Lucky Lady

A few weeks ago I wrote a post about how there was this shirt dress that I'd seen and oh, it was the most prettiest of all the shirt dresses and woe was me because I couldn't afford to buy it, and was forced to slink shamefully away from the shop attired in my clothing made from bin bags and old cabbage leaves. Or whatever.

Yesterday I was in Topshop, Oxford Circus. Which is basically the fourth circle of hell. Fourth or fifth, I can't remember, but it feels a touch too close to the core of fire and brimstone for my liking. It's just too big, and there's too much stuff in there. For those who have never been, it is spread across four floors, each floor warehouse-sized. The clothes are nice, there is always huge variety, a massive vintage section, endless shoes, café, etc. It makes me feel nervous and tired, though. Also on more than one occasion Sophie (impish sister) and I have had Proper Arguments in there, and I suspect it had rather a lot to do with the evil powers of the Massive Shop of Death and the swarms of Stick-Thin Teenage Girls.

Anyway. I was returning something yesterday, and had some vouchers remaining. I am not, I resolved to myself firmly, leaving here until I find something to wear for the concert on July 1st. I walked around concentrating as hard as I could, properly looking at things rather than dismissing them for reasons such as "too far away from my hand" and "probably designed for someone with better hair".

I looked, and found some things. Went to try them on, always getting them in the size I hope I am and the size I suspect I might be really, and stood staring at myself disconsolately, wondering whether the cabbage leaves were so bad after all. I tried on some shorts, knee length and short, a skirt and two dresses: one of which made me look like a surgically enhanced seven year old and the other like an unenthusiastic bride of dracula. Thoroughly discouraged I piled the rejects on top of the sullen, emaciated, teenage shop assistant's head and made my way to the exit.

There, hanging serenely on the rail, it was. A siren of a dress, pulling me towards it and, like a doomed sailor, I had no power to resist.

Bounding back into the queue, clutching the obligatory two sizes, I waited for the glazed appraisal of my items by the assistant, or, to be more specific, her jutting hip bones, and quick as a flash I was facing the mirror, buttoning it up. Falling deeply in love.

"Hello" I murmured, softly so as not to startle it. I tied the belt around my waist in a bow. "You're very nice, aren't you? Would you like to come home with me?"

A shirt dress. Button down the front, mid-thigh length. Lapels at the front, so that it opens quite low, but not too low. Short sleeves. A tie bit just above the waist. Oh, and also I got it in the size I hoped I was, as opposed to the bigger one. Which officially means that this dress thinks I'm thin.

It's my new best friend. I bought it with my vouchers, and I'm wearing it now. It is such a lovely feeling to have new clothes.

This morning Tom gave me a Lonely Planet guide to New Zealand and told me to look through and think about what I might want to do. I immediately began my research, poring over the pictures enthusiastically all the way to work. I haven't bought my tickets yet, but as soon as my card comes through I'll get online and snap them up, quicksharp. I am so very, very excited. I am such a lucky girl.

Also Biarritz. My bikini came through yesterday and it fits like a turquoise, lyrca charm with string bits. I have no real idea what else I need to take for a beach holiday. Suncream; flip flops; sunglasses; books. Bucket and spade; towel; big windbreaker thing; hanky for head. Anything else? Can someone tell me, please? It's ages and ages since I went on holiday, and even longer since I went to the beach, and I cannot at all remember the basics. Passport, oversized hat, toned, perfect body. Check, check, um, yeah, go on then, check. Why not, you can't see. I'm just words to you.

I have a busy time before Biarritz, though. A course all day Saturday, about how to market yourself as a musician, and then a cello rehearsal all day Sunday. Then the concert next Saturday, for which I still have to write the speech bits (did I mention that there were speech bits?) and practice my songs. I'm quite confident that it'll go well, though. I have actually put quite a bit of work into it, and the other guys in the show have as well. I am looking forward to it, and then if it all goes horribly I'm leaving the country the next day so nobody'll be able to catch me. Until I come back, that is, but by then I'll have a tan and nobody can be mean to you if you've got a tan. There's a rule.

So here I am, in my new dress. Looking forward to stuff. Feeling like things are under control, but not in an OCD sort of a way, just normal. My room is even tidy.

Crazy.