I have a spiffy* new drab-coloured knitted woollen dress thing, which I am very pleased with as I got it in the Monsoon sale for a mere twenty-five pounds. As it was in the sale I can only assume that drab knitted woollen dresses are now hopelessly unfashionable, which suits me fine, as 'hopelessly unfashionable' is my signature look and I am sticking to it.
(I have, for example, chosen to ignore the persistent skinny jeans and boots-on-the-outside trend, and blithely continue to wear bootcut jeans with nary a thought for what whatsername Carter-whatsit might have to say on the matter. Whatsername Carter-whatsit will get her comeuppances when the horrid skinny-jeans and boots-on-the-outside trend finally goes away and I will turn out to have been deeply stylish all along.)
Anyway, this morning I thought I would début this new dress to the world by wearing it to one of the West Country's hippest hangouts, viz. Costa Coffee in Falmouth High Street**. With some black opaque tights and black knee-length boots it would look quite the thing, I thought. Thus attired, I descended to the living room and declared myself ready to venture forth into Society.
'Oughtn't you to put some trousers on first?' asked Mr BC, mildly.
* Sorry, I've been reading P.G. Wodehouse.
** Which isn't actually its name at all.