She wore yellow velvet
It is the first weekend in April, Week 1 of Camp NaNoWriMo and I'm wandering through old memories. Something about writing while my virtual cabin is on fire - how I choose to picture my camp - has incendiary thought bombs going off in the heat. If I hadn’t set my heart, finally, on writing, I would have been a fashion designer. I feel the frustration at a career denied most acutely when I see badly dressed women on tv. God, in that off-the-shapeless-shoulder monstrosity, she looks like a boiled spud in a serviette. Aren’t we all judgmental of clothing, ours and everyone else? Isn’t it part of the deal of people wearing their personality as their sleeves, around their hem lines, shouted or whispered in their colour choice and expressed in the drape of fabrics worn somewhere from head to toe? Growing up, my clothes were second hand or mum made them. My finery was all made by mum, with the exception of a 50s suit I found at a second hand shop. It con...