I've certainly banged the drum about the rules in this country. How driving without insurance gets your name in the paper and not in the society pages. Getting away with avoiding tax is as likely as getting a tan in December. Allowing your kid to bunk school for a weekend sneakaway, his academic report is blemished until University. Talking on your cellphone at a petrol station, you’ll get publically shamed and lambasted over the PA system. Rules are what govern this little island and its people. And for the most part, it’s good because these rules mean that everything works. Nothing is poked. Facilities are clean. Public toilets never look as though they’ve hosted a crime scene from an episode of Dexter. Buses and trains are on schedule. If there’s a slight delay, it makes the news. This is a first world country and the public infrastructure reflects this.
Where there’s a massive irony though is that for such a strait laced though-shalt-not-let-one’s-child-come-to-school-with-peanuts society, they’re very lax in another area. And no, I don’t mean in dental hygiene. There’s that. We’ve been there. Got the tooth decay. What I refer to in this instance is the Brits and fashion. There are no rules in Britain. No fashion police. Everything and anything goes.
- No one bats an eyelid at a pair of camel-toe-esque leopard print tights worn with a corset and accessorised with knee high boots to the supermarket at 10am on a weekday morning.
- When the temperature rises above 15 degrees, it’s perfectly acceptable to don your bikini in a public park. If you don’t happen to have swimwear on hand, you can strip down to your underwear. No one comes running with a towel to cover your dignity.
- You can wear a onesie if you’re an adult. You can pair this with Ugg boots and a cowboy hat. Even if you’re simply popping into the newsagents on the high street. No one thinks you’re a bride or groom on a hen or stag party. No one takes pictures.
- See-through apparel is acceptable. Shirts, pants, dresses. Even worn to the post office. In fact, flashing flesh of any description is fine. Chest, bottom or leg.
- School uniforms can be so short the teenage girls wearing them need to wax. And I’m not referring to their legs. Makeup for schoolgirls is also acceptable it appears. False lashes included.
- You can wear 6-inch heels, a latex skirt and fishnets to drop off your child at school.
Since living in this land of anomalies, I’ve realised that South Africa is still a very conservative country. For all its democratic freedom and social inclusion, there’s still a very restrictive attitude when it comes to fashion. Britain and London, in particular, has moved past this. The melting pot of cultures and identities that make up this city are not concerned with making any kind of judgment on the basis of skirt length or appropriateness of attire. There’s a laisser faire attitude to fashion here. And while I'm still working to get over my “holy crap is she honestly wearing that” attitude, I find it all rather refreshing.
There must be such a sense of freedom in being able to throw on an ensemble based on exactly how you feel in the moment. No anguish about whether it fits, whether it’s right. Whether your bum looks gargantuan, your love handles ooze from the sides or your saddlebags jiggle. No fear of judgement, ridicule or mockery. You choose your fashion rules for your life. Because it’s your life. There’s something awesome in that. I want to try and learn from this country’s attitude to embracing all people and their fashion choices from the sublime to the ridiculous. I want to try then to raise my children with this liberating sense of open-mindedness. Remember I’m the one who tells them they’ll die if they touch the stove or venture too far away from me in the supermarket. I have a long way to go when it comes to tactful teaching so it will have to be baby steps. If you’ve seen how I walk, baby steps are both a literal and figurative hurdle for me. But I’m committed to the cause. I want to raise amazing human beings. I plan to ensure that the next time my son begs to wear his sister’s metallic silver belt to school, I don’t tell him that boys don’t wear shiny belts. I let him wear the belt. As camp as it looks. Who cares? He doesn’t. And that’s really what matters. I will allow my daughter to choose her outfits and she may (god forbid) develop a penchant for bright pink or Hello Kitty. The devil's in the detail and in my opinion that detail is Hello Kitty and its elk. So it will be a challenge for me. But I won't bribe her to wear what I want as I’d planned. I'll let her choose. I honour her with the freedom to express herself as she sees fit. As long as she doesn’t choose wedges. I will disown her if she comes home with a pair of wedges. I can’t stand them. Nor can I understand how the hell they’ve lasted so long as a trend. The mind boggles. Salavatore Ferragamo was the Italian designer responsible for the ugliest footwear style known to woman. Thanks Mr. F. Too many Bellinis in the sun perhaps? He's no. 11 of 14 kids. That’s got to mess with your head. So many brothers and sisters. Maybe that was the start of it...maybe he felt he needed to find a way to wedge himself into the brood for some attention? Either way. Something went terribly wrong somewhere. No disrespect Mr. F, the rest of your stuff is awesome. Just not the wedge.
There must be such a sense of freedom in being able to throw on an ensemble based on exactly how you feel in the moment. No anguish about whether it fits, whether it’s right. Whether your bum looks gargantuan, your love handles ooze from the sides or your saddlebags jiggle. No fear of judgement, ridicule or mockery. You choose your fashion rules for your life. Because it’s your life. There’s something awesome in that. I want to try and learn from this country’s attitude to embracing all people and their fashion choices from the sublime to the ridiculous. I want to try then to raise my children with this liberating sense of open-mindedness. Remember I’m the one who tells them they’ll die if they touch the stove or venture too far away from me in the supermarket. I have a long way to go when it comes to tactful teaching so it will have to be baby steps. If you’ve seen how I walk, baby steps are both a literal and figurative hurdle for me. But I’m committed to the cause. I want to raise amazing human beings. I plan to ensure that the next time my son begs to wear his sister’s metallic silver belt to school, I don’t tell him that boys don’t wear shiny belts. I let him wear the belt. As camp as it looks. Who cares? He doesn’t. And that’s really what matters. I will allow my daughter to choose her outfits and she may (god forbid) develop a penchant for bright pink or Hello Kitty. The devil's in the detail and in my opinion that detail is Hello Kitty and its elk. So it will be a challenge for me. But I won't bribe her to wear what I want as I’d planned. I'll let her choose. I honour her with the freedom to express herself as she sees fit. As long as she doesn’t choose wedges. I will disown her if she comes home with a pair of wedges. I can’t stand them. Nor can I understand how the hell they’ve lasted so long as a trend. The mind boggles. Salavatore Ferragamo was the Italian designer responsible for the ugliest footwear style known to woman. Thanks Mr. F. Too many Bellinis in the sun perhaps? He's no. 11 of 14 kids. That’s got to mess with your head. So many brothers and sisters. Maybe that was the start of it...maybe he felt he needed to find a way to wedge himself into the brood for some attention? Either way. Something went terribly wrong somewhere. No disrespect Mr. F, the rest of your stuff is awesome. Just not the wedge.
Clearly, I have a long way to go in my Learn to Love the World Through Fashion (even Fashion that is Revolting) Appreciation Project. I’ll keep you posted on how I go. In the meantime, step away from the wedges. Go for the Mary-Janes or pumps instead. Baby steps Sally. Baby steps.
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| Hyde Park sunbather. Leopard pant and all. Gotta love London. |
