Sunday, 9 May 2010

Frock on, frock off

Woke this morning to the sound of pigeons scrabbling about, sliding off the roof. They do it now just to piss me off. I no longer have a fetish for the fat self-satisfied little bastards. They are probably up there now, enjoying how the roof tiles make some fantastic water slide into the blocked gutters. The more of them dead, the better.

Anyway, pigeons disturbed me. And I may have been enjoying the best erotic dream, the one with big hands and cake, before those rats with wings muscled in on the act. After that interruption, I quickly sank three pits down, to the circles of self indulgent misery sulks. Dreams are never true. Not even a bit of them.

For this miserable state of affairs, there is only one solution, and that is go to town and take my clothes off in a cupboard.

Come on girls, you all do this, so don't deny it. The first solution to a self-pitying start and a miserable love life on a failed Sunday morning is go and buy clothes you'll never wear.

But that moment is fantastic, isn't it? Metamorphosing from one identity to another. I metamorphosed from ragbag washed up beat up old hippy to washed up old hippy in ragbag beat up gear. I may even show you photos.


I like this cotton, silk and linen crumpled look. I am made the sort of free woman who strides through continents, faces frontiers, explores sensuous passions. I am woman in control, glowing, natural, shaking her free hair to the rising dawn. In a field. In my dreams I probably slept in that dew filled field. Actually, I do remember that. I did sleep in a field. I was cold and uncomfortable. It rained on me, the soil was all lumpty, and I cried.

There, I cannot even grow that metaphor nor be that dream-filled person. That's how bad things are. All is hard reality, loss and wasteland. Not even a metamorphosis in a cupboard fixes me now. So I didn't buy the look. But there's always hope, right? If you like that sort of thing. I can say, I might tomorrow. If I get cake, big hands, free spirit, linen crumple, then I might. I might.

3 comments:

Rachel M. said...

Well the dress looks fabulous on you!

MadameSmokinGun said...

It's like Muriel's Wedding! This could start a whole new thing - I'm going to head off to the super-lucicrous Tunbridge Wells boutique that stocks lickable Missonni gowns and take pictures. Of course it would be obviously fake - me in anything so beautiful - like a chimp at a PG Tipps tea party of old but ohh.... pictures of mum in cool gear in between the theatre tickets and squashed museum workshop delights would addle the brains of my ungrateful offspring when they look through the old bundles after I'm dead: 'I must have taken her for granted all those years, not realising how elegant and exquisite she truly was. Where are those clothes now? Why did she only keep the yellow velour leisure suits I wonder?'

Grit said...

thank you rachel! i chose the most flattering picture mind. the other one made me look like i had a growth on my bum.

mme sg! that is a fantastic idea. take some homely props like your tea pot and saucepan and hang them around the changing room to create the look that says 'this is the dior i wore, but only on the days i cooked sausages for tea. the missoni i saved for the spaghetti'.