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Funky Gran's By Indie |
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I’ve
always had a problem about getting old.
I never want to be all wrinkled up and mangy, unable to remember
any names and spend my days whinging about post office queues and bingo
cheating. Never, never, ever. But I
was thinking about it the other day.
I was sitting on a bus, watching a couple of gran’s chatting
away about sod all, when I wondered: where do they get their clothes
from? Where
can you buy stuff like that? Polyester
dresses with large floral patterns in hospital greens and pinks. Lounge coats in a similar fashion. Strange teapot cover hats with fluffy bobbles on the top.
Enormous purses with paisley patterns.
Thick beige knitted tights.
Where the hell do you buy it all? I know
where to buy those huge burgundy or teal shopper bags, the ones that
replace your cute little leather handbag
(any market – there’s always a bag stall).
I know where to find Mint Imperials (a little corner shop cum
Post Office where the store keeper knows your name), I know where to get
the carpet slippers (market again), I know where you get the purple or
pink Mrs. Slocombe rinses (Boots), but the dresses? Is
there a special shop that specializes in old lady nylon and polyester?
I’ve never seen one; markets don’t stock them, charity shops
are lacking. Is a
bequeathal thing? Do old
ladies leave them in their wills to their daughters, knowing that in a
couple of years, their going to be needing them? Where
the hell did the first ones come from?
They’ve never been in fashion, they’re not some leftover from
another generation, they’re just there. And where do you buy purses that big? There’s room for a Royal Mint of loose change, a couple of bus tickets, those blue plastic tokens you get from the Council, a few furry Mint Imperials (se above). Markets again? Pound shops? Where? WHY? I
think there’s a big Code of Secrecy between Old Ladies.
They probably tell you they’re going to Bingo or Bridge, but in
fact are off to the clothing equivalent of a Tupperware party, where
mysterious strangers ply their polyester wares, selling them dresses
that are identical to their other ones.
How else can you explain why they never wear out? My
Nana is an exception. She
wears tracksuits and trainers. She
wears hideous silk shirts and refuses to brush her hair, let alone dye
it. She’s not in the clothing club.
Where am I going to get my polyester dresses? Nana, you’re letting me down. When
I’m old, I’m going to have to resolve myself to being some really
inappropriate Granny, one with orange hair and bright red lipstick, even
though it would feather away from my cats arsehole mouth in seconds.
I’d
insist on riding a moped at 30 mph on the pavement, and do my clothes
shopping in New Look and Top Shop.
I will shoplift green and purple nail varnish from Superdrug and
profess my insanity if I get caught.
I will wear the green and purple nail varnish that I manage to
get away with. I will
live on Pot Noodles, and feed my grandchildren biscuits and cakes and
fizzy pop, then tell their mothers they’re not feeding them properly. I will teach them how to put on mascara and eyeliner, even if
they are boys. I will
listen to Techno music and Marilyn Manson (even though he sucks ass),
and show up my grandchildren by moshing at gigs, and drinking Alco-pops,
then getting carried out by the security people because of heat stroke. What
choice have I got, if I’m never going to be let into the Secret
Society? |
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| © Indie | |
