On Sunday, I went to Blook Club. Smidgen came too, even though she hadn't read the book (tut tut). The book this month was Super Sad True Love Story, an offbeat science-fiction romance set in a near future where people are obsessed with sex, shopping and spewing every detail of their most intimate selves online. Totally nothing like now, then. At all. Not even a little bit.
Anywaaay, let's move swiftly on to the point of this post: my outfit.
Yes, that is correct. I attended a gathering of interesting, intelligent women, we had spirited discussions about everything from gender equality in childhood to the proliferation of internet memes to how lavender cake tastes like soap, and I am telling you about my outfit.
Here's the thing. I do not believe that being intelligent and caring about fashion are mutually exclusive. I don't think that wearing high heels makes me a "bad feminist", or restricts my ability to discuss a book, or is really anyone's business but my own (unless they want to tell me they like my shoes, in which case, it's totally their business! Compliment away!).
Getting dressed in the morning is often the only aesthetic decision I make in a whole day, so if I find pleasure in the creative pairing of colour and texture, if making a fub outfit out of the mismatched contents of my wardrobe puts a smile on my face, then I am damn well going to wear what makes me happy. Even if what makes me happy is not always entirely appropriate to the situation.
Which brings me back to my outfit for Blook Club.
You see, in my day job, the sartorial options are limited. The tricky boundaries of acceptable workwear are worthy of a whole post of their own, so suffice it to say that ripped jeans and platform shoes are generally frowned upon in legal circles. I've written before about my mission to dump the frump, so when an opportunity arises to be a little bit more creative in my choices, I have a tendency to get... overexcited.
Maybe I spend too much time ogling outfits on Pinterest (um, yes). Maybe I've looked at too many pictures of women in glamorous outfits posing with their dogs (also yes). Whatever the reason, in my head it was totally reasonable to try and recreate this outfit for Blook Club:
Look at her! She's wearing a poloneck! What could be more bookish than that? I bet she's carrying a book in that [suspiciously empty-looking] leather bag. And I'm sure her pet greyhound is just out of shot. Probably.
If I were a proper fashion blogger or completely narcissistic (let's be honest, the two usually go hand-in-hand) I would have a series of arty shots of myself rocking around town in my own - admittedly toned-down - version of this outfit. But I don't, so you'll just have to imagine it. Picture navy tights, ripped jeans rolled up, stripy top. The snood, obv. I even had a little arm party going on, but smaller; more of an arm gathering. Or an arm soirée. With a very select guest list.
The best bit, though, was my shoes. Not having a pair of beige patent ankle-strap courts (does anyone?), I went for the next best thing: sky-high platform gladiator sandals. Naturally. Because what else would you wear on your feet to attend a book club with your dog?
It was all going so well. Smidgen and I made a sweeping entrance, strolling elegantly into the pub on long, shapely legs (well, she did). I managed to stop her eating the home-made tablet, she managed to make me look only mildly incompetent as a dog owner. I didn't fall over on my way to the bar. Everything was grand.
Until she needed a pee.
Let me tell you, there is nothing less dignified than hobbling around a filthy, glass-strewn patch of grass round the side of a pub in four-inch heels. The customary posse of vaguely menacing teenagers couldn't even summon up a decent insult; I think they were just embarrassed for me. Or for Smidgen. I'm not sure which.
Of course, it was all my own fault. Clearly the platforms were a terrible mistake.
Next time, I'll wear wedges.
Images: 1. Vogue 2. Atlantic-Pacific 3. Dane Shitagi for Longchamp via Fashion Gone Rogue, all via Pinterest
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