On telly the other month, I won an $1800 voucher to ye Alannah Hill frock shop. Alannah Hill appeared on telly with me. Big hair, scarlet lips, gorgeously frou-frou: the human equivalent of a rose-painted Victorian teacup full of boiled lollies. The voucher arrived yesterday in the mail, so this morning I scuttled down to Lt. Collins St, dreaming dreams of turquoise velveteen dungarees and ballgowns and
it was the most harrowing experience of my life. For over an hour, the lovely Katrina patiently handed diaphanous nothings into my change room. Frocks with no sleeves, requiring strange stick-on bra-things. Frocks of a startling transparency. Frocks in an array of colours, none, disappointingly, turquoise. Katrina listened patiently while I requested garments in an adult-size, while I explained that, proud as I am of my slightly lopsided breasts, I prefer not to showcase their asymmetry, while I dismissed her proferred costumes with vague intimations that I'd much rather run round in a purple kaftan.
I know there are lassies out there who'd sell their pinky toes for the pleasure of spending $1800 at the Alannah Hillery, but I felt strange and denatured. Also, of course, in my typical post-Puritan fashion, altogether alarmed at the profligacy of it all. That rather peculiar ensemble above includes over $600 of Alannah Hill gear, the thing in my hair alone costing $29.
I am being an ingrate and an oddity, even though I am wearing a new pink merino cardigan with lace trimmings and embroidered cherries.
The good news is knee high socks! Three pair.