coat and maturity

Falling in love again. When you were young, it was all so easy. You’d meet some vaguely intelligent amusing fellow and it was all bluebirds and Carpenters’ songs and foolish smiles. Now, well let’s just say you’re a little wiser, a little less naive and able to spot doe eyed charmers at 10 yards. Same with clothes. When you’re young, any incarnation of the latest look sent you into reams of ecstasies. Some years later, and the item has got to count, to work for you and last. Eek! A sign of growing up p’haps?

I bought a coat a few weeks ago. It’s a variation on this season’s trench. Seriously crumpled. In it I feel as if I’m some uber dynamic combination of Charlotte Gainsbourg, Jane Austen heroine and dishevelled hipster. Needless to say, the coat is sand coloured and the belt is a little higher than normal… yes, it’s empire line. It’s going to take me right through this season, and I have extremely high-in-the-sky-apple-pie-hopes that it will do so into the next. (Proviso: if the London summer doesn’t suddenly vanish like the mirage that it often proves to be.)

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about a purchase. And I think i’m settling into this particular relationship nicely.