In Good Company: Old Grey Bristle Test
Enid Blackburn turns her thoughts to garments to be worn during the dark days.
I have just given my winter uniform its annual wash and brush up. Ignoring the usual comments, ‘It’s time that thing was destroyed.’ ‘Have it put down, it makes your head look little,’ and all that scratching every time I wear it. I fully intend to sink into my old grey simulated fur once again. I can vaguely recall when it was young and fluffy looking, when people used to smile enviously and tell me how fat I looked. Certainly it moults a little each season, but who doesn’t? It takes some of the discontent out of my winter anyway.
The pockets lost their bottoms during the severe frost we suffered one year. The following year dry rot got at the lining. I gave the matter of renovation a lot of serious thought, as I do all jobs I loathe and detest. Chores of this nature require more logic than the likeable jobs. But after all, I concluded, do mere hand warmers need pocket bottoms? Since the lining deserted, the hands can hang quite cosily on to my jumper welt, or trouser tops.
This arrangement worked quite satisfactorily until the day I was talking to a stranger at the bus-stop. We were just discussing the disgrace of the falling pound and rising prices, when my only button dropped off, thus allowing a sneaky blast to expose my two naked hands tucked neatly into my trouser tops. I don’t know which one of us looked more surprised. Ah yes, shame is the spur, these pockets will certainly get the needle – tomorrow.
Actually given the time and the word I love dressing up. Only the other day I gave my best suit an outing. With hair parted, immaculate shoes, even a handbag on my arm, I walked into the local breadshop and out again, without being recognised. But the winter epidemic of school functions always seem to coincide with my ‘Spring Cleaning’ phase, which can hit me anytime between now and Christmas.
Other mothers turn up on these occasions looking as though they have just left Christian Dior, while I arrive looking as if I have just finished washing.
Last year I went to a party with my ‘Old Grey Bristle’ slung around my neck. During the evening I was introduced to another guest who seemed to think I was the waitress. When it was time to leave and I fetched my coat, she suddenly came to life ‘I know that coat, you live in Slaithwaite!’
Yes, it’s an old friend, and since I overcame the ‘dry clean only’ label and threw it in the washer it gives me no trouble at all.
Trying on new outfits in communal changing rooms is matey but at times embarrassingly disappointing. A tall, robust lady and I tried similar mid-calf evening skirts on recently, side by side. She looked so stunning with the gathered flounce swirling around her knees that I looked and felt ridiculous with my resting awkwardly on my shoe tops. We looked like the Two Ronnies in drag.
Then follows the fascinating contortion of dressing without revealing your ungainly assets, I suppose it cuts trying on time in half. There is none of the postulating one can enjoy secretly behind the curtain. You know, the hand on hip swagger, accompanied by the face pulling. No leaning against the wall in your favourite party pose, an inviting wet-lipped half smile resting seductively on the smeared lipstick. When everyone’s looking it’s just a quick apologetic nod at the mirror and off.
This is definitely our main party season, with four birthdays and one anniversary to cope with between now and January. Our children are generous present buyers. From now on it’s ‘Mum, can you give us some more money, please?’ Thank goodness our cards are home-made. Our seven-year-old spent all her money on two choc-bars for her sister’s birthday last week. Then after she had reclaimed the wrapping paper for the ‘next birthday’ she admitted she had bought two bars so they could share, and promptly took one back!
There have been surreptitious whisperings concerning a double party this year from our young teenagers. They have nearly convinced me of the wisdom of this, but I get the feeling that once the food leaves the oven, the party is over for dad and me. We then become a couple of redundants.
*
