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Fashion hell & advancing decrepitude

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Went to Manchester yesterday to visit my sister and niece, and to make use of the excellent retail facilities in the city centre.  This was for the purposes of looking for jubilympic themed dresses for my girls and myself, for my Jubilympic Afternoon Tea Party in June.

Easy enough to get something suitably patriotic without being too ‘Geri Halliwell’ for the childerbeast, but I couldn’t find anything that I liked (or more to the point, that I liked, which suited me and didn’t emphasise the blimpishness).

I even ventured into Primarni and have to say, that even by Primarni standards this season’s collection appears to both suck and blow! 

WTF?   It was a showcase of utter shite! 

I like to fondle garments on rails (like you do ladies – feign to deny it) to see how they feel, but I was afraid to do so. With such a varied array of different man-made fibres packed in such close proximity to one another I was afraid of starting a fire!

A neon stretch chiffon vest with a giant image of a wild animal on the front?  No.  I’m good thanks!  I like parrots, as you well know, but harem pants decorated with hundreds of toucans?  I think I’ll pass. 

I couldn’t help but stop and take a picture of this rack of faux silk bomber jackets which wouldn’t have looked out of place somewhere in a  1971 charity shop.

I’ll take one in each design please

So, empty-handed we headed to my sister’s for a chillaxed afternoon with sibs and RenesmeeFloGaGaella before setting off back on the tram to get the train home a few hours later. 

I wrote yesterday of my comfort at seeing on TV some young hopefuls in Lands End, and I was comforted again on the tram when a couple of young girls took pity on a lady, many years their senior, and offered her their seat.  Lovely.  You don’t see that as much as you should these days.  The old dear in question gracefully but thankfully declined their kind offer on the grounds that the old gimmer was ME!

The happiness at seeing that not all teenagers are moronic fuckwits, tinged with sadness that I’d hit a new low in my self-esteem. I am now officially old enough for girls to offer to give up their seat for me.  (Or worse, because they thought I was pregnant).

Forget the new tea party frock I’ll just wrap a tartan rug around my knees & hit the sherry…

Today I  have researched orthopedic mattresses online. Thus far, not found any which are coffin-shaped or made from tartan picnic rugs.



About TheDHW

Not loathed by totally everyone so that's good right?

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