Polly Vernon
How much LEOPARD PRINT are you wearing right now? Don’t bother answering;
I’m fake-asking, I already know. You, madam, are wearing too much. So am I. So were 90% of the women on my bus this morning; and 90% of the women who Uber’d it. If I walked out on to the streets of London, right this moment: my eyeballs would be besieged by leopard! Coats and maxidresses and jumpers and hats; gym leggings and brollies and phone cases and scrunchies! I would not be able to see straight, for the literal spots in front of my eyes!
We’ve overdone the leopard, loves. At some point between spring’s glorious realisation it was fine – necessary, even – to wear touches of that most brashly luxe of fabric design on a casual, everyday basis; and now, when a cursory glance through your knicker drawer will reveal what can only be described as an excess of animal (I speak as a woman who owns two leopard-print bralets)… Now, when it’s impossible to buy an item of clothing that doesn’t incorporate at least a LIBOL (a Little Bit O’ Leopard…) Now, when all Instagram plays like a safari park… It’s clear we’ve gone too far.
There is blood on my hands where this epic leopard overkill is concerned. Mine, for pushing articles of a leopardy persuasion on these very pages; but also, that woman (Kate Moss? Theresa May? Dorien from Birds Of A Feather?) who said, ‘Leopard is a neutral.’ That, my friends, was a lie. Leopard is not a neutral. Leopard is a neutraliser. Of all other looks.
Is it all my and Dorien’s fault, though? Really? Perhaps not. It is, after all, scientifically proven[ 1] that leopard triggers a magpie-esque response in lady-brains, drawing us in, moths to flames, shortcircuiting rationality and reason, releasing Visa cards from wallets spontaneously, without us beginning to contemplate complex issues like, Yeah But Do I Really Need It, and, What Even Is It? This should explain that time you popped out for a sandwich and returned to your desk half an hour later, still hungry, clutching a brand new leopard-print boiler suit in your sweaty mitts, with zero recollection of what just occurred. Leopard print answers a primal urge in us; one up from coffee, one down from sex.
You want me to tell you how to make it stop, don’t you? But I cannot. Leopard fever must run its course. For now: I must refer you to page 98, where you will find all the leopard-print – and jaguar – items you didn’t even realise you wanted more than life itself – until now. [1] probably