The piece ended with me walking past a seven-year-old girl, who was clutching her granny’s hand in fear, as she passed me in my latest outfit, one “beyond the curve of their imagination.” As she passed me, the little girl said loudly to her gran “oh, that’s not a good look.”
In riposte, these last few years I’ve blended into Shropshire life. I now have many, many fleeces. I have three outdoor fleece zipped jackets, sourced from top brands such as Aldi and the local farm shop, two black, one blue. For indoors, I have another seven fleeces, from summer lightweight to Canadian heavy duty – what Anne calls my Michelin man look. And that’s it.
Shifnal’s loss I fancy. But, yesterday, outside Barclays was a man at the cash machine, stepping up to the challenge, plainly channelling my inner catwalk model. He had sunglasses on, in February gloom, a brand-new country tweed jacket and tie up-top, and below, a pair of bright blue tracksuit bottoms, with two white stripes running down the outside of each leg, the outfit finished off with a pair of polished black shoes. Fetching.
What the seven-year-old, - who now must be thirteen and probably with her own thriving online apparel and accessories business – would have thought of it is anyone’s guess. Me, I nearly applauded.