softgrey
flaunt the imperfection
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from ft.com...
this CRACKED me up...
...
this CRACKED me up...
With trousers come responsibilities
By Susie Boyt
Published: January 26 2008 00:34 | Last updated: January 26 2008 00:34
Regular readers will know that I justify my splurges not on a pay-per-wear system but on a pay-per-compliment basis. If a garment doesn’t perform well for me in this way, I have no choice but to ditch it or, at least, retire it for a time. If I pay £100 for 29 compliments, it seems quite reasonable but £29 for 100 compliments is obviously better.
I treat my dresses well, and I ask a lot of them in return. They are my ambassadors; they soften and win over, delight or intimidate, cause hysteria, alienate, placate or unnerve depending on what is required. My clothes should represent my finer feelings or misrepresent my baser ones when my morale is low. They should render me approachable or unapproachable, depending on my whim; they should be endlessly responsive to the demands of the moment. I never forget a compliment.
I was explaining all this to my actress friend Lucinda as she walked down the street chatting to me on her phone from the other side of town.
She was having a moment of shopping shame concerning her new green Dries Van Noten trousers, of which she was extremely proud. She loved them so much but just wasn’t completely certain she deserved them. She felt she hadn’t done anything really good for a while and that, well, perhaps they should have gone to someone who had.
I tried to persuade her that these things can be deserved retrospectively. You tell yourself that because you are the lucky owner of the world’s nicest trousers, you must show the world a sweeter disposition, you must try harder at all your endeavours, seek to cause more joy and alleviate more pain as you go about your day. Very good trousers, I go so far as to add, come with responsibilities.
She is most interested. But then, “Uh oh,” she says. “I’m just about to go past a building site and seven men sitting on a platform looking down at me.”
I hate those moments, I tell her. You just don’t quite know what to wish for.
“I know,” she agrees. “At least I have my lucky trousers. Oh no, they’re waving at me, shouting at me and one of them is standing up and calling out something. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying ... ” The line goes silent.
Lucinda? Are you still there?
A pause. “Yes, I’m here.”
Is everything all right?
“I don’t know.”
Has something, did the man, is he, has he ... Did he say something that was too personal?
“I don’t know.”
You don’t know? Perhaps you don’t want to talk about it.
“No, it’s OK. It’s just a little embarrassing. He just called down. ‘Look everybody, here comes Shrek!’”
Shrek?
“Yes.” Wow. I begin telling her that her Shrek-look is the pinnacle of next season’s much-hyped international rugged ogre chic but the words sort of die on my lips.
“Builders!” I say. “Who needs them!”
“Oh I know.” We chat amiably for a while about the stunning navy Givenchy coat Lucinda snapped up in the sales for next to nothing with its one huge pocket, centre front, and then her voice tenses. Are you OK, I ask.
“It’s just I’m passing a school playground and it’s obviously lunch break or something and ...”
This time the greetings are unmistakable. I hear it plainly down the phone: “Hi Shrek! Hello Shrek! Oy Shrek!”
“Did you hear that?”
Yes I did, I say. It doesn’t seem right to lie. “Does it, does it really bug you?” I wince the minute the words leave my mouth for everyone knows bugs are Shrek’s favourite food.
“Funny,” she says.
Sorry.
“I should take them back, maybe, shouldn’t I?” I imagine the little slip on the returns form that says “reason garment unsuitable” filled in: way too Shrekky.
Not necessarily, I say. I mean, Shrek is a good man, you know, monster, ogre or whatever. The franchise is a massive success all over the world. And it’s not nothing to be compared to a film star ... Yeah, maybe you should take them back.
“I knew they weren’t right.”
Yeah.
“All right then.”
OK. Lots of love.
“See you soon.”
Bye.
...