By Maggie Alderson
March 24, 2004
Not so long ago I had a revelation in London's Savoy Hotel, which is a very good place to do anything. I was there to visit my friend Kathy Lette, who was at the time the official writer-in-residence at that most grand hotel.
It was a great gig. She had her own suite to work in and her desk had a view over the Thames as featured in any corny Hollywood film wanting instantly to set the scene: London, England. We raised our glasses in a general toast to life as the midnight chimes of Big Ben floated downstream to us, live.
Anyway, having a good snoop around Kathy's quarters, as you so, I noticed haning on the wardrobe door a dress of most outrageous design. It looked like something Snow White might have worn in her second job as a lounge singer.
It had a classic fairytale bodice, but cut much lower, in red; puffed sleeves; a nipped-in wiast; ant then a wonderfully sweeping full skirt to the floor, with a lot of leopard print involved. What could I do? I put it on immediately.
When I say I put it on, I mean I pulled it over my clothes and held it together as best I could, as the thing was clearly designed for a firly princess and not a woman of average girth. TUrned out that the princess in question was Pamela Stephenson, before she'd turned into a mother, and that she'd given the dress to ?Kathy, who still has the figure of a 16-year-old (despite two kids).
Well, on my fuller frame it may have been gapin at the back like the Ugly Sisters' mouth when Cinders rode off with the Handsome Prince, but I still felt like a princess in it.
I twirled around, clapping my hands like Vivien Leigh, dropped into a deep curtsy and generally threw myself around the place in all manner of extravagant poses. I may have looked like a total arse, but I felt so wonderful in that dress.
I wanted to never take it off.
Which got me thinking about that in the day-to-day struggle to stay just the right side of acceptably groomed and reasonably chic, we totally lose sight of the most extraordinary thing about clothes. Which is their power to transform you.
The Italians understand all that, which is probbly why they are such good clothed designers. THe other week, when I was in Milan for the fashion shows, it was carnevale - their Mardi Gras fiesta - and all over the city there wer children walking around, in broad daylight, in fancy dress.
I'd be dashing to the ATM between Fendi and Prada showings, and I'd see two bunny rabbits, Cruella de Vil, Zorro and a wicked witch, just casually strolling along.
It was enchanting.
On the Saturday night, it was time for the grown-ups to get in on the act, and it was quiet something to see the devil on rollerblades slicing doen the ancien touroughfare of via Brera. Especially with Minnie Mouse for company.
Seeing them all got up like that and clearly having the best time, it reminded me how special I felt at the several Cointreau Balls I was lucky enough to get to go to, in the way-over-the top fancy dress. It was so liberating to get into clothes that had nothing to do with anyting you would ever wear in real lfe.
My other favourite outfit for one of them was a floor-lenght black velvet cloak with a big French Leutenant's Woman hood. I felt so romantic in that thing, it made me giddy. I've still got it and so wish I had an excuse to wear it agian. Sometimes I put it on at home and just stride around a bit.
And as I sit here in my jeans and T-shirt, I can't thelp thingking, wouldn't it be great to have a bit more of that magic in our everday lives?