Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Truly, it has stole-n my heart. (You see what I did there?)


There is something faintly embarrassing about taking joy in buying clothes. I feel guilty splashing out on a cute cardigan I don’t need or a beautiful pair of shoes I can only just walk in, perhaps at least partly because I am a real impulse shopper: I am not the person who buys classics and owns a capsule wardrobe. There are things in my closet I have worn only once or twice, having either grown tired of it immediately or, in one case, having realised that a dress that only just covers my arse is not, actually, what the public at large wants to see. The whole thing, the ritual of shopping, the trying on of new purchases in front of a mirror, seems frightfully superficial. Mostly because it is.

But there is something about the ability of clothes to transform that charms me, endlessly. I hated clothes shopping until I was about 16. I just wasn’t interested in the slightest, and would contentedly wear my favourite pair of geometric leggings (hey, it was the, um, nineties. Oh shit) until they literally fell apart while on my body. I was too slow on the uptake to realise, then, that when you are a very geeky looking teenager (glasses, braces AND orthotics? Yeah fuck you too, God) the right clothes have the ability to conceal a multitude of sins.

Clearly my attitude has changed entirely, hence my joy at one of my latest acquisitions, that most practical of all garments: a faux fur stole. I have been looking for just such a stole for ages but it took the incomparable Lindsay to track down this one for me. I love, love, love it. It feels like a dozen baby kittens were butchered and skinned for my pleasure. I half expect to have red paint flung at me as I step out the door. (It is not, I hasten to add, real. I may own a leather couch but even I draw the line somewhere.)

The only problem now is where to wear it. I am not exactly Marlene Dietrich or Veronica Lake. My weekend activities are not, generally speaking, stole worthy.

Then again, the thing I love best about my stole is its sheer useless luxuriousness. I mean, yes, it is warm, but so is a jumper. Yes it nuzzles my neck in an adorable fashion but so would a scarf. The stole is brilliant not despite its uselessness but because of it. Which means that there is absolutely nothing wrong with dolling myself up in the stole to curl up on the couch for a True Blood marathon of a Saturday night. Um, theoretically, of course.

9 comments:

Anonymous said...

There is a wonderful event on Aug 1 that would be stole-worthy...oh wait, you're not coming. Boo.
A

my name is kate said...

SHIT! You are so right. Maybe I could just rock up and stroll the street outside the town hall for a bit beforehand?? I'll be like a lady of the night... um but classy?

CB One said...

Step out with that stylish stole where ever you want Kato. Tell anyone who doesn't like it to get fucked!

my name is kate said...

Heh thanks cb. I will hold my head up with pride next time I don it for a trip down to the video store...

Big Man H said...

You know what? We could head to the pub together in our (obnoxiously stylish but somewhat inappropriate) clothes. Generally, if it's more than one person, outfits seem so much more wearable.

my name is kate said...

You wear your slashed black t-shirt, ridiculously skinny jeans and model pout and I'll look like your mad aunt in a stole and slippers.

Big Man H said...

Ironically, i'm wearing those jeans today with a $700 pair of Marc Jacobs shoes. People shall stare.

Lindsay said...

I've just bought a black floor length halterneck dress, for reasons that are unclear. It's too long, it makes my boobs look enormous (like I needed any help) and there was a colour-leeching incident that we shall not talk of, but I'm quite content to swish around the house in it on my own just because it feels nice. And it swishes. Come swish with me in your stole. Bring booze.

my name is kate said...

hee. It can be a preview of 50 years hence, when we're both rattling around in white nightgowns like the witches of sodding eastwick.