My friend Caroline laughed when I told her ages ago
that I prioritise comfort over style when dressing, but it is 100% true. This
is something I’ve really only learned about myself in adulthood: when I was a
teenager I listened to a lot of ska punk and spent my life in DC skate shoes,
army surplus jackets and Criminal Damage jeans so wide my friend used to
shoplift other trousers underneath them. My nickname at the time was Trampy
(meant very affectionately, of course) and I embraced it with gusto. It was
never a question of style versus comfort – this was my style and I was very
comfortable with it.
University obviously did nothing to buck this trend
– all I managed to add to my look was some pretty scrappy bleached dreadlocks –
and so I managed to make it to 22 wearing almost exclusively flat boots and
enormous tops with zips and hoods. And everything I have worn so far has sought
to replicate that degree of comfort. There is just something so deeply
offputting about shoes you can’t wear with socks, trousers that need ironing
properly, or shirts of any kind. This is why I will never make a high flying
business executive, or a fashionista. Obviously I have learned over time to
dress in a vaguely appropriate professional way, but I’m always pretty keen to
kick off the serious black trousers and get back in my comfies at the first
opportunity.
Pregnancy presented, therefore, my number one
sartorial opportunity. Elasticated waists! Enormous cardigans! The knowledge
that employers will not question why you’re wearing leggings all day! But it
made me realise one cardinal truth: loungewear is not as fun when it’s your
only costume choice. Just as a lie in is nicest after a long week, or a hot
bath is particularly amazing if you’ve been out on a cold walk, loungewear is
lovely because you wear it when you’re winding down. Wearing leggings all week
is like spending all day in bed or in the bath – it makes you feel a bit gross
and mad. And like so much else about pregnancy it convinces you that, were you
not pregnant, you’d be making all the opposite choices: in this case, wearing
9-inch stilettos, leather trousers, and a whalebone corset. Every time you hear
the words ‘cashmere bed socks’ you think ‘open-toe court shoe’.
Now that I’m not pregnant any more I haven’t
exactly reached immediately for the trouser press. Post-baby dressing has been
a smorgasbord of random clothes that are the perfect balance between slightly
larger than usual and not as big as being nine months pregnant required. You
also have to factor in getting dressed one-handed while holding a baby, and
wearing pants and trousers high enough not to rub against your c section scar
(roughly where your muff ends and your tummy begins – i.e. Where pants and
trousers generally live). Rather than treating my non-pregnant self to some
snappy new looks, this has led to some of the worst and weirdest outfits I have
ever worn, Trampy-era included. Last week I went to the shops in Harpenden
wearing white puma trainers, no socks, grey M&S joggers, a giant size 18
turquoise top from Phase 8, and a khaki parka. Do you know what colours do not
go? Khaki and turquoise. I tried to jazz the look up with my sister’s oversized
Oliver Bonas scarf, but I just looked like I’d nicked it off a grown up. (I
actually meant to photograph this look as evidence for the blog, but by the
time I got home the baby had pooed on my top, possibly in protest at the
colour).
This was the outfit I was wearing when I was
swarmed by a thousand (4) Harpenden ladies admiring the pram I was driving
around Boots. They didn’t bat an eye lid at my astonishing outfit choice, so
bowled over were they by the sleek design and colour scheme of the flipping
buggy. I honestly think I could been dressed like Cruella deVille and they
wouldn’t have noticed. They stayed and admired the pram, and eventually the
baby, for so long that I actually started sweating gently, probably thanks to
the giant scarf and a sense of panic at my rapidly dwindling sense of identity.
What happened to the ska punk days? Why do these women find me so approachable?
Why does the Boots employee want to talk to me rather than assume I am trying
to shoplift a Barry M nail varnish?
It transpires that, when you have a baby, people
see mum first and person second. Actually, in mad Harpenden, they see pram,
baby, mum, in that order. Which would be frustrating, were it not for the fact
that I am currently incapable of getting dressed in the morning. At the moment,
being in disguise as a sensible adult human thanks to the camouflage of
motherhood is possibly No Bad Thing.
Baby and pram 1: turquoise and khaki 0.
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