Last night I went to a fashion show. Yes, I know - a bit ridiculous, but I'll field any genre of entertainment these days. It was my first solo outing on a bus too. All I had to do was get to George Street on the Number 26. With one or two minor mishaps (change of drivers not good for the mobility impaired - the instructions get lost at the handover...) I arrived in one piece only one block away from my destination. Dressed up nicely too, except for the sodding moonboot (and the oily cycle gloves...). Important to maintain standards at all times.
£15 for a ticket. Included champagne (which I couldn't drink) and a lurid patent pink clutch bag (which goes with my eyes). Apparently this little number is retailing at over £65. Mmm - I ponder what I might raise on eBay for it...
"Ladies... patent is the absolutely must have this season.. in shoes and bags... team it with block colour and one of our handy little short sleeve tops ..." The rather fabulous store manager, in a block yellow 60s dress, black leggings and rather flattering patent white wedges., gives us the lowdown and then the 'models' strut their stuff. (The models were actually the staff, but they did a pretty good job teetering around in their mostly pretty clothes. All shapes and sizes too).
After about ten outfits, the show is over. We win nothing in the raffle, which is just as well, and then we are invited to shop til we drop, with a special 20% discount just for the night.
As I have vowed to buy no new clothes this year except for underwear, I don't buy. I intend to live this recession like its supposed to be lived, despite Gordon's endless entreaties to do otherwise. But I do look. I finger the little bright frocks, the pretty skirts, the dainty cardies. And I realise that, even if I did want to buy this stuff, I couldn't really wear it with my leg in the state its currently in. I explain this idly to the photographer, the only male in the room. He doesn't argue, so I surmise I am correct. The swimming pool is one thing, but going public with my disfigurement is quite another.
I don't want to overplay this. I didn't rush home and throw myself into the sea. I didn't weep and wail. I did rather enjoy the fashion show. It was hoot in fact. I just have to acknowledge that my 'fashion' choices will be more limited this year. And this feels a little sad. I rather like retro frocks. Especially the block colour ones. And bowing to this also means I have to question my acquiescence to the public curiosity, and on occasion revulsion, of disfigurements.
I know, that if I wear the pretty frocks, with my right lower leg exposed, people will stare. They will wonder. They might even ask (based on my wheelchair experiences). The pretty frock will be rather wasted. Many disability groups would perhaps say I should just wear the frock. Stand up. Be proud. Pretty even. But I'm not quite up to that yet. I still care what people think. I'll need to work on that. And Im not sure I'll ever get there. On a lighter note, though, think of the money I'll save...
£15 for a ticket. Included champagne (which I couldn't drink) and a lurid patent pink clutch bag (which goes with my eyes). Apparently this little number is retailing at over £65. Mmm - I ponder what I might raise on eBay for it...
"Ladies... patent is the absolutely must have this season.. in shoes and bags... team it with block colour and one of our handy little short sleeve tops ..." The rather fabulous store manager, in a block yellow 60s dress, black leggings and rather flattering patent white wedges., gives us the lowdown and then the 'models' strut their stuff. (The models were actually the staff, but they did a pretty good job teetering around in their mostly pretty clothes. All shapes and sizes too).
After about ten outfits, the show is over. We win nothing in the raffle, which is just as well, and then we are invited to shop til we drop, with a special 20% discount just for the night.
As I have vowed to buy no new clothes this year except for underwear, I don't buy. I intend to live this recession like its supposed to be lived, despite Gordon's endless entreaties to do otherwise. But I do look. I finger the little bright frocks, the pretty skirts, the dainty cardies. And I realise that, even if I did want to buy this stuff, I couldn't really wear it with my leg in the state its currently in. I explain this idly to the photographer, the only male in the room. He doesn't argue, so I surmise I am correct. The swimming pool is one thing, but going public with my disfigurement is quite another.
I don't want to overplay this. I didn't rush home and throw myself into the sea. I didn't weep and wail. I did rather enjoy the fashion show. It was hoot in fact. I just have to acknowledge that my 'fashion' choices will be more limited this year. And this feels a little sad. I rather like retro frocks. Especially the block colour ones. And bowing to this also means I have to question my acquiescence to the public curiosity, and on occasion revulsion, of disfigurements.
I know, that if I wear the pretty frocks, with my right lower leg exposed, people will stare. They will wonder. They might even ask (based on my wheelchair experiences). The pretty frock will be rather wasted. Many disability groups would perhaps say I should just wear the frock. Stand up. Be proud. Pretty even. But I'm not quite up to that yet. I still care what people think. I'll need to work on that. And Im not sure I'll ever get there. On a lighter note, though, think of the money I'll save...
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