pearls of wisdom
My darling children, the most important thing about looking really fit is not to smile. If you can master this, as well as holding your legs and arms as awkwardly as a crazed doll, you are well on your way to conquering that most important and sublime of Oxford occasions: the drinks party. It is worth noting that an outing to the Bridge of Libraries comes in a close second, although an elegantly ruched knapsack and seductive cardigan is all one needs to surmount the Rah Cam.
Of course, what would looking fit be without an over-intellectualised outfit to match your studied cool? As I raked through my closets (multiple!) I found that in all of my frocks, not a single one turned me from slightly sweet to moody intense glam that no-one quite understands.
Shall I mention how similar this is to Versace turning out hideous dresses in shades of sand and blue which seem to demonstrate nothing but the months Miss Donatella spent staring into the deserts of Arizona? I always find it is best to cross-reference, but oh dear, this has just reminded me of Oxford as a shopping desert, which brings me back to the frightful problem of tonight: where on earth shall I ever go to find a dress that is demure, wild, sweet, leather and made of ethical materials? Pe
aps I should just put a hat on. London is too far, however, and, in any case, I certainly couldn’t take the coach. To be sure, there are small, trendy boutiques in Oxford that stock the requisite labels, but who wants to look like everyone else? I was awash in Aquascatum, defeated by Dior, and perplexed by Prada. In short, I was a fashion emergency.
A small group of people drinking cava masked as champagne and overpriced cocktails was expecting me in roughly seven hours to debate the ins and outs of life in this horrifically bucolic academic outpost. I panted and moaned in my delirium, railing against the forces that had conspired to land me in the north.
Who could possibly take me from drab to fab? Where was my fairy godmother when I needed her? To be honest, the bitch was probably getting her nose done while wearing an understatedly sexy hospital gown which would have looked perfect with my colouring, not to mention been the only authentic medical attire at the party. At this point in the early afternoon, I was stressed to perfection, as my tummy had finally flattened out from breakfast.
Preening in front of my mirror, I had to admit that a juice fast had done wonders for my thighs. Indeed, I was looking fairly hot. As I glanced at my disheveled closet, I hit on a brilliant idea. I would go naked. After all, in this post-modern world, nothing is new. Even if I was able to hit upon some bizarre amalgam of clothing and accessories which made me appear like a crazed midlevel couture mannequin, it would look merely ironic rather than truly horrendous and original.
2nd Mar 2006