Fashionista

As a writer I ponder on many of the vagaries of the universe (that’s not strictly true, I’ve always wondered about strange things).

My recent thoughts turned to fashion and clothing. Now you have to be aware the majority of my clothes are bought either at motorcycle events or places I visit. Jeans and a T-shirt are my normal plumage.  You could dress me in a fully tailored Armani suit and I would look like a nightclub doorman, put on sunglasses and I would be mafia muscle.  Yet others can wear something from the charity shop and look as though they belong on the red carpet at a blockbuster movie premiere.

Maybe the reason is they care about what they are wearing, and I don’t.  I’m afraid I wear clothes for only two reasons, to keep warm (not relevant where I live now) and to stop me being arrested (very relevant to where I live now).  If I had the choice, I wouldn’t  wear clothes at all (stop panicking, I am dressed …but that thought is in your head now isn’t it? 🙂 )

This took me back to something that occurred a few years ago. My wife and I were away for a weekend celebrating our wedding anniversary. The hotel where we stayed was holding not one, but two wedding receptions. Now as you are aware, these can be pretty rowdy affairs, especially after the champagne has been flowing for a few hours. But to be fair to the hotel, they had ensured those guests staying for the night, and who were not part of the wedding parties, were accommodated well away from the function rooms.  Anyway, I digress.

Some of the party-goers were obviously taking a breather from the evening’s events and popping into one of the hotel bars. One in particular caught my eye because of the way he was dressed. A jacket lay draped across his shoulders (if you have a jacket, wear it or don’t. They are made with sleeves for a reason.) Around his neck he had a paisley cravat, tucked into the top of a frilly shirt, open part way down his chest revealing what can only be described as a small, black, long-hair cat. A gold medallion completed the picture.  Tight fitting mustard coloured trousers adorned his lower half, rounded off by a pair of winkle-picker shoes (bear in mind this guy was probably in his late fifties). At this point I should say it was 11pm and the chances of any sunlight appearing depended wholly on the earth being ripped out of its current orbit. So when I tell you the pièce de résistance was the pair of carefully placed sunglasses sitting on top of his head (his hair was suspiciously similar to the dead animal on his chest,) you will get the whole picture.  He clearly thought his entire look was that of sartorial elegance, and no doubt he thought he was the bees knees. To me he was dressed like a seventies porn star (not that I would know of course).

So I suppose what I am saying is that clothing and fashion are very subjective areas, and what is one man’s haute couture is another man’s Debbie Does Dallas. It doesn’t really matter what you wear, just be comfortable, be happy and don’t get arrested. Oh, and take no notice of what anyone else thinks – he didn’t.

Now, where did I put my flares? They look so cool.