In the bookstore, downstairs off Collins Street, I was in the science fiction area, looking for a book recommended by my friend J. We'd had lunch and wandered around a little section of Fitzroy, enjoying conversation and the glorious autumn weather. A vision in hot pink spandex and matching sneakers excused himself. I looked up. The sound of the voice did not fit the expectations set by my peripheral vision. I was expecting a woman and saw a man. He was resplendent, with plumage in his hair to rival any bird during the mating season. His eyebrows were strong black diagonal lines. I figured he had been at the Supanova Pop Culture Expo which had been on at the Melbourne showgrounds until I saw him on the train this evening.
Tonight he was wearing a tight red mini dress with a purple faux fur jacket. Again, he was topped with spectacular plumage - red and purple feathers, sprinkled with jewels, covered his entire head. I noticed the eyebrows again.
As I made my way to the exit, he looked directly at me. We nodded at each other. Weirdly, it felt like we were recognising something kindred.
I took the plunge. "You look amazing," I said.
His face lit up. "So do you!"
This felt like high praise from someone who clearly spends A LOT of time on his appearance. I also work hard to maintain my artist's identity when I'm working in that capacity with corporate clients. I must have succeeded today.
"Same hair!" I laughed, referring to our matching red.
"Twins!" he responded with the appropriate amount of irony.
He held the door open for me and we both went out in the night. I found myself wondering where he'd spent his days and then decided he'd probably been earning a living, just like most of us travelling home at 6pm.
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Monday, 13 April 2015
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
A wig is not a hat - rules for modern living.
There are some strange people out and about at the moment. I have two pieces of advice to offer. If heeded, I believe much trouble in the world could be saved.
1. A wig is not a hat.
It seems obvious at first. A wig is not a hat. As far as I know this is a statement of irrefutable fact, yet I have seen at least two people in the last two days - representative of both genders - who are labouring under the misapprehension that the opposite is true. They believe that a wig IS a hat. They must, otherwise, they would not be walking out of the house with that...that...arrangement sitting on their head.
I've looked a few times, maybe I've even stared. I should disclose one assumption that I'm making: that the thing on the head, which is hairy, is a wig. It may not be. It may be an actual hat which some milliner with an outrageous sense of humour, duped this poor woman into purchasing. Perhaps it was heavily discounted and in the bargain bin because to anyone else, it looked like a wig. Or like something scraped off the road with a shovel.
How can I describe the effect of the piece? Well it hangs before the face, like hairy drapes blowing in the wind. The rest of the outfit was very smart - crisp white shirt, houndstooth checked trousers with a black patent pump, but the smear of red lipstick was a little off. It wasn't quite the clown mouth, but one more lap with the Retro Red and the effect would have been more Ronald McDonald than Anna Wintour.
The woman in question engaged a staff member at Flinders Street Station in a conversation about how she had tried to buy chocolate, but the vendor said that its purchase price was 70,000 (what, I didn't quite hear). She went on at length to the man in the orange high-vis vest whom I suspected of not actually listening, until she posed the ultimate question: "How are you supposed to get ahead when that's the price of chocolate?"
I stopped myself from running over to her and answering: "Go into the chocolate business! And get that thing off your head! A wig is NOT a hat! That's how you get ahead!"
Although maybe she was actually asking how you are supposed to get "a head". Perhaps she was unaware that she already had a head, but then the wearing of the wig as if it was a hat would make no sense, as a head is an essential part of such an exercise.
2. A baby's jumpsuit is not a hat.
Again, this seems to be self-evident, but with another hot day forecast in Melbourne, I feel compelled to make this proclamation. On our last hot day, I spied a man wearing an electric blue, baby's jumpsuit on his head. It was very strange. I assume it was some kind of heat combat unit, but am mystified as to how this would work.
3. Leggings are not pants.
Again, I don't understand why there is any confusion about this.
Given all the uncertainty over head coverings, I have turned to the dictionary for the final word.
Dictionary.com says:
Wig: an artificial covering of hair for all or most of the head, of either synthetic or natural hair, worn to be stylish or more attractive. [emphasis mine].
Hat: a shaped covering for the head, usually with a crown and brim, especially for wear
outdoors.
Those last few words in the definition of "wig" should clear it up for ever: "worn to be stylish or more attractive". I know they don't though as most times the wig fails to deliver. I will concede that a hat made of hair could also be a wig if the reason for wearing such a monstrosity was unclear. At this point I feel compelled to disclose that I own a wig. It is bright purple and I sometimes wear it to parties with the intention of being stylish. Mostly I don't wear it because I find it is hot and itchy.
Oh lord! All I can conclude is that if people are staring, chant the mantra "a wig is not a hat" and cover your leggings - they are not pants! Oh, and go into the chocolate business. (Unless "chocolate" is a slang term for whatever the kids are taking these days. In that case do not go into the "chocolate" business as I don't advocate the drug trade as a viable livelihood.)
Do you own a wig? Do you wear a wig? Is a wig a hat?
1. A wig is not a hat.
It seems obvious at first. A wig is not a hat. As far as I know this is a statement of irrefutable fact, yet I have seen at least two people in the last two days - representative of both genders - who are labouring under the misapprehension that the opposite is true. They believe that a wig IS a hat. They must, otherwise, they would not be walking out of the house with that...that...arrangement sitting on their head.
I've looked a few times, maybe I've even stared. I should disclose one assumption that I'm making: that the thing on the head, which is hairy, is a wig. It may not be. It may be an actual hat which some milliner with an outrageous sense of humour, duped this poor woman into purchasing. Perhaps it was heavily discounted and in the bargain bin because to anyone else, it looked like a wig. Or like something scraped off the road with a shovel.
How can I describe the effect of the piece? Well it hangs before the face, like hairy drapes blowing in the wind. The rest of the outfit was very smart - crisp white shirt, houndstooth checked trousers with a black patent pump, but the smear of red lipstick was a little off. It wasn't quite the clown mouth, but one more lap with the Retro Red and the effect would have been more Ronald McDonald than Anna Wintour.
The woman in question engaged a staff member at Flinders Street Station in a conversation about how she had tried to buy chocolate, but the vendor said that its purchase price was 70,000 (what, I didn't quite hear). She went on at length to the man in the orange high-vis vest whom I suspected of not actually listening, until she posed the ultimate question: "How are you supposed to get ahead when that's the price of chocolate?"
I stopped myself from running over to her and answering: "Go into the chocolate business! And get that thing off your head! A wig is NOT a hat! That's how you get ahead!"
Although maybe she was actually asking how you are supposed to get "a head". Perhaps she was unaware that she already had a head, but then the wearing of the wig as if it was a hat would make no sense, as a head is an essential part of such an exercise.
2. A baby's jumpsuit is not a hat.
Again, this seems to be self-evident, but with another hot day forecast in Melbourne, I feel compelled to make this proclamation. On our last hot day, I spied a man wearing an electric blue, baby's jumpsuit on his head. It was very strange. I assume it was some kind of heat combat unit, but am mystified as to how this would work.
3. Leggings are not pants.
Again, I don't understand why there is any confusion about this.
Given all the uncertainty over head coverings, I have turned to the dictionary for the final word.
Dictionary.com says:
Wig: an artificial covering of hair for all or most of the head, of either synthetic or natural hair, worn to be stylish or more attractive. [emphasis mine].
Hat: a shaped covering for the head, usually with a crown and brim, especially for wear
outdoors.
Those last few words in the definition of "wig" should clear it up for ever: "worn to be stylish or more attractive". I know they don't though as most times the wig fails to deliver. I will concede that a hat made of hair could also be a wig if the reason for wearing such a monstrosity was unclear. At this point I feel compelled to disclose that I own a wig. It is bright purple and I sometimes wear it to parties with the intention of being stylish. Mostly I don't wear it because I find it is hot and itchy.
Oh lord! All I can conclude is that if people are staring, chant the mantra "a wig is not a hat" and cover your leggings - they are not pants! Oh, and go into the chocolate business. (Unless "chocolate" is a slang term for whatever the kids are taking these days. In that case do not go into the "chocolate" business as I don't advocate the drug trade as a viable livelihood.)
Do you own a wig? Do you wear a wig? Is a wig a hat?
Monday, 11 November 2013
All the "stupid people"
Some days I wonder what I would write about if I drove my car everywhere and never caught public transport. Other days I wonder whether my experiences are a true reflection of the public transport experience.
I was waiting at the tram stop in front of the State Library on Swanston Street. My hairdresser had called to tell me he could fit me in half an hour earlier if I could get there. I could. I had just been planning how to fill in half an hour when he called. So there I am, waiting for the advertised three minutes before the number 8 tram was due to arrive.
"Excuse me!" I heard a man's voice say. I looked around, more out of curiosity than any specific reason for thinking his plea was directed to me.
"Excuse me! You, lady, come over here!" He seemed to be addressing me. I pointed at myself and cocked an eyebrow.
"Yes, you!"
I was taken aback. I was just standing waiting for a tram. I felt like I was being summoned to the headmaster's office. What could I have done? I didn't want to be commanded by a man in uniform to do anything - those desires were quenched when I went through a misguided "I want to join the airforce and fly fighter jets" phase, fed by seeing the film "Top Gun" - even if the said uniform consisted of a fetching orange high-vis vest with the words "customer service" plastered across the back.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Just come over here." He pointed to something behind the tram stop on the lawn in front of the library.
I took a tentative step. The high-vis vest didn't give him the amount of power he was exercising.
"Look at those stupid people!" he pointed and exclaimed.
I saw two punks with spectacular hair. One, the woman, had fire engine red in a mohawk with spikes that were at least 30 centimetres long. The other was a man and he had the same spikes, but in jet black. He was standing behind her and doing something with her hair.
"Who?" I asked.
"The ones with the stupid hair! How ridiculous. People are stupid you know!"
I shrugged nervously. I didn't really think they were stupid.
"Each to their own," I chirruped.
The man shook his head and looked at me before saying, "People in this world are so stupid. Don't you think?"
"Not really. That's my tram." It really was the number 8, although I would have happily boarded the next tram to anywhere just to avoid a continuation of the proclamation.
I took my seat and looked again at the two punks, just ordinary people in each other's company, albeit with spectacular hair. I wondered what the tram man had seen in me that caused him to think I would be sympathetic to his conservatism. I rethought my entire outfit and wondered whether I should ask my hairdresser to do something wild with my hair. Then I wondered what the man was so insecure about that he needed to point others out to complete strangers. It wasn't as though the two punks were imposing their hairstyles or choices on the tram man. Although if I saw him in his high-vis customer service vest, I wonder whether I'd think he was stupid.
I was jolted out of my thoughts by a woman screaming at her children to sit down. I could hear her over the music on my ipod. I looked around and saw three small boys cowering in silence. She continued with a tirade of contemplation about why they had to all be so stupid.
She should be careful, they could all grow up to be punks.
Here's how I came out of the hairdresser. Brighter red, but no spikes!
 |
| Infinite selfie. © divacultura 2013 |
Friday, 14 June 2013
My favourite things - this week
It's the day after yesterday and woke up again to more sexism. This time West Australian radio announcer Howard Sattler thought he'd use the privilege of access to Prime Minister Julia Gillard to repeatedly ask whether her partner Tim Mathison is gay. That he thought it was okay to ask is bad. That he harangued and repeatedly asked as he said "I'm not saying this, but people are" is terrible. That he is "flabbergasted" at his sacking really says something about the man.
Why is this included in a post of my favourite things? Because the radio station acted swiftly and sacked him. No namby-pamby suspension and then quiet reinstatement later when everyone has forgotten - gone. Congratulations 6PR.
Baz Lurhman's film, "The Great Gatsby" took up most of the holiday for the Queen's Birthday on Monday. I loved the film. I loved Leonardo Di Caprio's performance and Joel Edgerton and Carey Mulligan. And the music and the swoon- worthy fashions. My favourite moment though was the footage of a young Queen Elizabeth II with the message "Happy Birthday Liz" played before the film at Yarraville's Sun Theatre. "Oh yeah," I thought, "that's right...that's why it's a public holiday today."
Loved this piece on the 10 books people will judge you for reading. I've read 4 of them and have no intention of reading the remaining 6. E readers are a god send. That's all I'm saying. (I will make no mention of being ensconced in "World War Z - an oral history of the zombie war" at the moment.
It's well and truly winter in Melbourne and I for one am enjoying the chill. It gives me plenty of opportunity to show off my selection of handknitted scarves and fabulous hosiery and boots. The rain is a bit annoying, but it hasn't stopped me achieving my daily target of 10,000 steps in the Global Corporate Challenge.
Monday nights and The Voice are still a great moment in a week's television viewing. The final is on this week and I reckon Harrison will win. I was sad to see Miss Murphy go - it ruined my perfect record of predicting who would go through. I will look forward to Danny Ross' album.
Lastly, I need to finish now so I can make some more sourdough toast with a smear of Maggie Beer's pate to accompany a glass of peppery shiraz. Mmmm.
Why is this included in a post of my favourite things? Because the radio station acted swiftly and sacked him. No namby-pamby suspension and then quiet reinstatement later when everyone has forgotten - gone. Congratulations 6PR.
Baz Lurhman's film, "The Great Gatsby" took up most of the holiday for the Queen's Birthday on Monday. I loved the film. I loved Leonardo Di Caprio's performance and Joel Edgerton and Carey Mulligan. And the music and the swoon- worthy fashions. My favourite moment though was the footage of a young Queen Elizabeth II with the message "Happy Birthday Liz" played before the film at Yarraville's Sun Theatre. "Oh yeah," I thought, "that's right...that's why it's a public holiday today."
Loved this piece on the 10 books people will judge you for reading. I've read 4 of them and have no intention of reading the remaining 6. E readers are a god send. That's all I'm saying. (I will make no mention of being ensconced in "World War Z - an oral history of the zombie war" at the moment.
It's well and truly winter in Melbourne and I for one am enjoying the chill. It gives me plenty of opportunity to show off my selection of handknitted scarves and fabulous hosiery and boots. The rain is a bit annoying, but it hasn't stopped me achieving my daily target of 10,000 steps in the Global Corporate Challenge.
Monday nights and The Voice are still a great moment in a week's television viewing. The final is on this week and I reckon Harrison will win. I was sad to see Miss Murphy go - it ruined my perfect record of predicting who would go through. I will look forward to Danny Ross' album.
Lastly, I need to finish now so I can make some more sourdough toast with a smear of Maggie Beer's pate to accompany a glass of peppery shiraz. Mmmm.
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
On my mind - from language to skinny jeans and Ricky Martin
Language is one of my favourite things in the world. I love the sound of words. I love the feel of words - mellifluous - how good does "mellifluous" feel in your mouth as you say it? I pay close attention to the words people choose and how they express themselves. I pay close attention when I choose words and focus on clarity whether I'm speaking or writing.
"Mellifluous" is one of those words that feels and sounds like what it is. It means "sweetly or smoothly flowing". Yes! I really love the way the word itself embodies its own meaning.
This is what I notice about language.
I'm thinking about this because I recently experienced examples of incongruence. I'm noticing it more and more when I'm facilitating and coaching others to achieve their goals. Consider: "Um, I think I want to try and be more passionate?" (The question mark is deliberate.) This sentence was delivered with an apologetic facial expression and a shrug of the shoulders.
I hear the words and am struck by the lack of conviction, the lack of passion in that statement of intent.
I know that it's unclear whether thought follows action or action follows thought, but I'm a firm believer in starting today. If your intention is to be passionate and convey that passion to other people, why not start right now?
Imagine the difference if the statement was "I want to share my passion for Icelandic needlecraft with the world!"; or "I'm passionate about introducing others to the delights of 14th century church music!"
(The exclamation mark at the end of these sentences is deliberate.) I may not have the slightest interest in Icelandic needlecraft or 14th century church music but if you sound like it's exciting when you tell me about it it's likely your energy and enthusiasm will spark a curiosity in me.
These moments of linguistic incongruence leave me wondering; puzzled more than curious.
*****
I discovered today that one of the ingredients listed on my favourite cheese is "cheese flavour".
It's a recent addition.
I am in search of a new favourite cheese.
*****
"The Voice" is back on TV.
I love that show. I am repeating last year's performance, spending most of the blind auditions in tears. I'm not even on the show.
And I look at Ricky Martin and can't believe how handsome he is. Really. He is linguistically congruent. I'm sure. And mellifluous.
*****
It's really hard to top up your myki when the lights are out at the station and it's after sunset.
I hope I topped up my myki and it's not a repeat episode of the time I tried to get into Flinders Street station by touching on with my Boost Juice loyalty card. (They're a similar colour. I was confused.)
*****
Every time I have a shower, there is water on the floor at the other end of the bathroom that wasn't there before I had a shower. I can not find its source. I may be going crazy.
I ponder the conversation with the real estate agent as I explain the problem.
*****
Skinny jeans must be so hard to wear if you need to do anything other than stand in the one spot. Once you're in them how do you bend your legs even to walk? More importantly, what colour are your legs when you take them off?
*****
I've reached my monthly data allowance on my mobile phone. Anxiety accompanies this knowledge. I don't know what to do or how it happened. Will my life ever be the same again?
"Mellifluous" is one of those words that feels and sounds like what it is. It means "sweetly or smoothly flowing". Yes! I really love the way the word itself embodies its own meaning.
This is what I notice about language.
I'm thinking about this because I recently experienced examples of incongruence. I'm noticing it more and more when I'm facilitating and coaching others to achieve their goals. Consider: "Um, I think I want to try and be more passionate?" (The question mark is deliberate.) This sentence was delivered with an apologetic facial expression and a shrug of the shoulders.
I hear the words and am struck by the lack of conviction, the lack of passion in that statement of intent.
I know that it's unclear whether thought follows action or action follows thought, but I'm a firm believer in starting today. If your intention is to be passionate and convey that passion to other people, why not start right now?
Imagine the difference if the statement was "I want to share my passion for Icelandic needlecraft with the world!"; or "I'm passionate about introducing others to the delights of 14th century church music!"
(The exclamation mark at the end of these sentences is deliberate.) I may not have the slightest interest in Icelandic needlecraft or 14th century church music but if you sound like it's exciting when you tell me about it it's likely your energy and enthusiasm will spark a curiosity in me.
These moments of linguistic incongruence leave me wondering; puzzled more than curious.
*****
I discovered today that one of the ingredients listed on my favourite cheese is "cheese flavour".
It's a recent addition.
I am in search of a new favourite cheese.
*****
"The Voice" is back on TV.
I love that show. I am repeating last year's performance, spending most of the blind auditions in tears. I'm not even on the show.
And I look at Ricky Martin and can't believe how handsome he is. Really. He is linguistically congruent. I'm sure. And mellifluous.
*****
It's really hard to top up your myki when the lights are out at the station and it's after sunset.
I hope I topped up my myki and it's not a repeat episode of the time I tried to get into Flinders Street station by touching on with my Boost Juice loyalty card. (They're a similar colour. I was confused.)
*****
Every time I have a shower, there is water on the floor at the other end of the bathroom that wasn't there before I had a shower. I can not find its source. I may be going crazy.
I ponder the conversation with the real estate agent as I explain the problem.
*****
Skinny jeans must be so hard to wear if you need to do anything other than stand in the one spot. Once you're in them how do you bend your legs even to walk? More importantly, what colour are your legs when you take them off?
*****
I've reached my monthly data allowance on my mobile phone. Anxiety accompanies this knowledge. I don't know what to do or how it happened. Will my life ever be the same again?
Monday, 17 December 2012
Wardrobe malfunction of the intimate kind - now I understand the term "travelling pants".
This post is about underwear. My underwear. Specifically, my underpants, knickers, undies, panties, grundies, pantaloons, bloomers - whatever name you prefer to give them.
I had a very unhappy relationship with them today. Not for the whole day. The bad behaviour specifically commenced as I arrived at the train station. To be clear, the problems started when I was just far enough from home to make turning back and throwing the evil creatures (should that be plural or singular?) on the fire. I don't actually have a fire to throw them on. It would be a metaphorical fire - probably just the bin, but I would have flames of anger in my eyes as I put them there. Alternatively they would have gone in the laundry basket, eventually been washed, and then made their way back to my underwear drawer. From this drawer I would pull them out again in a few weeks' time and stare at them with narrowed eyes, trying to remember whether this was the badly behaved pair, or just another pair that looks like any other pair. My memory would fail and I would put them on.
This is clearly what happened this morning. I'm fairly certain that I've spent at least one day before doing battle with my under garments.
The morning started like any other - I woke up to the alarm, headed straight for the shower, put my pyjamas back on to eat breakfast, do my teeth, hair and makeup, before finally putting my clothes on. Now the underpants in question looked normal in the beginning. Even after I put them on and walked around the house, everything was fine. There was NO SIGN of what was to come. Kind of like a relationship where everyone's on their best behaviour in the beginning and it's all down hill from there.
Just as I reached the train station and began walking up the steps to the pedestrian overpass, the waistband started to roll. I learned today that a rolling pantie waistband is like a snowball - it gathers momentum and there's little that can be done about it. This was a fairly dangerous position to be in, considering the rest of my outfit comprised of a dress. If the snowball reached the bottom of the mountain, so to speak, the potential for surprise was great.
I took the opportunity of what I characterised as the relative privacy of the pedestrian overpass to readjust. I like to call this manoeuvre "hoiking". For example: "Taking cover between the galvanised fencing of the pedestrian overpass, I hoiked my underpants up, once and for all." The last part of this sentence is just wishful thinking. I spent the day hoiking. It was disconcerting. And not just for me. I should also confirm that the privacy of the pedestrian overpass is relative to thinking that when you're driving your car and picking your nose, no one can see you.
By the time I arrived at my place of work for the day, I was fairly certain that I hadn't read the instructions properly and had somehow put them on upside down. The other possibility was that they were haunted. I don't even want to contemplate that.
As a result of my problem, I was extremely efficient. I spent the day glued to my desk chair and achieved quite a bit. The only time I left my desk was for the three hour Christmas lunch function we had today. I quickly found a chair at a table and was not going to move. Until I discovered the Kris Kringle routine and realised that it would involve me walking to the Christmas tree in front of fifty of my new colleagues, while my underpants continued their practical joke. I seriously contemplated removing them all together, but the combination of wearing a white dress and the presence of nuns suggested that this was not a solution.
I devised a better one. I would grip my waist with my forearms and just hold everything up and together. This meant it was extremely difficult to collect a gift from under the tree, but because I'm new, I think everyone was beating themselves up about not noticing the weird arm disability that I have. Everyone was too polite to say anything. I hope prayers are being said in the name of my healing.
I planned to rip these traitorous knickers off as soon as I arrived home, but the phone rang and I was distracted. I'm STILL WEARING THEM. Some hours later. They seem to only misbehave when I go out. Oh and the cut is totally misnamed. On the label it says "hipsters". In my book, that means they're meant to wrap around the hips, not the knees - or worse, the ankles! I'm pretty sure "anklets" are socks and I've never HEARD of "kneesters". Although they sound more hip than they should. Perhaps I should market them for the hipsters to wear with their drop crotch jeans.
And I can't believe there was a film called "The sisterhood of the travelling pants". Who would make a movie about this?
I had a very unhappy relationship with them today. Not for the whole day. The bad behaviour specifically commenced as I arrived at the train station. To be clear, the problems started when I was just far enough from home to make turning back and throwing the evil creatures (should that be plural or singular?) on the fire. I don't actually have a fire to throw them on. It would be a metaphorical fire - probably just the bin, but I would have flames of anger in my eyes as I put them there. Alternatively they would have gone in the laundry basket, eventually been washed, and then made their way back to my underwear drawer. From this drawer I would pull them out again in a few weeks' time and stare at them with narrowed eyes, trying to remember whether this was the badly behaved pair, or just another pair that looks like any other pair. My memory would fail and I would put them on.
This is clearly what happened this morning. I'm fairly certain that I've spent at least one day before doing battle with my under garments.
The morning started like any other - I woke up to the alarm, headed straight for the shower, put my pyjamas back on to eat breakfast, do my teeth, hair and makeup, before finally putting my clothes on. Now the underpants in question looked normal in the beginning. Even after I put them on and walked around the house, everything was fine. There was NO SIGN of what was to come. Kind of like a relationship where everyone's on their best behaviour in the beginning and it's all down hill from there.
Just as I reached the train station and began walking up the steps to the pedestrian overpass, the waistband started to roll. I learned today that a rolling pantie waistband is like a snowball - it gathers momentum and there's little that can be done about it. This was a fairly dangerous position to be in, considering the rest of my outfit comprised of a dress. If the snowball reached the bottom of the mountain, so to speak, the potential for surprise was great.
I took the opportunity of what I characterised as the relative privacy of the pedestrian overpass to readjust. I like to call this manoeuvre "hoiking". For example: "Taking cover between the galvanised fencing of the pedestrian overpass, I hoiked my underpants up, once and for all." The last part of this sentence is just wishful thinking. I spent the day hoiking. It was disconcerting. And not just for me. I should also confirm that the privacy of the pedestrian overpass is relative to thinking that when you're driving your car and picking your nose, no one can see you.
By the time I arrived at my place of work for the day, I was fairly certain that I hadn't read the instructions properly and had somehow put them on upside down. The other possibility was that they were haunted. I don't even want to contemplate that.
As a result of my problem, I was extremely efficient. I spent the day glued to my desk chair and achieved quite a bit. The only time I left my desk was for the three hour Christmas lunch function we had today. I quickly found a chair at a table and was not going to move. Until I discovered the Kris Kringle routine and realised that it would involve me walking to the Christmas tree in front of fifty of my new colleagues, while my underpants continued their practical joke. I seriously contemplated removing them all together, but the combination of wearing a white dress and the presence of nuns suggested that this was not a solution.
I devised a better one. I would grip my waist with my forearms and just hold everything up and together. This meant it was extremely difficult to collect a gift from under the tree, but because I'm new, I think everyone was beating themselves up about not noticing the weird arm disability that I have. Everyone was too polite to say anything. I hope prayers are being said in the name of my healing.
I planned to rip these traitorous knickers off as soon as I arrived home, but the phone rang and I was distracted. I'm STILL WEARING THEM. Some hours later. They seem to only misbehave when I go out. Oh and the cut is totally misnamed. On the label it says "hipsters". In my book, that means they're meant to wrap around the hips, not the knees - or worse, the ankles! I'm pretty sure "anklets" are socks and I've never HEARD of "kneesters". Although they sound more hip than they should. Perhaps I should market them for the hipsters to wear with their drop crotch jeans.
And I can't believe there was a film called "The sisterhood of the travelling pants". Who would make a movie about this?
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Melbourne - the fashion capital...?
People were wearing all kinds of stuff in Melbourne today.
As I walked down Flinders Street I contemplated the couple walking in front of me. Let's call them the Mustards, for they were both dressed from neck to knee in a monochromatic mustard-scape.
He was tall and striding along on his sturdy mustardy-tan coloured walking shoes. Moving up was a slightly lighter hue of trouser, secured at his waist with a light brown (mustard?) belt. On his back he wore a shirt, mustard stripes forming checks against a white background. Slung casually over his shoulders was an expensive looking jumper, again, co-ordinating shade of mustard. Above his shoulders hovered his noble head, covered in mustard coloured hair!
Next to him, a woman, wearing a seersucker dress in a mustardy-green check that covered her from shoulder to ankle. Her feet were shod in a mustardy-tan sandal and she completed the ensemble with a quilted bomber jacket in a metallic mustard. Her hair was the same shade as her handbag, which fortunately coordinated with the man's hair.
Having taken in all I could cope with, I decided to pass them. As I looked back, I saw that the man was wearing a moustache. Of course, I don't even need to say what colour it was, but I had discovered his identity. It can only have been Colonel Mustard! I didn't see any evidence of a candlestick, but it could have been a length of rope in his pocket.
As I passed, music came towards me. A small man dressed head to toe in a fluorescent harlequin-patterned Lycra bodysuit was carrying an enormous boom-box on his shoulder and dancing down the street. He was wearing fluorescently framed sunglasses and and huge smile, full of too-white teeth. He made me smile and I could see others happily registering his presence.
Moving onto a tram, two older women ( at least 70 years old, I guess) board the number 8 tram to Toorak at Chapel Street, South Yarra. Those of you who know Melbourne probably have a pretty clear picture of these two women, but I'm sure it's wrong. One of them was wearing a denim skirt with a t-shirt. The t-shirt had a slogan on it: "Crazy shirts. Be original. Be crazy." This could be read in so many ways. Her travelling companion was wearing silver sneakers, coordinating with her glomesh purse.
And there was I, back in Melbourne black. It's been a while because it's been so hot, but I think we struggled to reach 20 degrees Celsius today. Clearly the fickle weather has been playing havoc with people's wardrobe planning. I hope. I don't think anyone was wearing their outfits ironically. Except maybe the guy with the really big i-pod. Kids these days.
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