It is 27 degrees and Scotland is stripping down to her scants…discovering street cafe life… dusting down rusty BBQs and generally donning scarlet skin.
However as sunglasses are de rigeur that last doesn’t much matter – even the reddest of burnt skin looks tanned and brown through dark tinted specs…
Summer fashion has never been a talent of the sun-starved Scot. Pallid, pasty, almost blue-white flab isn’t really a great look in micro shorts and crop top. Though it was a definite favourite in Glasgow yesterday. For men it was tatoos and surf shorts. Nowt else. Well, maybe socks with trainers.
I defend – absolutely – the right to ‘wear what you want to wear’. But even me – Mrs-I-have-no-right-to-be-body-fascist – has baulked a wee bit at the sheer volume of flesh so suddenly on display.
Personally I ‘do’ winter best. Give me black thick opaques and a pencil skirt; or lbd and wedge high boots; asymmetric tops and large silver pieces. Heavy black lidded eyes. Red lips. That is my comfort zone. My body armour perfected – the abrasions of office and court and tribunal and meeting have brought me to that point where I do not need to think when reaching into my wardrobe in the morning.
But at the first promise of sun and as my indolent lazy summer self sings, my fashion-heart sinks. What to wear to a sweltering office? How to remain dignified when dripping with sweat? Do I really have the temerity to inflict my hairy white legs on my colleagues? And will someone tell me where to find a make-up that does not slide off my face by midday?
All in all it is just as well that for 4 weeks I will be in Spain. Almoradi. In a villa with a pool. Kaftan and swimsuit and huge black sunglasses and the fact that no-one knows me will be all that is required. Bliss.