Slipping on my glasses, I read the note my husband has left for me before going to work this morning. We're off to a Polo match at the weekend and the competition is fierce. The stakes are high and I have to win so it's all in the planning and trial runs.
Of course it's not me playing Polo, it's my husband. But he knows my participation in the off field event s are so much more important than his silly little game and by the time he gets home, he has resigned himself to the inevitable shopping trip tomorrow. As any woman of social standing knows, these events are a veritable minefield. A fashion faux pas now will have you consigned to the society scrapheap quicker than anything and everything from perfectly coiffered hair, through the right sunglasses, down to the exclusive shoes and everything in between will be picked apart.
By time he gets out of the shower next morning, I have everything lined up and ready to go. Walking boots donned, itinery of Covent Garden boutiques mapped out, keys, glasses, sunglasses all packed and we're finally ready for the off.
Despite the anxious gut feeling I have over getting this right, a stroll around Covent Garden in the sun is beginning to relax me. Taking my sunglasses from my bag I put them on and relax further knowing that I have some protection from squinting induced wrinkles.
We slip into an exclusive boutique and I try on a perfectly tailored cream suit with black trim while my husband waits patiently. Does my bum look big in this, I ask him. Of course not dear, he replies and I am satisfied. However, taking a second look in the mirror something is not quite right. Unable to put my finger on the problem, I put on my glasses for a closer inspection. No, I'm not happy, so we move on.
Eight shops later and he's starting to flag. It's not my fault. This is too important to screw up but each shop I try just can't get it right. What is wrong with these people?
At last, I've found a very feminine floaty dress that I think will win me the match. Emerging from the changing room, I step in front of my husband and once again ask, does my bum look big in this? No dear, he says. I would have been satisfied had I not turned to look at him at this point. He was putting on his glasses as he made his reply and the badly disguised look of horror told me he was lying!
Backpedalling like crazy he did his utmost to convince me it wasn't how it looked but I was hurt and it was too late. I stormed out of the shop and into the nearest restaraunt for a much needed Bollinger. I took a seat outside and was hiding my red raw eyes behind my sunglasses by the time he had finished apologising to the manageress and caught up with me.
Thats it, he cries. Thats it! I know what the problem is! Theres nothing wrong with any of the outfits I've tried on, he tells me. Theres nothing wrong with my figure he also adds, but I suspect that may be to get himself out of a corner. According to him its all in the accessories. And this coming from a man!
My darling husband takes me to purchase some new sunglasses. I resist at first, preferring to stick with the ones I have known and trusted for many years. But he reassures me designer sunglasses are now commonplace. I can't see that this will make a great deal of difference as I will still need to keep swapping them for my prescription glasses so I can see whos outfit I'm running down. However, he reassures me that even designer prescriptiion sunglasses are now available! Imagine!
After trying on various different styles, I settle on a pair of Prada black gloss to compliment the cream suit I saw in the first shop and thats where we're now heading.
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