Will you Wear Red, Jenny Jenkins?

'Will you wear red, oh my dear, oh my dear? Will you wear red, Jenny Jenkins?' enquires the traditional American folk song.  To which Jenny replies, 'I won't wear red, it's the colour of my head. I'll buy me a fol-de-roldy toldy toddy seek-a-double, use-a-cause-a-roll-the-find-me. Roll, roll, Jenny Jenkins, roll.'  We learnt that on Singing Together on the radio when I was at Primary School, and I never did master the nonsense bit at the end.  

On the whole, I'm with Jenny Jenkins here.  I seldom wear red.  Not because it's the colour of my head.  Though if I drink too much wine then it's the colour of my face these days, as many ladies at this interesting stage of life will also have discovered.  A bright tomato red has never been one of my best colours.  It tends to make me look a bit washed out.  I need a red that's more at the pink end of the spectrum than the orange.  Think dark red peonies rather than pillar box.

Last Friday, however, was National Wear Red Day for the British Heart Foundation.  I discovered this when I spotted it was trending on Twitter.  At the time I was sitting at my computer in my slobbing about gear, devoid of sartorial inspiration.  Right, I'll have a rummage, I thought.  And I found a pair of bright red plimsolls (sort of fake Converse from the late lamented TJHughes), a bright red 3/4 length sleeve V-necked T-shirt with a sprinkling of sparkly red glass gems down the front.  This was also from TJs.  I bought it a couple of Christmases ago to wear under an ankle length coat dress with astonishing fur trim at neck and cuffs in the manner of Cruella De Vil.  Darling, I LIVE for furs!

I wore this T-shirt on Friday in a more dressed down style, with a pair of slouchy boyfriend jeans.  All through the day I kept mistaking the glittery gems for crumbs scattered on my bosom.  That's peripheral vision for you.  I also wore a red heart-shaped pendant, a fitting tribute to the British Heart Foundation, who do a good job, and at whose boutiques I have found many a bargain over the years.

Cast not a Clout Till May be Out

Contrary to popular belief, 'cast not a clout till May be out' is nothing to do with hitting people.  It is not saying that the Open Season for Punching begins on May 1st.  The 'clout' referred to is 'cloth', or clothing.  Those of you who studied Romeo and Juliet at school may remember that the nurse compares Paris favourably with Romeo: 'Oh, he's a lovely gentleman.  Romeo's a dishclout to him.'  As in dishcloth.

The 'May' referred to is not the month, either.  It's the may blossom, or hawthorn.  So the saying means, don't start flinging the layers off until the hawthorn blossom is out.  These days this tend to be April, or earlier.  It's not out yet.  The wild plum is in bud, and that's usually the first to burst into blossom in England.  Another couple of days like today, and the hedgerows will be sugared with pink and white, and our hearts can unclench.  

I took a walk round Lichfield's Stowe Pool today, and found that I could believe in spring.

A blue true dream of sky, but no leaping greenly spirits of trees yet.  The weeping willows are golden on the far side of the pool, as you can see.  But it was so warm!  I saw a lass in sandals.  People were peeling off coats and jumpers.  I was in my customary winter wear of treggings, boots and big cardigan and I was regretting my merino wool base layer.  Maybe with global warming we'll have to rewrite the old saying: 'Do not remove your thermals until the wild plum is in blossom.'  Nah, it doesn't have the same ring, does it?

What to Wear in Lent

What To Wear In Lent.  That sounds a bit like the title of a Ladybird Book. And what is the answer?  Sack cloth and ashes?  Purple?  Smudge of ash?  Unfortunately, Lent is not all about denying yourself treats, or I'd be feeling a bit smug.  After all, I've given up buying myself new clothes all year, let alone for Lent.  That's Iron Woman triathlon treat-denial that is, not just a footling little marathon.

Today I'm wearing black.  Readers of this blog will know not to read any significance into that choice.  I wear black roughly four days in seven.  In the winter, that is.  In the summer I wear a lot of white.  There's something to look forward to.  Black is smart, black is slimming, black is the default setting.  It is also traditionally the colour of mourning.  And I am mourning, as it happens.  An old friend died yesterday.  I'm guessing she'd prefer me to be in vibrant colours.  That would be a better celebration of her life.  But no, I'm in black, feeling bleak, wishing I could have gone across to the cathedral this evening to be ashed.  To hear the echoes of Allegri's Miserere chasing down the nave.  To remember that I am dust and to dust I will return.  

This is more what Lent is about.  One day it will be summer.  One day I will be wearing white.  I know this.  But there's a journey to be done first.  There's no fast forward to Easter.  

DAY 50--Clothes Parcels (ii)

Woo hoo!  I have received my first clothes parcel!  Well, perhaps one garment doesn't quite count as a parcel, but I'm delighted with it.  I was tipped off in advance by my oldest friend (we met when we were 6) that she'd be visiting and bringing a clothes parcel.  Socks, I thought.  She's read my blog and she's bought me a pack of sports socks.  How kind.  

But no!  Here's what she gave me:

That is one LOUD coat.  Roses that size are normally seen on carpets.  But then, I'm a fairly loud sort of personality.  Never knowingly understated.  It's by Ann Louise Roswald, and I think it's made of raw silk, but I can't see a care label anywhere.  Bound to be dry clean only.  On this rare occasion I shall take that seriously, as it looks hand dyed.  It's also a perfect fit, and that might well be jeopardised by flinging it in the washing machine.  

When am I going to wear it?  As it turns out, evensong this afternoon might have been a good contender.  Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were in the cathedral for our celebration of the Queen's Accession.  A good deal of fine millinery and Ascottery was on display; as well as the usual parade of uniforms, frills, ruffles and bling that get dusted off for civic occasions.  Fortunately I was in a skirt and little tweed jacket not jeans.  But the fab new coat would have been even better.  Never mind, I shall save it.  One of my concerns at the beginning of this year was the unexpected posh do requiring an entire new outfit which I'd be unable to buy.  Now I have something in reserve.  Hoorah for clothes parcels and old friends! 

Here's the designer's website: http://www.annlouiseroswald.com/index.html

DAYS 45-49--What to Wear on a Mini-Break

What to wear on a mini-break?  Oh dear, oh dear!  This subject can occupy a woman's mind for several weeks as she mentally packs and unpacks, buys new clothes, has a brainwave which requires the buying of yet more new clothes, then remembers the whole holiday capsule wardrobe concept, in which you take a small number of key garments and mix and match them in such a way as to create twenty different looks, and regretfully discards half the new clothes.

I once passed a woman in the street agonising out loud about packing for holiday.  'I thought if I took the smaller suitcase, and wore my boots, then I'd only need a pair of shoes for the evening, so I'd have room for the cords as well as the jeans...'  On and on she rambled, with her husband making the occasional noise here and there which implied assent.  Memo to self: never try and get a man on board about clothes packing, interior design, home made jam or trips to IKEA.  He's not really listening, he's thinking, 'If Reknapp takes the England job on part-time initially, then...'  

To be honest, it probably doesn't much matter what you take with you on a mini break.  A bunch of nice clothes, basically.  Don't fret, you'll be fine, provided you've got a) a pair of shoes/boots you can walk miles in, and b) something lacy (if you are going with a companion whose tastes veer in the lacy direction).  Apart from that, the only essential for a stay in a hotel is earplugs.  Never, never book into a hotel without them.  You cannot know in advance how thin the walls are and how noisy the neighbours.

The chancellor and I have just had a couple of pleasant days in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  We were staying in Jesmond, which is pretty much wall-to-wall student accommodation as far as I can see.  There are a string of hotels along one of the main streets.  They all have bars, and in the evenings this is where the students like to gather.  Hence the need for earplugs.  It is one thing to overhear the exotic street drama of Bologna being played out under your window; quite another to be kept awake by Daisy or Freddie asserting (in the tones of astonished uncertainty which are currently fashionable), 'I hate washing machines? I LITERALLY hate them?'

Back in the early 90s we lived in Gateshead.  It was odd to be back on the South bank of the Tyne enjoying the stunning views from the Sage, built on what was the Saltmeadows Estate in our parish.  Its inhabitants were just being rehoused prior to the estate's demolition when we left.  Back then the Baltic was still an empty flour mill, the Angel of the North was brand new.  I stood and looked across the Tyne and it felt as though I'd never lived there at all.  

DAY 44--Supermarket Clothes

Today I'm wearing mostly black.  Black is supposed be a terribly draining colour for the mature woman to wear.  But it is also meant to be immensely slimming.  So the answer, clearly, is to wear black, but add a rose pink scarf twined about your crêpey neck to lend a rosy glow to your complexion.

Something you learn when you are wearing black is just how many shades of black there are.  Bluey black, browny black, greeny black and by far the most common shade of black--charcoal grey.  This is black cotton after you've washed it a dozen times.  You still think of them as your 'black jeans' and 'black leggings', but they aren't really, are they?  Even if you devoutly launder them in washing powder for colours.  But who cares?  They're black enough.

So I'm wearing my black-enough leggings with a large long black cowl-neck jumper-tunic thing.  The label says 'TU', which means it came originally from Sainsbury's.  I can't help feeling that's a bit over-familiar.  It should be 'VOUS'.  After all, (as iPhone Siri says when you say 'I love you, Siri') you hardly know me, big black jumper-tunic from Sainsbury's.  I have now reached the age where I am addressed as 'Madame' in France.  This surely entitles me to the same degree of respect from supermarket clothes?

On the whole, I don't buy supermarket clothes, even from charity shops.  Sheer snobbery, I admit.  I've frequently gone through this thought process: Ooh, that's nice! Oh. George and put it back on the rack.  I'm not quite sure why I have this prejudice.  It's possibly because I feel a vague hostility to supermarkets in general.  The way they bombard you with so much choice.  Their secret plan to round up all the merchandise in the universe and put it under one roof, then hold you captive until you've bought it all.  They want us to buy supermarket everything. Bread, insurance, fruit, meat, garden equipment, pharmacy, dentistry, jumpers, weddings, pots and pans, DVDs, shampoo, tractors, foreign holidays, muffins, babies, the moon.  Every  little helps!

Oh shut UP, and leave me alone, supermarkets.

This is why I shop at Lidl, mostly.  It's the closest the supermarket world gets to a charity shop.  You never quite know what you're going to find there.

DAY 43--The Leather Biker Jacket

Well, the velvet jacket was snapped up within 40mins of my tweeting about it.  That 40mins was long enough for me to picture people frowning in polite disdain at the thought of accepting a third hand jacket from me.  I was particularly pleased that it was bagged by a young person.  What greater accolade could be bestowed on a 50 year old, than that someone young enough to be her daughter (?granddaughter? Oh, banish that monstrous thought!) sees potential merit and stylishness in her wardrobe?  She tells me she will be handing on a Dorothy Perkins skirt to a skinnier friend.  There.  A nice virtuous chain has been established.

Today I've been wearing my biker jacket.  I was having another go at the long-tailed shirt look, and I believe I pulled it off rather better today.  The reason for today's look was the urge to wear a hat.  Well, not some much urge to wear a hat as urge not to wash my hair.  The hat in question is a sort of peaked beret, which has a slight steamer captain vibe going on.  It works well with the leather jacket.  I teamed it with pockets stuffed with tissues and cough sweets and sat rather glumly through the 10.30 service.  I hate February.