God bless Miss Selfridge

When I was a teenager in Blackpool, I used to buy most of my clothes at Miss Selfridge (warning: dodgy website that opens many windows and contains not a great deal of information). It was cheap, it was in your face and it was very cool.

And it still is, but I am not, and for the last few years I have done nothing more than stick my nose up against the window and dream (in passing -- this is not an obsession) of being young enough and stick thin enough to get away with wearing whatever type of flourescent multi coloured rags are currently the thing.

But on Saturday I went shopping for my hols, and encouraged by the fact that they now do size 16 (and size 6 -- neither of which sizes existed in teenagers in the 80s), I ventured in.

I didn't even need a size 16, which was extremely pleasing, and I bought a watermelon coloured vest, a khaki vest, a pink top with one side gathered up and the most fantastic pair of green trousers with satin bits, which are slightly too long, but can be used to do that pavement sweeping thing. All for thirty quid. Brilliant.

I may of course look ridiculous, but I can't quite tell. And as I am going with my parents, perhaps subsconsiously I feel that dressing like a teenager is appropriate. We shall see.

I've got to get up in three hours to catch the bus to Gatwick, with my shiny holiday clothes and six novels all packed. I am hoping for an internet cafe so I can blog in Turkey, but otherwise back in a week.

joella