Open Writing

The future of fashion is cheap, according to those who predict how we are going to look.

Cheap and cool and very, very British.

Ladies with a sense of style are shunning Gucci and Prada to shop for clothes and shoes at the cheaper end of the high street.

Burberry clothes are now football-stadium wear. Gucci is for tasteless, too-rich footballers’ wives.

Having had the quality designer labels stolen from them by the common herd, fashion-conscious females are now mixing and matching cheaper clothes and creating their own styles.

Meanwhile bemused males welcome the news that the golden rays of common sense may at last be illuminating the fashion scene.

Perhaps a day is dawning when men will no longer have to lie while witnesses to the trying on of new garments.

“What do you think of this?’’ demands wife/fiancée in the tones of an Old Bailey prosecutor as she emerges from the trying-on cubicle.

“Very nice,’’ you say.

“You said the other jeans were very nice too.’’

“Well…they were.’’

“How do these look from the back. I mean…do they make me look big?’’

Here we go. The old, old question. “Does my bum look big in this?’’

“No,’’ you fib, mentally crossing your fingers while hoping not to be struck dumb by an avenging deity. “They seem to fit.’’

Has any male ever dared to give a truthful answer. “I’m afraid they make you look like an elephant.’’ Or, with even greater honesty, “Your bum looks big in everything.’’

Let’s face it, the average male stands a greater chance of correctly predicting the winning numbers in the next National Lottery draw than in giving an accurate account of the clothes and shoes that his female partner was wearing 24 hours ago.

Ladies of fashion dress to impress other ladies of fashion. The disinterested male merely foots the bill.

Mind you, I can’t grumble about my wife spending extravagantly on clothes. She has acquired the habit of Yorkshire thriftiness.

Joyce always looks wonderful, no matter what she wears, or, for that matter, doesn’t wear. But some of the replenishments for her wardrobe are bought in charity shops.

A cunning ruse that, to call them charity shops. If they were bluntly identified as second-hand shops no self-respecting female would go near them. But a charity shop…

You can buy a second-hand garment for a fraction of its original price and console yourself with the thought of doing a good deed.

It is a good deed too. And a sensible one.

Here’s a tip for ladies on the lookout for a real clothing bargain. Go to a spa town. Harrogate for example.

Some women there are so eager to display their wealth that expensive garments are cast out only weeks after coming out of their tissue paper wrappings.

I’m delighted of course that Joyce is a discriminating good-deed shopper - but combing through the stock of those Harrogate charity shops does eat up the hours.

“I’ll go for a walk,’’ say I. “Meet you outside this shop in an hour.’’

On one occasion I turned up at the appointed hour, but there was no Joyce.

- Still inside the shop - thought I. - Sixty minutes to choose a sweater! -

I went in. Still no sign of Joyce.

One of the changing booths was occupied. There was a chair close to it.

I sat on the chair.

Two minutes went by, then three and four…

Shop assistants were staring at me.

There was movement behind the curtain in the changing booth.

“How much longer are you going to be?’’ I inquired in a loudish mutter.

The curtain was drawn. A woman I had never seen before stepped out of the booth, giving me a very funny look as she went by.

I fled from the shop.

Give me a bit of embarrassment though rather than having to fork out more than a hundred quid for a bit of cloth which, allegedly, is cut to the latest fashion.