Fred Butler (courtesy of Maia Adams, Adorn Blog)
So, it's heading our way really quickly. London Fashion Week.
The very best Fashion Week of them all in my humble opinion. Alive, buzzing, risk-taking, reverberating, fresh and all with an audacious wink of its eye.
Yet for all of the excitement it is accompanied by a shameful wrenching of the very guts of me...What to wear. Nay, how to walk into a forum full of exceedingly young, terribly beautiful girls, all dressed to kill, all dazzling. When I feel I am just an older, curvier, mostly invisible woman.
Yet, when I am there, after all of the agonising, I walk into the courtyard at Somerset House and my anguish is gone in a microsecond. I cannot help but rejoice in the colour and beauty of the fashion parade. At both young and old, rake thin and voluptuous forms, male, female and the odd canine. At the fun, the vibrancy and the whole of British fashion united within a swarming sea of clashing, seamless individuality.
At the brightest lipsticks, the perkiest headwear, the longest legs in heels that defy anything but fash wisdom. At life being lived in maybe its most superficial, yet simultaneously its most joyful visual manifestation.
And everyone is beautiful. My forever favourite has to be the most elegant elderly lady ever who glides in slow motion through the parting crowds wearing a peacock feather trilby and purple lips.
So, why do I worry about what to wear? Probably because it's a kind of exquisite agony. Probably because we females are programmed that way (I hear you, men too!). And let's face it I shouldn't worry one bit because I am in the extremely privileged position of being able to select my outfits from the kind of people who make London Fashion Week so Cool Britannia: Young British Designers.
Because when I wear designs from the best of emerging British fashion I know that I am being as uniquely me as it's possible to be. And that even with my great age and great curves I glow with the certain knowledge that I'm doing it my way and with YBD pride and a grin.
You see, even when I'm eighty with white hair and a violent violet mouth I defy anyone to stop me wearing the newest, bravest, freshest fashion.
So, if you're in turmoil over what to wear this February the 17th just wear what makes you smile. You'll look beautiful.