The ‘Mom’ jean was destined, for pride’s sake, to be left behind
IWAS having a perfectly lovely day. I woke at dawn and drove to Knock Airport where I arrived in enough time to buy a copy of Grazia, have breakfast and get on the nice, quiet Ryanair flight to London Stansted — no queue.
At the other end I got myself a decaffsoy latte and took the train into central London. Once there, the sun shone on me as I enjoyed a short, pleasant walk to the film producer’s office where I had a meeting. I then spent a very pleasant 45 minutes being charmingly and expertly fobbed off by a perfectly delightful young producer.
Attending meetings so you can be fobbed off in person by film producers is a sign you’ve ‘made it’ as a novelist. Getting your books made into actual films is a whole other level.
I was in great form and thinking I was ‘it’. Then, compelled by sunshine and my proximity to big shops, I decided to ruin my perfect day by going jeans shopping. And not just jeans shopping but jeans shopping in Topshop.
Topshop’s flagship store in Oxford Circus is not a store at all but a small suburb filled with accessories like ‘this season’s soft trilby’; plus bored-looking teenage shop assistants wearing very small tops. Like all suburbs, it even has a hair salon and a disco.
As soon as I arrived under its vast roof the small voice of experienced wisdom in my head said, ‘Turn back, this is a terrible mistake’. But then the louder, stupid shopping voice said, ‘You need jeans, you’re in London, this is an opportunity you cannot let pass.’
I looked for the escalator. The last time I was in this particular Topshop I was a 20-something magazine editor based around the corner on Just Seventeen magazine, and working with Take That, Brother Beyond and Sonia (red-haired cutesy 1980’s songstress — bigger than Kylie). I was also a size eight and I knew where the escalators were. Not any more.
That is one of the sadder aspects of ageing. You think you were in a certain place last week but then you realise it was actually over 25 years ago, in which time a lot can change — even an escalator. They had also moved the jeans department. As I walk past rack after rack in this dense jungle of size 6 jeggings and titchy tops, I thought about calling it quits. However, I doubted I’d be able find my way out and as I was on the premises I thought I may as well push on.
Eventually I found ‘jeans’. Millions of them. Topshop had helpfully put up huge posters instructing you on their various denim shapes, all of them modelled by tweeny twiglets.
One of them was called the ‘Mom’ jean, which was probably the only one that would fit me but was destined, for pride’s sake, to be left behind. The mere name caused a wave of sadness as I realised I am past the age where mumsy clothes can be worn with fashion irony and, even though I yearn for a high-waisted jean, I also know they will me look like Nancy Reagan.
I accosted a young shop assistant and told her I was an (optimistic) size 10/12 and she informed me I should take a size 28 waist (without looking at me — presumably they cannot imagine anything bigger existing). The jeans I had picked, she reassured me, were ‘very stretchy’.
AYOUNG man showed me into the dressing room. I smiled and made some quip because I still get a bit giddy about male dressing room assistants (another sign of my age), but he was resolutely stoic.
As I divested myself of my complex range of travel accoutrements — coat, jacket, scarf, wheelie bag, handbag — I hoped it was all worth it. However, not one of the four pairs I had painstakingly chosen came past my calves.
I gathered up my stuff and, ten minutes later, after getting hopelessly lost again and strong-arming a shop assistant to walk me to the exit escalator, I was back on the street with no jeans and a new shopping rule. If it needs to be tried on, buy it in one of my small, local boutiques where the assistants know my name and bum size.
I thought I’d be sad that my Topshop days are over but actually it’s a relief. And guess what? I’m also glad I’m not 20 any more, so I don’t have to care!