I want this, but it’s the same price as a holiday. Not that that usually stops me – if it’s something I can get a lot of wear out of – but this is highly impractical. Can I wear it to the shops? No. Can I wear it swanning about the house? No – I’ll inevitably spatter bean-juice down it or tread on the bottom and rip it. I’ll brush my teeth and some of the flying paste-droplets (they spray everywhere, don’t they?) will land on it and stain it forever. I’ll sharpen an eyeliner and one of the blasted shavings will land black-wax-side down on the skirt.
No, it’s an impossibility even at a tenth of the price – I can’t even sleep in it as it will trap my legs and irritate me, it’ll end up around my neck in a huge bunch and I’ll think that someone is trying to suffocate me. C’est pas possible. In my head, I’m swanning about in a hotel suite at the Dorchester, ordering butlers to prepare my Balenciaga dress for the evening’s events; I’m holding a martini delicately in one hand and a fan in the other. (A paper fan, not one of those big industrial metal ones.) My Jenny Packham lace-trimmed slip is shimmying about my person perfectly and pooling in a puddle of silk at my feet – a gentle breeze ripples the curtains as Brad, George and perhaps Davy B (so long as he keeps quiet) are preparing my bath….