Saturday 4.4.09

I just checked and I seemed to have stopped blogging for a couple of days. I didn't think I had missed that much, but as my Nan often used to say, "I'm all behind". As it turns out, I've spent some of the weekend echoing that sentiment, for which I blame Nick.

On our recent excursion to Cornwall, Nick took some photos of the ancient places we visited. For scale (he claims) he took some shots of me with my back to the camera. Now, I was dressed for a day walking about in fields, so I didn't go for any kind of fashion statement, but even so....I don't suppose any woman, with the possible exception of J-lo likes her bottom photographed, even if it is clothed. In a bizzarre twist, I'm not too dissatisfied with the size of the bottom pictured. Reader, if you know me, you know that my dimensions are, ahem, gererous. I've never been one to deny this, or do much about it. Due to random factors unknown, I have lost some weight this year, a dress size and a bit. There's the problem. All of my clothes are at least two years old and with the weight lost and the washing and stretching, they've got baggy. I've just been pulling the ties in a bit tighter and since I don't have a mirror, haven't thought about it. Until, that is, I saw Nick's artistic shots proudly displayed on Facebook. One of Nick's colleagues even commented on them. Not flatteringly, oh no. Frankly, I look like a man.

I am not a short, fat middle aged man, I am a medium height, fat middle aged woman. Having seen the photos, I thought I had better dress like it. It was in optimistic spirits that I went into Coventry City Centre. Land of Primark and New Look, Home of the sale. Oh shut up. (Even I won't get that in a week's time, think of It Ain't Half Hot Mum) This year's fashion has a back to the 80's feel. On one side of every shop is a sort of country bumpkin look, all puff sleeves, plaid, and cheesecloth. I found myself singing 'Come on Eileen' and remembering my thirteen year old self working in a chippie singing along to said song playing on the radio. Under my nylon pinny I was wearing clothes very similar to the clothes on the other side of every shop 2009; Madonna in Despealey Seeking Susan phase, with just a dash of Kids From Fame. Look, "I'm gonna live forever, I'm gonna learn how to fly" I just don't want to do it in an electric blue tee shirt and leggings any more.

I tried on some things. That's where the humiliation begins. Things, fitting one part of me but not another, the puff sleeves cutting into my upper arms, the Lycra showing the bulges, the maximising effects of bright colours and checks. After a couple of hours and several shops, I had bought a pair of shoes in the Dexys style, blue floral with little bows, I had a pair like them in 1982, only they were red ones. I didn't need the shoes, but they did fit, and I have very wide feet, so I tend to buy any shoes that I can cram myself into. Only some flesh is spilling pinkly over the side. I own no other blue clothing. I bought a top. It will have to go back. It isn't stylish, or fashionable, it is a vile shade of green, and it has diamante buttons. Why did I buy it? That would be because it would do up. Brilliant.

The saving grace of all this, is that I know beyond doubt that I have similar trouble every time I shop for clothes. Size doesn't come into it. I've been a size 24 (for a few months), and a size 12(for a couple of weeks). I've been buying my own clothes for twenty-nine years. Nothing has changed, the fashions mostly don't suit me, the clothes mostly don't fit. If they do fit, they often don't after the first wash. The quest continues.

Barak Obama's wife (Michelle, I believe, we haven't met) is all over the news this week. Her clothes are very important to people. They must be, the journalists are writing about them. She looks good. I'd put money on it that she has the same problems I do in the changing rooms of New Look.