A proper dressing down


Picture the scene. You’ve got a wedding to go to, perhaps following on from that hen weekend you attended a couple of weeks back. You’ve decided you’d like a new dress. You’re working in central London, as a freelancer, and you think this would be a good time to pop out in your lunch break to pick up a nice new frock. Indeed, perhaps you have coincidentally scored yourself a gig at the biggest, baddest fashion magazine of them all. Just perhaps. Picking up a nice new frock should be a snap, you think.

Hahahahahaahahahahaaha. Bless you and your simple ways.

Of course, it could be that working at the biggest, baddest fashion magazine of them all is not the advantage it at first appears. Because now you know, for a scientific fact, that you’re a short-arsed, cheapskate dump-truck whose role (mercifully back-office) does not and will NEVER involve selecting clothes that look nice.

We – no, wait, YOU – are now on Day The Fifth of the search, but things started to look up on Day The Fourth, because you took a bloke with you. One who said lovely things like ‘But I like hips and tits’, and waited 24 hours – 24 HOURS! – before using the phrase ‘insane asylum’ about one let’s say ‘directional’ frock I – no, you – tried on.

Anyway, bloke friend has proved an invigorating mix of invaluable helpmeet and bracing confidant: ‘Take a risk, you big yellow chicken’ in one particularly mature exchange. I was so annoyed by his accusations of cowardice – 100% accurate at the last count – that I snatched up a wrap dress and marched off to try it on, thereby Making A Point And Finally Winning This Stupid Argument.

Breakthrough. Lovely. Would never have tried it on. Dress crisis over; sheepish expression permanent.


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