Dear Tom Ford C.C My Former Self

Dear Tom

I can spot a fashion girl a mile off.  This morning, walking through Westfield, I spotted a fashion-foal separated from the sartorial safety of her pack. I drew a sharp intake of breath as she marched past; I hadn’t had that much fashion eye-candy for ages, Tom!  She had the look of a woman who actually had somewhere to go as opposed spending the morning fannying around Pret before causing trouble in TopShop for the fifth time that week.  My eyes fixated on her as she marched ahead of me through the universal unkemptness that is the British general public, casting her Olympian-torch-like-shine onto anybody who came within five inches of her magnificent fashionable being. She carried a Celine shopper that was smart and colourful enough to take the casual edge off her Isabel Marant wedge-heeled-trainers, clever, huh?  Colourful, skinny-jean-clad legs stuck out from beneath a coat that was cocoon shaped in grey Tweed.  Her nails, cheeks and lips were awash with spring’s beauty trends, all creamy and delicious peachiness. Perfect white-blonde hair was scraped high into a tight topknot; this was a woman clearly on her way to the offices of Net-a-porter, either that or she was lost and looking for the Eurostar.  I froze outside Waitrose. What was that thing stood where my reflection should be and should I tell her to ditch the padded parka because ‘it’s makin’ ya look a lot like Big Daddy, sister’?  Oh, shit, that’ll be me, then.

The fashion-foal was in ‘my gang’ so therefore it was perfectly legit to follow her EVERYWHERE she went.  She mustn’t see me, though.  I couldn’t do the old Fashion Gang Nod Of Appreciation wearing a waterproof parka (I’m not talking Altuzarra) and a flat boot combo.  The FGNOA is basically when a fellow Fashion Gang member is wearing something new season but very early on in the new season and there’s a moment of mutual respect where we’re basically saying ‘yeah blud, innit, respect to ya’ but in a fashion way.  It’s less of a nod, certainly no smashing of appreciative fists, more of a slight eye movement to the right, not too far, mind.  Why am I wearing this outfit? There should always be a balance in the silhouette; if you’re going to wear a bulky parka then you must pair it with a skinny jean and a bit of a heel. And yes, fashion people always describe things as being singular. Never is a pair of shoes ‘a pair of shoes’, it’s always ‘a heel’, or ‘a shoe’ and there’s no such thing as a pair of trousers in fashion speak, it’s ‘a trouser’.  The same goes for prints, it’s a ‘bit of a print’, never ‘prints’, or better still, ‘a bit of a splashy print’, that actually means very little but somehow we all know exactly which print the other is talking about.  And skinny jeans are always, yep, ‘a skinny’, which could also mean a skinny latte, depending on where you are at the time.  Sorry! I digress!  Fashion-foal saunters inside Westfield by the horrid, lying Waitrose windows.  I try to keep my distance.  Is that the new Prada fragrance she’s wearing? The lift arrives and I shove my pram in between its double doors, a move that alerts her to my presence but not my identity thanks to a carefully placed Ann Demeulemeester scarf.  Net-a-porter is on the 2^nd floor. I know this because I’ve just joined GymBox next door, not because I was loitering outside the Karl Lagerfeld launch the other week, honest.  She gets out at on the first floor and walks hastily towards Pret.  So do I.  Bet she orders to a skinny cappuccino, no chocolate and takes a banana for later. AND SHE DOES! OH, GOD I LOVE THIS WOMAN!  Pray she didn’t see the croissant I’ve shoved into my nappy bag. Baby, err, loves croissant.  Fashion-foal is off!  I whizz out of the door after her, my double cream hot chocolate with extra chocolately stuff shoved into the very handy cup holder that’s attached to the Bugaboo. FF glances in the TopShop windows then quickly scoots towards the escalators. NOT THE ESCALATORS! And that’s where my stalking ends, no matter how flat my ‘boot’, I still haven’t got the hang of the escalator / pram combo. 

Decide to go back to Pret to have a rest as that was way too much fashion activity for one day.  As I sit picking the crunchy bits off my third croissant of the morning, I realise how absurd we all look, us fashion folk, I mean.  ‘A wedge-heeled-trainer’, in brown suede worn with ‘a red skinny’, a cocoon coat in grey, a green handbag that costs more than two months rent, hair scraped up into what could be confused with a pre-operative style a nurse might be instructed to do before you have stitches in your eye. Peach nail polish? Peach lips?  I mean REALLY??????? She looked positively day release and I love it!  I like the fact women buy things their boyfriends and husbands will think are ugly / stupid / pointless or all of above. I enjoy the fact that fashion has very little to do with men, even gay men.  Men, we don’t give a damn what you think we look like, okay?  Sorry, Tom, but it’s true.  I think I just had a light bulb moment.  I don’t care that the other mum’s are wearing their ‘mum uniform’.  UGG boots, Cath Kidston* nappy bags, polite, oversized jumpers from GAP.  Why?  It’s over people, mama’s back and mama’s wearing ‘a splashy print’ at baby music class next week.  So long comfy, sweet potato covered knit, hello awkward ACNE blouse and plum skinny jean combo.

I’m back. There is a God, her name is Net-A-Porter and she lives on the second floor of Westfield.

Best wishes,

Etc etc

*I do not own a Cath Kidston nappy bag. I do, however, own one by Gucci that was a kind gift from the Gucci press office.  It has been bitched about at many a mothers’ get together, which I thoroughly enjoy.