I don’t get fashion.

Part of it is body type–short-waisted with big boobs, I’m not a designer’s dream. Part of it is the fact I dressed in the dark for neigh on thirty years. (No, I wasn’t a hooker.  I worked early mornings in radio. Come to think of it, a hooker might have paid better.)

I have no hand for accessories. I was lucky to find both sox in the middle of the night.

Most of my clothes are black and will be, until they invent a darker colour. (Don’t Wente me. I know it’s a quote, I just can’t remember from where.)

This preamble explains why my favourite gossip pages are kind of a puzzle to me this morning. They held something called the Met Gala last night in which famous (thin) people wear ridiculous outfits and stand beaming next to the famous (thin) people who dreamed up said ridiculous outfits. I look at the pictures and shake my head. Does anyone look comfortable? Would you wear this to get groceries? Walk the dog? To me, fashion is all about function. It’s  not about art. I don’t have the lifestyle or the inclination. I can appreciate the workmanship (workwomanship?) that went into some of the designs but to me it feels like a waste of time. A great jacket you can wear time and time again. A little black dress that never goes out of style. That I understand. I don’t understand this. Or this.  .

And this? It’s just sad. Mutton dressed as lamb, Madge.