{28/07/2012}   Wearing white clothes

I am not designed to wear white, yet every year when it’s nice and warm, I insist upon the wearing of white clothes.  It seems right to wear white when it’s hot as I have in mind that white keeps you cool.  But I just can’t keep whites white and I end up looking grubby.

The other day, I wore a white skirt without so much as a passing concern as to whether this was sensible.  Shortly afterwards, while out and about and thus committed to my outfit, I caught myself “cleaning” my sweaty hands on my white skirt.  There were no particular marks left, but I’m pretty sure the white was far less dazzling.  Following that, I was then paranoid about sitting on something dirty and I felt thoroughly uneasy.

I wore a brand new white shirt to work a couple of months ago.  It was so delightfully white and crisp, I actually felt quite smart.  Prior to going into court, I bought a coffee, which I drank without incident.  I couldn’t find a bin so for some reason I folded the paper cup in half until I went into the court building, where there was a bin, into which I deposited my cup.  No incident.  I then went to the bathroom and while washing my hands, I looked up into the mirror and realised there had been an incident, for I had about five areas of milky coffee splatter.  Quite noticeable.  Actually, very noticeable.  I was incredibly disappointed.  I got rid of splatter marks where water rendering the shirt transparent was not an issue and they did pretty much wash out, but the shirt has lost its allure now.

I was idly flicking through a summer fashion supplement earlier and one item of must-have summer holiday packing was a white top.  Hello?  Like that’d stay white.  The mixture of salt, sweat, sun cream and brightly coloured cocktails is a recipe for disaster.

I saw a friend the other week who regularly pulls of the white trousers look.  I look at her with envy every time I see her strutting around in her pristine whites.  I have never seen her sit down, she’s far too classy to stand around drunkenly gesticulating with one hand clutching a glass of overflowing red wine and she’s never struck me as a wipe-hands-on-jeans kind of girl!  Unbeknownst to her, she is my white clothing heroine and I am often to be found subtly scanning to see if she has got a splodge, even a speck of something non-white on her whites.  She never has, but I fear my outspoken joy if I do ever discover something grubby adorning her whites.  I mean, she even has a white (possibly) cashmere jacket.  And it was still white last time I saw her in it!

As for me and my summer packing, I’m afraid to say there will be at least one white top (I gave up on my white shorts, they are now dyed black!) for I know I will persist with my belief that white is the way forward where there is sun.  I also find it doesn’t clash with the inevitable hint of pink colour I tend to turn in sunbathing conditions.


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