Fashion on the tube

One of the things I like about living in London – during those periods when I am not hankering for a rural retreat back in Shropshire – is the variety of people you find here.

This morning, for instance, I was exiting the tube at Victoria when I noticed a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties dressed in what can best be described as Land Girl austerity chic, with a touch of Hill Billy and the Gypsy Rose Lees about her to boot. She had dark, curly hair piled up on her head, but loose behind, à la Andrews Sisters (of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy fame – look it up, kids) and held up with a red rose. Quite stark make up, but bright red lipstick. She was sporting faded jeans and a red/black chequered shirt, both about two sizes too big for her. Ver’ ver’ naice, and quite distinctive, too.

I tend to notice this sort of thing partly, I suspect, because I am a sartorial baboon, with no real concept of fashion. If it’s clean and it fits, then wear it. Other than making sure there are no obvious red/green or blue/yellow colour clashes, I frankly don’t take that much notice of what I wear. (Even the blue-yellow thing goes out of the window if I am wearing my old Shrewsbury Town footie shirt, as their colours are, er, blue and yellow). So basically, it's a subject on which I am eminently unqualified to speak. Which, of course, is why I am speaking about it.

With that in mind, it’s always quite nice to see someone who does understand the concept, especially when in cases like the girl on the tube, it’s someone who clearly carries her own little paradigm with her, and sod the rest of the world.

Fashion on the tube

One of the things I like about living in London – during those periods when I am not hankering for a rural retreat back in Shropshire – is the variety of people you find here.

This morning, for instance, I was exiting the tube at Victoria when I noticed a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties dressed in what can best be described as Land Girl austerity chic, with a touch of Hill Billy and the Gypsy Rose Lees about her to boot. She had dark, curly hair piled up on her head, but loose behind, à la Andrews Sisters (of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy fame – look it up, kids) and held up with a red rose. Quite stark make up, but bright red lipstick. She was sporting faded jeans and a red/black chequered shirt, both about two sizes too big for her. Ver’ ver’ naice, and quite distinctive, too.

I tend to notice this sort of thing partly, I suspect, because I am a sartorial baboon, with no real concept of fashion. If it’s clean and it fits, then wear it. Other than making sure there are no obvious red/green or blue/yellow colour clashes, I frankly don’t take that much notice of what I wear. (Even the blue-yellow thing goes out of the window if I am wearing my old Shrewsbury Town footie shirt, as their colours are, er, blue and yellow). So basically, it's a subject on which I am eminently unqualified to speak. Which, of course, is why I am speaking about it.

With that in mind, it’s always quite nice to see someone who does understand the concept, especially when in cases like the girl on the tube, it’s someone who clearly carries her own little paradigm with her, and sod the rest of the world.

Pass me my pipe and carpet slippers

I have just realised something which, were I a depressive soul, would certainly depress me; although, as I generally state, the alternative is pretty rotten.

At one nanosecond past midday on Saturday next, that’s the 6 August, for you calendar-challenged types out there, I shall officially be closer to my 47th birthday than my 46th, which I failed to celebrate by virtue of having to pack for the move to Whetstone. That means that in 2½ years I shall hit 50, and the gentle down slope will steepen. I think I can feel my knee joints giving out in anticipation already. I am already dancing on the edge of granddad territory, and that will make it the full waltz…

This revelation of passing mortality was brought to me as a consequence of musing on what to buy my eldest niece for her 18th birthday on September 11th.

As I said, I’m not depressed by all this, though a couple of G&Ts would probably see to that.

Now, as the nearest I got to celebrating my birthday, was to stop packing long enough to down a couple of cans of Stella from the fridge, I was thinking maybe I should give some thought to celebrating my forty-six and a halfth birthday.

I shall mull this over. Or maybe just forget it.

So what does one buy a young lady on the occasion of her coming of age, nowadays? After all, mulling on that is what got me started on this thread.

Pass me my pipe and carpet slippers

I have just realised something which, were I a depressive soul, would certainly depress me; although, as I generally state, the alternative is pretty rotten.

At one nanosecond past midday on Saturday next, that’s the 6 August, for you calendar-challenged types out there, I shall officially be closer to my 47th birthday than my 46th, which I failed to celebrate by virtue of having to pack for the move to Whetstone. That means that in 2½ years I shall hit 50, and the gentle down slope will steepen. I think I can feel my knee joints giving out in anticipation already. I am already dancing on the edge of granddad territory, and that will make it the full waltz…

This revelation of passing mortality was brought to me as a consequence of musing on what to buy my eldest niece for her 18th birthday on September 11th.

As I said, I’m not depressed by all this, though a couple of G&Ts would probably see to that.

Now, as the nearest I got to celebrating my birthday, was to stop packing long enough to down a couple of cans of Stella from the fridge, I was thinking maybe I should give some thought to celebrating my forty-six and a halfth birthday.

I shall mull this over. Or maybe just forget it.

So what does one buy a young lady on the occasion of her coming of age, nowadays? After all, mulling on that is what got me started on this thread.