My Inner Gok Wan and Other Animals

Firstly, a big hello and welcome to new MMM resident, Elizabeth. Luckily, the library wing has been extended upwards so we have a fine selection of guest rooms available and with all the lavender I've harvested from the gardens this morning, a selection of relaxing pillows, soaps, pot pourri and those weird muslin bags of herbs you hang over the end of the bath tap whilst the water is running to release an aroma that is heaps better than the manky old flannel niff that usually eminates therein.

So, I decided to bite the bullet and go suit shopping this morning. I took my inner Gok Wan with me to insure against coming back with anything in the purple velvet dry-clean only knickerbock and waistcoat line.

I went into M & S first. Good old M & S, I thought. Bound to have something. They did. Row upon row upon row upon row of trousers. More trousers than you could shake a stick at. But not a matching suit jacket in sight. In fact, not any suit jacket, matching or otherwise. They had a nice teal overcoat. 'But you need a jacket,' said Inner-Gok. 'Not a coat. A jacket. That's the whole purpose. It's like going to Sainsbugs for a pint of milk and coming back with a litre of gin.'

So onto Next.

Next faired slightly better. Five suit sets. One black, two grey, two the colour of muddy puddles. But the fabric was nice. And they were tailored. However, I was slightly put off by the fact they started at a size 6 which I think is size 2 in American money, and I always think if adult clothes go that small then they will look bloomin' awful on a grown-up who will never ever in a gazzillion years be a size 6 unless she stops eating for the next three years.

So on to Evans. And out of Evans. Polyester city in Evans. Good job I don't have a pacemaker, the static was fair crackling. Mind you, that could be because Kent is currently experiencing what can only be described as weather that is more muggy than Mr Muggy the Mug Maker fulfilling an order for five thousand mugs for 'The Mug Shop' in Muggleton. Apparently, the tail end of Hurricane Katia is on its way across the Atlantic and pushing a very hot front ahead. 73 degrees today. Phew!

I didn't go into Ann Harvey. They arrange their clothes too high. Makes me feel claustrophobic.

Into BHS which has recently been revamped and not in a good way. Horrid flooring, unhelpful staff who get sniffy if you don't accept their offer to apply for a storecard, and, it turns out, a rubbish suit selection. Although there was one possibility, a navy blue number with a ruffle front jacket.

'Ruffles???' shrieked my inner-Gok. 'Are you mad? With your frontage??? Put it back. NOW!'

So back to Next.

Gathered a black suit and grey suit, struggled about in the changing rooms for fifteen minutes, being startled only once when I caught sight of my derriere in a cunningly positioned mirror. Felt marginally smug to get into the size 16. Consoled myself of the whole horror of having to wear a suit by buying a blouse with butterflies on it as well.

But do you know the best bit? The best bit was that the nice young chappie at the till put the suit in a suit bag! A proper, substantial hanging suit bag, which folded in half and had carry handles and a zip up doo-dah and EVERYTHING! 'Very handy if you go away and need to carry a suit with you,' he said.

Indeed! Not that I would ever go away with a suit. I mean, it hasn't happened in the last 45 years so is unlikely to happen in the next. But it made me feel all executive-like and actually now I WANT to go away with a suit in a suit bag, AND use the trouser press in the hotel room!

But instead I came home, harvested lavender, apples and beans, said hello to the top bar bees who are doing a mad dash in the sunshine to gather the last of the pollen, and decided that I'd quite like to go to Italy for my 50th birthday in 4 years' time so perhaps I should start saving now.

And then Mrs Slocombe appeared and said she was writing a play called 'Parrots of the Carribean,' which is all about parrots walking around with tiny humans perched on their shoulders and going 'Aarrrrrr!' a lot. The parrots not the humans. And I said perhaps she could have a go at writing a musical and call it 'Parrots of Penzance,' and she have me a withering stare and said that would be a really stupid idea and perhaps I should stick at what I'm best at and I said what's that? and she said keeping my mouth shut.

How rude!