Saturday 25th June 2011

I can’t wait. I’m due to go up in a helicopter at 2pm and fly over the Olympic site. I won it in a raffle. Ivor Driver is coming with…

So this may be the last you’ll hear of me.

These are my frock thoughts this morning. See graph below. I’m seething with separates and crumbling in the face of massively important upcoming engagements. On Wednesday Reggie Cresswell’s tremendous new ceramic is launched at an event to be always remembered.

I must hope to be calmer before I can report properly on my sales shopping.

But shopping is like life. It is life. It’s not superficial, as commonly thought. First of all there is the plan – to buy shoes perhaps with a purple tinge or more dark shirts. So a person plans to be a doctor or to live in an attractive half-timbered house at Potters’ Bar or High Barnet. Then there are the shops themselves and what the designers are giving. Will the strategy and the goods on offer knit together? Probably not. So we improvise. We hope for inspiration on the spot. Buying is a leap of faith in the end but only a beginning for the garments themselves. We will be up and down with them. Some will bed in and prove loveable, others will not. They change too as they are worn and pursue their mortal course, watched by us. Always there is doubt and dread, often immediately after purchase. Perfection is yearned for but never quite achieved. We never learn but are usually not crushed completely by failure, however slight, and awful at the time.

We may not be entirely what we wear, but our clothes convey some important idea of ourselves. We wear them all the time, after all. The urge to create outfits is a life-force and a marvellous thing.

My Frockage Mind This Morning - It Will Get Better