I never get chatted up. Some say it’s my height; others my myopic squint. I’m guessing it’s my wardrobe choices. To me, a pair of harem trousers and shoulder pads the size of tectonic plates signify style. My gay friend Andy tells me I could well be mistaken for the Queen of the Romulan Empire. Add in a coif and Vivienne Westwood knuckle duster and it’s a full-on Vulcan assault.
To him this is a compliment; and to be fair, I take no exception at being compared with royalty – intergalactic or otherwise. That being said, this is the same man who once said of Lady Gaga “Real lack of effort; I get more dressed up to let the gas man in.” Enough said. It was time to tone it down.
I had a look through my wardrobe and saw a lot of: black, vertiginous heels, an assortment of leather, black again, Merle O’Grady spike rings, more black, ridiculously large bags that could easily double as a portal to an astral plane and further assorted items in...ahem...black. In fashion terms this qualifies as M-A-J-O-R (see: very well-dressed); in straight man speak I look angry, depressed or at best, funeral-ready.
Determined not to sell out in order to put out; I thought I’d test drive a new look rather than commit to a new colour scheme. Pink seemed appropriate; floral seemed even better. How about a pink floral maxi dress? And some pretty beads? What about a pair of turquoise moccasins? Hey presto – I have a girlie side! The trick now was to pull it off with aplomb.
Within minutes of stepping out, I felt like a hybrid of Paris Hilton and Stevie Nicks. Luckily the fruit vendor on Coppinger Row seemed to approve as suggested by his wink and smile. An older man also stopped me on Grafton Street to tell me I looked lovely. Impressed, I continued my jaunt only to experience an abrupt end by stepping heedlessly on my hem and releasing a boob to the general public. Nice.
Embarrassed, I re-tucked and retreated. This would not have happened to a Romulan Queen. Surely her Balmain-inspired armour would have occluded such an incident. “There’s a good reason why men love these floaty fabrics,” I thought. Hmm. Maybe I’ll meet my future Picard at an Ashish show? Seems the more likely bet.
