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| Image courtesy of HolyShirts.net |
Communions and confirmations. Around this time every year several pint-sized members of my family experience some religious rite of passage. Despite being quite experienced in the art of church dressing (2009’s hat-rick of consecutive weekend communions saw me in good stead), I'm struck for the umpteenth time with the issue of what to wear.
It's not like I can dock up in last season’s glad rags. We're family after all and there are several extenuating factors to bear in mind: formal church dress etiquette, protective covering for outside photographs, impressing relations you see at such ad hoc gatherings. This year also sees me front and centre as sponsor (a.k.a. Spiritual Guide) to my ten year old niece which means a more pious effort on my part. Tough brief.
I'm thinking maybe I should just cast aside tradition and make a bold statement. The ‘Mary is My Homegirl’ t-shirt I bought in Portobello Market could do nicely under a Stella McCartney suit. The message is unapologetic whilst also being ‘down with the kids’. Not too sure how the congregation would feel about that. Perhaps my Complex Geometries hooded cloak dress from Browns Focus would do. Grace Jones meet Cistercian monk? Maybe? Er...not.
On these occasions, it would appear that caution is its own reward. My role as godmother fifteen years ago still haunts me – a scrunched head of long curls, brown velvet jacket, matching trousers and striped shirt resulted in a Cher / Superfly hybrid. Whether I was about to break into a rendition of ‘Turn Back Time’ or a Curtis Mayfield ditty was anyone’s guess. With that, it’s probably best to forget the curious incident of the church candles and my chiffon sleeves.
Not that I’m a Celine fan, but there’s something to be said for bland and inoffensive. Although it flies in the face of everything I believe in (and have crammed into my wardrobe), I may have to go the way of our subdued and stylish Gallic counterparts. No bells, no whistles, just plain dressing. Yawn.
Then again, if anyone does get the hump with my wardrobe choices (six foot stacked platforms anyone?), I’m in the right place. Something tells me that the confessional may not be quite the place for admitting one’s hyperstyling penchant. Forgive me Father, it’s been several years since I last bought anything basic. I wonder how that would wash?
