Pastels are huge this season. This is a bit of a bummer for me, as I don't own much in the way of pastel clothes. This season is all about sugared almond colours; pale pinks and lemons, baby blues, pistachio. Apparently, we are not supposed to team these pastels with black, or that will kill the look. A riot of pastel from top to toe. Normally I'd solve this by a quick zoom round the charity shops, but alas.
I own a pair of pale pink jeans. I have a sort of putty coloured long hoodie. If I rootle through the shirt drawer I will probably unearth a pale green vest top. But that's about it for pastels. Dammit, I used to have a pale blue long-sleeved T-shirt! And a pale pistachio V-necked sweater. But they were culled in the last wardrobe clear-out in autumn 2010. I thought (when will I learn?) I'll never wear those again. That phrase is a powerful spell which you can use to manipulate the tides of fashion. You bundle up and banish your peplum jackets and pussy bow blouses and bang! we are in the midst of a Mrs Thatcher moment.
But here's a happy, happy thing: I had only got as far as bundling up those pastel garments. They never made it to the charity shop. I found them today in a carrier bag in what we refer to as 'the en suite', because that's what we were told it would become five and a half years ago when we arrived in Lichfield. Little by little, as hope dwindled, it became the overflow wardrobe-cum-home gym room. Interestingly, the precentor was lured here with a similar promise. Perhaps he still believes that one day he'll have an en suite bathroom and not have to hike quarter of a mile through a freezing house on a winter night when he needs a wee.
Oh. I've wandered off the subject. So, to sum up then: I have the pastels after all. Soon I will construct an outfit of utter confectionery loveliness and get back to you.