Hmmm.... this may be a theme.

At what age will all dress sense leave me? I have just returned from walking one of the terences to pre-school and have passed 500 old people wandering through these hilltop streets (well, the two I walk from that destination anyway) all wearing shapeless, unflattering, sludgey coloured clothing.

How long do I have to live before natural fibres and denim become anathema? I am no fashion plate but like to think that I have an element of style in my bones (it was beaten into me from childhood by my incredibly stylish and elegant mother. You know the kind - makes a feedsack look classy). and can usually manage to dress myself in a co-ordinating manner.

I recognise there is a generational gap and that these were the women who wholeheartedly embraced polyester, nylon and all other plastic fibres and were thus responsible for children around the world having sleepless night as they squirmed to make electricity spark from their jammies under the sheets. But watching that lil' old lady wander up my lane towards me with her airforce blue mac buttoned up to the neck and her lil' old lady feet clad in shapeless brown shoes made me wonder. I am no Ginger Monkey , with feet this size I am always thrilled when I find 'not boys' shoes' to wear, but I try. Perhaps it is their upbringing from the days of the Crimean War, all that thrift and save business (this may explain why my mother-in-law ALWAYS had min 6. 1/2lbs of butter in the fridge) and the preference for services and servicable tones but I freely confess I like colour (even when it deserts me).

I also wonder when I will decide the time is right to get 'that' perm. You know the one, tight little curls that cling to your head no matter what the weather. When I met my aunt in London a few weeks ago for the Fortnum fiesta she was sporting one. Obviously it is much easier to travel at pushing eighty (any age!) with a wash and go hairstyle but when someone deliberately places a fleabitten poodle on top of her head it suggests the time is near to hand one's passport in for crimes against shampoo and set.

My final dilemma is about the bag. Have you ever noticed that people over a certain age have that brown bag with handles made from rope. I know this bag well as my mother-in-law had one. Her rope handles were blue. This bag is capacious and pretend leather and normally holds an equally old and worn purse/wallet and in my m-i-l's case some additional 1/2lbs of butter just purchased.

Once I am able to walk down the street with the wind riffling my poodle curls and causing my mac to flap and tight grip on my tan leatherette holdall I shall know that I am officially old.

Oh hell!!



Just two boxes left to tick then!