Dressed for the occasion

Today I’m wearing a pullover with no holes in it. This makes for a change in my life since the lockdown began, and I discovered how scruffy it’s possible to be without giving a damn. For example, I’ve been spending time in a pair of dark striped trousers with pink spots where bleach splashed on them. In all other ways they’re wearable, so why throw them out? I’ve been preparing for The Great Depression all my life, and my family would be proud of me.

A cache of discarded family clothing was a delight for me to discover in my grandmother’s shed, neatly folded and awaiting the apocalypse, when I was a young student with no money. My favourite was the black crepe suit she wore to my parents’ wedding, the jacket decorated with cornelli work, spirals of relief stitching.

I expect it had been worn to my grandfather’s funeral the year before and she sensibly wanted to get some use out of it.

If you ever want to see a photograph of a doomed wedding, I have it. My father looks like a trapped animal awaiting a bullet, my mother triumphant, the groomsmen tense, and the bridesmaids about as happy as you’d be if you were made to wear an unpleasant shade of deep teal, in a kind of spotty corduroy, that made you look needlessly plump.

I doubt the bridesmaids, each a sister of the happy couple, ever met again. They learned their lesson and never married.

I wrecked the black skirt by shortening it. Dark grey wide-legged trousers, possibly 20 years old, have been another lockdown mainstay. I call them my elephant legs. They’ve begun to spring small holes in them, which I used to stitch shut before I couldn’t be bothered.

These mainstays give a dowdy and decidedly slack look to the day, reminding me that I’m not going anywhere.

I can’t resist any cheap black merino top with long sleeves, the cheaper the better, and they readily spring holes where you’d least expect them. Some people might throw them out, but I’ve been darning the holes neatly, in bright colours. It’s as if they’ve sprung their own rare disease, and I inwardly cheer when another hole opens up, as one did yesterday.

It’s possible that they’ll end up well covered in these exclamation marks, and I’ll want to wear them in real life, if there ever is one.

Asadder story is the background of an ancient kid merino sweater that met its fate on a friend’s new, spikey dining chair. Where others would have wept, and to be frank I wanted to, I set to work to darn the disaster. I wear that, too, in the lockdown, when it’s cold, with one of the black darned jumpers on top. I look exceptional.

For shoes, I’ve been back and forth between my old orca sneakers and the ones I call my dowdies. The orcas are black, white and grey, with a kind of white oblong on the side. Ageless. Like myself.

The others are navy blue with a white sole, and the moment I put them on, I feel drab. They’re too expensive to get rid of, so I wear them as a penance for impulse buying. Both are useful for working in the garden and dragging grit of all kinds back into the house with me.

Makeup? Almost never. Hair? I’ve discovered that I only have to wash it every second day, tying it back on day two, although it’s unflattering. I’ll be glad to see my hairdresser again, if the lockdown ever ends.

At this rate I’ll discover my real hair colour, and nobody needs that much reality.