ON THE WAY WE WORE (AND SHOPPED)
The thing about lockdown was it didn’t matter what you wore. Some people had Zoom meetings and needed to make an effort on top, the rest of us had permission to go full Sunday slob and wear the same loose grey clothes, day after day. So what did we do, as soon as we were free to dress like bums? We started shopping.
First there was the exercise wear phase. Within days it became clear that lockdown was creating a new competitive environment: instead of being the busiest, youngestlooking, mother of minimum four, the trick was to be the fittest and the best cook, but mainly the fittest. And for that challenge we realised we required brand new exercise kit. (Also by now we had seen a young woman going through her routine in the park wearing a black Nike racing back T and three-quarter leggings and decided that while we couldn’t wear the shorts her friend was wearing, we could certainly give that look a whirl). I’m still wearing my Nike gear, because it makes me feel like the sort of Californian yuppie who would never dream of getting stuck into the pinot grigio at three minutes past six, and might, in fact, go for a run instead. Before the lockdown I hooted at the idea of smart exercise wear; now I’m a believer in its motivational powers.
Then in early April, phase two kicked in: the “Mustn’t Turn into A Bloke” phase. Remember in 30 Rock when Jack Donaghy tells Lemon to get out of her sporty clothes and go and buy some “from a womenswear store”? Well, that’s roughly what we told ourselves, partly because we were starting to feel like leathery old cat burglars and partly because it was hot, the blossom was out, and we felt the need of a flippy dress. It must be said that the dresses we ordered in P2 were a lot prettier than our usual and there was, in hindsight, an element of escapism going on. Fairly sure (since I haven’t worn them) that the purchase of the yellow one with puffed sleeves, and the pink flowery one, was brought on by the springtime-inRome weather. The drop earrings, same thing.
Phase three was “Let’s Make This a 1970s Summer”. Was it all the rainbows in the windows? Was it the summer of ‘76 weather, the shaggy untended hair and working in the garden with a cup of tea and the radio on (which did feel a lot like O-level revision week)? Whatever, there was something 1970s in the air, and in May our thoughts turned to denim skirts (ordered! Worn!). Clogs (ordered! Worn!) A maxi skirt in Indian cotton blockprint (ordered! Not worn). And dungarees (ordered. Sent back on account of the fit).
Meanwhile thousands of women are lockdown dungaree converts and it’s not just because they’re comfy. They make you feel the way we want to feel now – resourceful, practical, not precious, and free – like Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia. Will I be wearing the 1970s stuff out in the new world? Oh yes. This is going to be a slow, Scrabble and sou’westers, 1970s kind of summer.
Phase four
– the one we’re in – is the Hope Chest phase. It started at the beginning of June, about the time we’d accepted that we were going nowhere on holiday, and went shopping anyway – for swimming costumes, sunglasses, the sort of top you can only wear in a place with ceiling fans and mosquito nets.
They turned up one after the other in hot pink tissue paper looking bright and cheering and that was half the point. The swimsuit (Boden Santorini, works like Spanx) will come in useful, the rest we can stuff under a hoodie and a waterproof poncho and we’re good to go.