Spring was in the air today. And soon this means the launch of the Spring Fashion Festival. The catwalks, the buzz, the previews, the industry. But I still don't like the clothes. I'm out of the demographic now so no one makes clothes for me anymore. And I'm glad. I'm happy to be far from the fashion model template. If for some reason I found myself resembling a fashion model I most likely would:
a) have been punched in both eyes;
b) have cut my hair with a knife and fork;
c) be developing early signs of Alzheimer's by wearing a bigger person's t-shirt backwards and forgetting to put on my trousers.
The days of glamour are gone in my view, today's sour faced women stomping down a catwalk looking like they've spent three years in a labour camp is no way to celebrate the beauty of fashion or women. If today's fashion requires failing organs and blacked out eyes then I'll be content with unfashionable flair. Pass me my hat and gloves, I'm off to eat a steak.
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