I’ve developed a chronic case of clothes-trophobia; I just can’t face clothes shopping ever again. I’ve had enough of fluorescent lighting and fossicking through manky, over-fingered sale racks. Besides, at this age, surely I’ve got enough clothes? From now on, I’ve decided, I will only shop in my own wardrobe.
Kathy Lette once greeted the Queen in her best corgi chic. Credit: Getty Images Already, I’ve delved so deeply into the cupboard I’m practically in Narnia. Hell, I’m so far back in the closet I may soon find Liberace.
But seriously, the items I’ve uncovered, discovered, salvaged and excavated have had me in stitches. I cannot believe the number of fashion faux pas, style solecisms and garment gaffes and gaucheries I’ve committed over the last five decades. Why haven’t I been arrested by the Fashion Police? Take the gold, sequinned hot pants.
(Please do, just in case I’m ever tempted to become the butt of more jokes by wearing them again.) The sequinned catsuit is also far from purr-fect. Shoulder-padded power suits, denim overalls, a red cape, a tasselled cowgirl skirt, boob tubes, harem pants, double denim and crocheted G-string bikinis also rate highly on the ick-ometer.
What was I thinking? Did I even have a mirror? Was I simply being sartorially satirical? Tongue-in-chic? Maybe, but I fear it was nothing more than bad taste. Take the gold, sequinned hot pants. (Please do, just in case I’m ever tempted to become the butt of more jokes by we.