fashion failure

I have just taken another step towards sartorial middle age, and bought a new brown skirt to replace my old brown skirt which had worn out.  I recognise that this was a deeply dull thing to do. Fashion exists in a constant state of flux, albeit that those of us who have been around for a few decades may sometimes recognise new trends as versions of something we remember encountering in 1996, or 1985, or 1977.  The right thing to do if I needed a new skirt would be to identify which of this autumn's looks I was going to buy into, depending on whether or not I thought it would suit me, and my estimate of its longevity, and then 'refresh my wardrobe'.  What I am not supposed to do is devote a lot of effort to tracking down a new skirt as much like the old one as possible.

Plus brown is not on trend.  I just read an article about the resurgence in popularity of red dresses, which said that women wearing red on a first date were the most likely to get a second date.  The least successful dress colour for fledgling relationships to progress further?  Brown.  But since I'm not planning to go on any first dates, and the Systems Administrator never raised any objections to the old brown skirt, we needn't worry about that.

I wanted a new brown skirt firstly because the old one was so very useful.  That is why it reached the point where it was shiny and saggy and the lining had disintegrated:  I wore it a lot.  And secondly I wanted a new brown skirt because I already had the other clothes that a brown skirt went with: a brown boiled wool cardigan, and brown knee length boots.  Together they made a reliable ensemble that struck the right note for doing woodland charity and beekeeping and gardening talks. I need to look as though I'd made a little more effort than pulling on a pair of jeans, while still being able to lug my equipment about and crawl around plugging the extension cable in or packing the screen back into its box without worrying about any split seams or pulled threads.  And I want something machine washable, so tweed is out.

The old skirt was moleskin, from the Boden catalogue.  I like moleskin a great deal as a fabric, but Boden's current offering has a pair of bulging and obtrusive patch pockets on the front.  My stomach is reasonably flat, but I didn't think those pockets would do anybody a favour: they'd have added a couple of pounds to Gwyneth Paltrow.  A Scottish country fashion company I've never bought anything from, whose brochure popped through the letterbox despite our having signed up with the Royal Mail not to get unsolicited marketing material, had moleskin skirts, but the information on sizes was so opaque that ordering would have been a wild guess, and the returns system sounded a hassle.

I settled for brown corduroy from John Lewis.  That is it, Fashion death.  Invisibility.  A woman who wears own label brown corduroy from John Lewis has surely ceased to exist.  But their returns system is fantastic.  I measured myself and ordered what should have been my size, which was too big, so I ordered the next size down and took the first skirt back when I went to collect the second one, and even as I stood at the customer service desk in Waitrose waiting for the new skirt my phone buzzed to tell me that my return had been received and my account would be credited.  That beats having to go to the Post Office and obtain proof of postage, let alone telephoning the company to obtain authorisation to make a return, or paying return postage.

The new brown corduroy skirt is very nice.  Useful.  It has belt loops, and I even managed to find an old brown leather Mulberry belt to fit.  Not sexy, not to be worn on dates, or to wow my boss and win that promotion at work, or do any of the other things that Fashion is supposed to.  Instead it is just rural enough to strike the right note while talking about the importance of trees, while being tidy enough for lunch at the Clacton golf club, where I'm due to talk to a Probus group later in the month.  And it is comfortable, and short and stretchy enough to be able to bend down and crawl about when necessary.  The true art of dressing lies in finding clothes that meet your actual needs.