All dressed down; HD versus my wardrobe.

What shall I do with all my clothes? I have 2 wardrobes full then and weirdly, nothing to wear. They were mostly bought with a different me in mind. I have cocktail dresses, skirt suits for the office, boho festival outfits, party dresses, vintage statement pieces and origami from Issey Miyake.

I loved my weird dresses, more than my husband or children did. They aren’t sexy but I do feel like myself in them.

The different eras of my life are represented; my mod parka is moldering slightly out of reach. I’m always pleased to see the gothic Morticia dress I bought in the Kooky Shop in Brighton in the eighties.

I want nothing this society’s got?

The Prada heels I bought with my book advance remind me of the nineties. My therapist made me buy them and a red Moschino dress. LM thought my Issey Miyake cowls contributed to my depression. She sent me off to Harvey Nichols in search of something more cheerful. It didn’t work! In The Priory oversized jumpers were considered de-rig.

I couldn’t walk in my heels then. Nowadays I struggle to balance in anything other than the sensible Merril sandals that J hates.

It might be time to admit defeat; I’m too rough with my clothes, I keep tearing them. HD has cost me a fortune in repair and dry cleaning bills. Apart from anything else, it’s hard to keep up with all the washing. Every time I eat, I spill food and drink all over myself. I have taken to wearing a plastic apron but there is a gap between the apron and the top of my top. This morning, I ate my breakfast naked apart from the apron, but I spilled cornflakes all over my chest.

I need practical, sensible clothes suitable for the school run. My carer has helped me to identify the dresses she thinks might sell on eBay. There is also a pile to take to Oxfam. But can I bring myself to let any of them go? At my carer’s suggestion, I went to Uniqlo on Oxford Street in search of jeans and sweatshirts. I came back with some beautiful, complicated ‘pieces’ (when did they start calling them that) from their collaboration with edgy English designer J W Anderson. At least they didn’t cost the earth. I’m ashamed to admit, when the money for my clothes came from our joint account, I used to hide my shopping bags from my husband.

I used to take A to Liberty’s when she was a toddler. The assistants were always very nice to her and she remembers the place fondly. Somehow, A became aware of the strain my Liberty’s habit was putting on our family finances. She helped me kick the habit using a reward chart like the one we made for her for staying in bed all night.

It worked! I haven’t been to Liberty’s for years. When I did, I couldn’t afford it. Whenever I go past it I feel a pang of guilt, picturing my dad on a velvet chair in women’s wear, choreic, waiting for me for me to adjudicate between APC tunic dresses. He always paid.

J would love it there. ‘To Liberty’s!’ he said when I was walking him to school today. I’m anticipating a few grand from my fathers will. J wants me to spend ‘at least some of it’ in Liberty’s.

‘To Liberty’s…’

Rather than sell or give them away, my husband thinks I should wear my posh clothes every day, ditching the apron. If I took pictures of the ketchup stains, I could call it a performance art piece.

I’m going to the ballet with J on Monday. We discussed what to wear. ‘It has to be your Ozzie Clark mum’. He has never seen me in my legendary moss crepe maxi dress. I used to say it would be the second thing I’d save in a fire, after the family.

Missed Adventures

I wish I’d gone on adventures and trips abroad while I still could. Time is short though. Should I write a bucket list? Everyone seems to have them. My husband was given ‘1000 places to See Before You Die’ for his 50^th birthday, but there are hardly any places he hasn’t been to. On the bookshelf behind me; ‘100 Films to Watch Before you Die’ and ‘100 Books to Read Before you Die.’ I can’t really read or work our DVD player without my children’s help.

My anxiety (and parochialism) has stopped me from expanding my horizons. I was too worried about getting food poisoning to go on a family holiday to Egypt where they camped in the desert. I didn’t go to Ireland because of the rain, or Dorset because the chairs in their holiday cottage are too uncomfortable.

I’m glad that my children are well travelled. A and J have been to Africa, Egypt, Ireland, Italy, Iceland. France, Lanzarote, America and Croatia. My husband is planning to take A trekking through the Burmese jungle next year. They have prepared for this by wild camping in Wales a couple of weeks ago.

Reflecting on it now, I think the rewards of travelling would have been worth the risk. Beached in front of the TV, my life flashes before me. There are many interior shots of me smoking in different front rooms, but very few in in the wild. In mid life, I am surprised by a sudden wander-lust. I long to head to the hills with a day-pack and some energy bars. Or, less ambitiously, book a European mini break in a mid-range hotel.

Now that I want to go away, no-one wants to come with me. I was a difficult person to travel with. A few years ago, before we had children, me and my husband went to Gran Canaria. On arrival, I was dismayed to find a barren, volcanic landscape with no trees. This may have been disappointing, but was it my husband’s fault? Whenever I went to places, I often fell out with them on the first day. Unfamiliar vistas used to make me anxious, I’m not sure why.

Ravens are sedentary creatures… my brother lives in a beautiful Regency flat by the sea in Brighton but he never walks along the prom, which seems mad to everyone apart from people who knew my mother, Susan. We moved to Brighton from London when I was 11. When I was growing up, there was no culture of family walks, not even on Christmas Day. Susan hardly ever left the house apart from occasional trips to the Peking or The Ashoka restaurants, where we’d argue noisily. My father used to take us rollerblading along the Front but I can’t remember Susan ever going there. In the Eighties, when I was a teenager, there were only a couple of cafes on the prom selling weak tea in polystyrene cups, and seedy amusement arcades. This was perfect setting for my sub cultural teenage exploits. Brighton has changed since then, but ’jimmy’s alley’, where Jimmy had sex with Steph in Quadrophenia, is still there.

Brighton prom; gaudy distraction

My husband’s favourite beach is Ringstead in Dorset, where his family rented a house. It’s pebbly and blustery. He learnt to swim, then to sail in the bay in the seventies (wetsuits are for wimps).  Ringstead is owned by the National Trust so there are no ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hats or gaudy distractions from its natural beauty. It makes Brighton look cloyingly artificial, but there’s nothing much for me do there. I used to love swimming in cold water but my lack of co-ordination has made breast-stroke very difficult. So I just sit there waiting for my wet-suited children to be washed up on the beach.

Ringstead in Dorset

I like posh hotels but can’t afford to pay for them myself.

I think I need a travel companion with no emotional baggage. I can’t help feeling I have clipped my husband’s wings. Rather than feel guilty about the past, I’d like to set off on a journey with a clear horizon. I wouldn’t mind being a tourist; I’m not snobby about that. If I focused on the places rather than my preconceptions about them or my levels of discomfort, I think I’d enjoy myself.

Any suggestions for destinations would be welcome. I’m too young for a cruise though.