Prom Dress

Prom. That was a word I’d never heard in 1984 (the year I turned 16, took my O’levels, first heard a Billy Bragg record and lost my virginity). My younger daughter, H, turned 16 a few months ago and is even now revising for her GCSE’s. She’s already met Billy Bragg twice. Thankfully, I don’t know about the virginity thing.


Of the things that have changed in the last 26 years, the importing of the concept of a prom seems to be for the best. A chance to celebrate together before moving on to other things. A chance to buy a really nice frock and to play at sophistication before kicking off the high heels and rolling down a grass bank fuelled by crafty glugs of WKD. Some girls relish the whole dressing up thing. I wasn’t sure how H, always a jeans, tee shirt and expensive trainers girl, would take it. Since she was four years old, she had bought one dress and that was in denim.

I remember the dress before that. It was a blue gingham school dress with white peter pan collar and cuffs. I bought it in H’s absence and presented it to her, anticipating squeals of delight. There was silence and a furrowed brow. ‘I can’t wear that’ she fretted ‘people will see my legs.’ She did put it on a few times, reluctantly, for my sake. It began the period of her refusal to buy clothes from the girls section of any shop, and her instructing hairdressers to give her boy’s hair cuts. To be mistaken for a boy was her ultimate accolade.

She got feminine again though, but never went girlie, and still never wears pink. Her clothes are neat, simple, always fit well and always suit. I’ve never known her buy anything and not wear it, and she’s never let me buy her anything she doesn’t want. H’s now has a limited collection of garments that last years. She likes quality, and is worth the investment. I’ve been curious to find out what she would choose to wear for the ball, and feared that she may want to wear a dinner suit. I’m not sure how I would have dealt with that. I also speculated that she would perhaps go for a plain black shift dress, or one in the light shell shades that are big this season.

Off we went to Birmingham yesterday, to get the dress. We had a lovely time chatting about all sorts of things. We don’t do enough of that. She’s busy with her own life after all. This time, she was in a mood for openness and we had laughs and serious discussion on school, girlfriends, books, family and clothes. Phew there were a lot of clothes. She was game to browse and try on, modelling ball gowns while keeping her socks on. In the end, she went for the first dress we saw. Neither the style nor the colour I had guessed at. A perfect fit, fun, youthful and suitable for the occasion. Can you tell I’m proud?

I can’t tell you more about it because, like a wedding dress it has to be a surprise (clue: it was from Warehouse). We have yet to get shoes, but H is considering heels. That would be the biggest step yet.

Thursday 16.4.09

A remarkable thing happened today. I will always, always remember it. It ranks with getting married, the birth of my children, and my O'level maths result.

On this day at 3.15pm, H asked me if we could go shopping to buy her a dress. I need to write that down again: H asked me to buy her a dress.

Dear H developed strong views about clothes from the age of 2, and since that time, bar borrowing a dress of Nina's for a wedding and for Nina's 18th, she has been strictly trousers. I have a lovely memory of Holly starting school and me suggesting we buy her a little gingham summer dress, "But people will see my legs" she said. Well, who could argue with that?

So now, she's 15 with an economical, preppy style that gives a nod to fashion. While her collection of Etnies style shoes is expansive, I've never known her to buy an item of clothing that she didn't wear to death. She doesn't buy cheap, neither does she browse much. The simplicity of her system defies belief, she should publish it, but it wouldn't be popular, it would put Primark out of business.

Is this the start of a new phase of embracing florals, frills, even glitter? I can't wait to find out. Kids can be so exciting. Although, expensive.

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.