Not matching any target demographic

Here is a tale, a tale of woe, gruntled people, tired feet and frayed nerves. Here is a true tale of anguish, desperate searchers, mismatched ideas and change-bad attitudes. Here is a tale.

Given NewNewWork is now OldNewNewWork, it would be opportune for me to avoid wardrobe malfunctions and get some new clothes, and consign some of my, um, old teeshirts to the charity pile. Now, not many of you (well, probably only Cassandra) have ever been clothes shopping with me. To the best of my knowledge, anyhow.

How hard could it be? I know what I like when I see it, I have the cash, transaction made, job done, home in time to have another cold shower in this damnedable heat. (Cassandra says I look quite dashing in a suit, and scrub up well, and wishes I would get a job that forces me to dress that way, instead of slumming it in shorts and a variety of red tee shirts.)

Can you see the problem yet? I decided to start in John Lewis, as it has a wide range, and would give me ideas at least. Um, no such luck. Next, Next. Ugh, all awful. River Island? Too young. The Hemp Shop on the market? Well, not bad, I guess, if you wanted to look like Fat Homer in the fat-is-a-disability episode. Gap? First time I have ever been in a Gap shop, and didn’t see anything in there. Marks and Spencers? What do I look like? A granny? All I wanted was an idea, then I could go to one of the trendy designer shops with an inkling. No chance.

Cassandra threatened the BW word, which gave me cold shivers and a renewed burst of energy to find something to avoid such a fate.

There was nothing, seriously, not one item of clothing I could bring myself to buy. The shops were angling for people’s money, but obviously not mine. Their whole demeanour aimed at other people. Bad music and awful lighting, achingly hip model shots of lifetstyle-types on the wall, tarted-up dollybirds fluttering between the rails draped with belts, gelled-up boy-toys fixing their hair in the full length mirrors. Odd-angles of folded jeans on stands lounge beneath mannequins wearing the look and the attitude. Sequestered accessories jingle beneath the aircon, the relief of the aircon, glittering baubles reflecting their empty promise.

Cassandra made me try something on, and it sure didn’t suit me at all. Wrong colouring, wrong fit, just wrong. There are few issues Cassandra’s and my opinion meet. And what I wear isn’t one of them.

It can’t just be me, can it? Surely people don’t like any of the clothes on sale on the highstreet? Not even a square peg, me, not even anywhere near the hole at all.

I step out of my car, into the night