Standards

For our walk today I put on the very comfy, very ugly shoes that I bought last summer. You may remember me banging on about them. However, when I put them on today I thought I’d been rather harsh in my previous appraisal, they look fine, quite nice even.

Really though, do they?

Is it this isolation playing with my head? Or is there an incremental, yearly, lowering of sartorial standards that will culminate one day with me sitting at a jaunty angle, in an upright chair, in an old people’s home, wearing somebody else’s bra over the top of my jumper, and I just won’t care?

I think the answer is yes. Although this thought is disquieting now, I am cheered by the notion that by then I won’t give a damn.

I’ve just chatted with Frenchie. She’s a few notches further towards the wrong bra scenario than me. She is yet to reach, whatever, as long as I don’t smell. Her current position is that of a woman unfettered by the dress code prejudices of others. If she’s comfy and she loves it, she will wear it, regardless, everyday.

I think the lockdown has the potential to quicken my sartorial decline. I will try to defend my wardrobe standards but let’s see where we’re at next year.

This is Elsie a potential future house mate. Her son visits once a month. He’s nice enough but once a month is probably plenty.