On my dog walk on Wednesday I had an interaction that I keep replaying in my mind. I complimented a fellow dog walker’s outfit. She was wearing yellow wellies with a yellow YSL crossbody bag, and a khaki, quilted coat. Very chic. As soon as the compliment left my lips, she began to explain why her approach was the correct one.
You see, she wears a genuinely stylish outfit that she doesn’t want to get mucky (she flashed the underneath outfit, definitely it was mostly white) and then over the top of that, a coat that is dog-walk-friendly. That way she didn’t have to spend all day slobbing around in her dog walking clothes.
[ Barrister bathroom selfie in a revolting court bathroom ]
It was savage. Because there I stood in my paint-splattered, Lulu Lemon leggings, my Barbour, and I have no idea what else because each morning I roll out of bed, put on what is already grubby, and head out with the dogs.
She had sharp blue eyes, perfect make up, and an impossible-to-place accent. She spoke at length about her approach, explaining that in the summer she wears a bright pink, towelling robe over her cute outfit. You know, the ones you wear to get changed at the beach? I do know, yes, I have one, though it never occurred to me to wear it around town. Mine is a navy blue changing robe from Finisterre. I bought it last summer so that I could… get changed at the beach…
There was a time when people thought I was stylish. I know, it is hard to believe now. I partly blame this on my ballooning weight. I spent my whole life as a UK 6 until COVID. My horrible, paternal grandmother used to say ‘oh yes it’s all well and good that you’re skinny now, but one day you’ll wake up and you’ll be a size 12’. Well, I hate to say it but that mean old bat was right.
[ Battesea dog walk chic ]
Hard to say whether it was depression, stress, medication, being stuck in a basement flat allowed only 1 hour of outdoor exercise per day for 18 months, just getting older, or a curse laid upon me by my horrible grandmother, but here we are. For the last 5 years my weight has spiralled. And I have had no idea how to dress myself.
This is partly practical. I honestly don’t know what size I am from day to day. And then there’s the Da Vinci code-cracking of shopping at high street stores like Zara (I’m on a budget, after all).
My boobs have become enormous (possibly a curse laid upon me by my other grandmother, my maternal grandmother, who was famous for having a bosom that hit you like an airbag when you went in for a hug) and I don’t know what to do with them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled. After all, at 5ft 2 and as a slightly-underweight 7st 3 for the whole of my 20s I have never had boobs before. Great fun.
But then there is the fact that I am now aged 36. I had a long conversation with a friend recently about what on earth to wear after your mid-30s. Jeans are impossible, we agree. I have always had a sensory issue with jeans anyway, I find them uncomfortable. But then I also don’t know that the Toast pull-on trousers that I do find comfortable are really… me. She is wedded to a mock-neck jumper from & Other Stories, a style that has long since gone from their collection, but which she buys on Vinted for a song. In all, we agreed, it is very difficult to know what to wear after 35.
[ Trusty VEJA ‘Recife’ trainers ]
When I was at the Bar, I had to wear a black suit every day for court. My co-pupil and I were given a full wardrobe briefing before we began our pupillage. Black suit only (a dress suit preferable for women, though female barristers have been allowed to wear trousers in court since 1996. Yes, nineteen ninety six). Black tights always, whatever the weather. Black coat and black bag only. Black shoes, never boots. Hair always tied back out of the face. It sounds draconian and archaic and terrible (and it is I suppose) but I also absolutely agree with it. Besides which it is great to have a uniform.
I discovered Vestiaire Collective had incredible black suit jackets for the same price as a Hobbs suit jacket (Hobbs suits, while brilliantly machine washable, fall apart very quickly) so by the time I left the Bar I was wearing vintage Celine, Dior, Prada, Yves Saint Laurent and Stella McCartney jackets over jersey dresses from Winser London or Boden (another early tip from a senior colleague: dresses needed to be machine washable, and (ideally) comfortable, so jersey all the way). I bought a Chanel ‘Executive Cerf’ tote from Vestiaire for days when I needed to look particularly expensive. Black flats were difficult after the sad demise of the French Sole ‘India’, but eventually I discovered Ballerette’s ‘Colonna’ as a perfect alternative. L K Bennett’s black leather court shoes (aptly named) are so comfy I wore them all day.
Yes, sometimes I got to wear a wig and gown. But only in the Court of Appeal and at certain other special occasions.
[ The only pic of a recent dog walk outfit because really they are not worth documenting ]
Since leaving the Bar and taking up dog walking, gardening, writing, and being a happy, comfortable, slovenly person, my wardrobe has struggled to meet its new brief. I now dress, full time, as a SW London cliche. There is no longer such thing as a ‘Sloane’ but whatever the new, Clapham-and-Balham variant of that is, I am it. Black Lulu Lemon leggings, a cosy knit jumper, a Barbour and Le Chameau ankle wellies is my daily uniform. In summer, it is long, shapeless cotton dresses and Birkenstocks, or VEJA ‘Recife’ trainers.
Very gradually, I am shedding the clothes of the ‘old me’. My cousin is a grateful recipient of sacks and sacks of clothes. But the adjustment has been a struggle and I am still somewhat at a loss. There are two kinds of ‘comfortable’ when it comes to clothes - the physical (much easier now in leggings and sweatshirts, and not having to wear black tights in 32 degrees heat) and the psychological. The latter - the kind that comes from feeling good in one’s clothes - I used to find easy. Now it is a work in progress.
I’m thinking, quite seriously, about starting from scratch. It’s an appealing thought isn’t it? Sell/donate everything and start again. Not hugely practical, nor terribly affordable, but I think there is a version of myself now - 36, size 12, dirt under my nails, underemployed but gloriously happy - who could be stylish, too.
I mean, I don't have any answers for you, I'm afraid. But 'bosom that hit you like an airbag when you went in for a hug' was inspired. Thanks for the chuckle.
I’ve had a few stages in life when I’ve been tempted to chuck my entire wardrobe and start again. Did it once - threw out all the black and charcoal grey suiting, and switched everything to navy and blues, because I was convinced that the black was making me look old and pale. (No, Ang, you were just stressed AF in a terrible job which didn’t value you and treated you shabbily.) one tip: get a *really good* haircut in a new style. Makes everything look different, even if you’re wearing the same old shabby leggings .