear by, until a teeny-tiny voice dared to utter those very wicked words in my inner ear lobe last week.
A wonderful old uni mate is taking a wife, an occasion I’m thrilled to share with him. But the dress code has thrown me a little. While he’s busy concerning himself with the minefield that is separating previous partners from their new flames over the soup course, I’m stylistically stumped.
Pathetic really considering I deconstruct trends on a daily basis.
It’s the sending out of invitations months in advance that throws me. The inevitable “what are you wearing?” question whirls around friends while they recite outfit choices matter-of-factly. I marvel at their forward planning as I haven’t plotted that night’s tea.
I figure if I stand by the “don’t wear white’” rule, it’s perfectly acceptable to choose the morning of the celebrations and see what takes my fancy. Dresses are my strong point, decisions – not so much.
Good news for freezing folk waiting in vain for summer to kick in.
Sweaters over skinny jeans and thigh clinging skirts are to be this season’s uniform.
We’ll be warm one way