Well, that’s what I thought. A recent visit to a city centre clothing store taught me I appear more hip replacement than hipster. Browsing through rails of Breton tops, braces and fluro mesh I was approached by a concerned staff member. “Do you need any help?” enquired the bespectacled blonde. “No, thank you,” I replied, impressed by the customer service.
Seconds later, as I approached the gold lamé bras and Lady GaGa pants, another sales assistant wearing similar Buddy Holly frames beseeched me accordingly. “Are you okay?” she asked with concern. “Yes,” I blurted. Paranoid, I caught my reflection in one of the mirrors. A routine inspection dispensed with fears of spinach-clad teeth, wind-swept hair, smeared lippie et al. So just why was I getting the ‘security, please!’ vibe?
Puzzled, I continued to flirt with rainbow racks of tees and stripy tube socks and questionable tie dye. I lifted up lacy confections as alien beings, renouncing just about everything with a mental diatribe: ‘too pricey, ‘too see through’, ‘too silly’. And that’s before castigating the music because I didn’t ‘know the words’. Then it hit me...
If Carlsberg made epiphanies, they’d avoid mine on account of being too cringe-worthy. Aware of my fifteen year disadvantage over most of the staff and patrons, I quickly skulked out of the double glass doors and made my way home.
I felt as if I’d morphed into Edina Monsoon – a risible perma-teen only minus the Ab Fab wardrobe budget. It was confirmed. My demographic is commanding less sartorial sway with each eroding year. One more wrinkle and I’m fashion roadkill. Gulp...
Still, if there’s one thing Eddie and I have in common, it’s that place called Denial where Bolly runs in rivers, everyone is a size 8 and cellulite an urban myth. With that I called my own Patsy sidekick and hit up The Octagon for a cocktail as big as my age. It may only be a number but it’s also a handy excuse for an afternoon tipple.
