I’m ready for the beach, if nothing else
Capsule wardrobe. Can you spot the missing word here? No, it’s not “holiday”. It’s not even “stylish”.
Yes, it’s “cyanide”. As in cyanide capsule, for when you discover the day before departure that nothing matches, nothing contrasts and nothing fits.
I know this because I fly out to Greece at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning, and I’m still in denial about my packing.
The children are sorted. An entire suitcase is given over to towels and snorkelling sets and pens and paper. The dogs have been outsourced. The cab is booked for 1.30am.
And so far, my carry-on luggage contains a bikini. That’s all; I’m beach ready, if not beachbody ready.
But it’s fine, because I don’t care any more. Really. There’ll be no cheering but also no jeering, which I call a result.
Not caring how I look as I bob about in the Med or stretch out languidly on the sand is a fabulously liberating feeling. If only that glorious insouciance extended to the rest of my summer attire. But no.
I haven’t a thing that’s suitable, and no matter how deep I delve inside my wardrobe, I will not find the perfect floaty white skirt with pom-pom gladiators, the navy linen tailoring or the alluring backless number for dinner.
Instead, it’s the same clanjamfrie of colours and brands I haul out every summer, leaving the special-occasion silk dresses I never get round to wearing.
But maybe this year I’ll do things a little differently and just bring the posh frocks on a welldeserved sunshine break.
It might sound a bit overdressed, but I won’t feel it if the only alternative is a bikini. Or, indeed, a cyanide capsule.