Under the shade thrown by our huge liquid amber, we've had bar-b-que after bar-b-que (or so it seems) and as I wiped the smoke away from my eyes yesterday afternoon I noticed that my friends and I don't have a particularly marvellous dress sense. Now, don't get me wrong, we can scrub up quite well upon request but, for the lazing about on the piss on a simply beautifull Sunday afternoon, the shorts, the casual shirts and the comfy shoes seem more important than trying to impress with name brands and stylishness. This may have something to do with the age group involved but, on the other hand, I went to a 'surprise' 70th birthday party for a good friend's father a few weeks ago where simply everyone looked absolutely terrific (this was a special occasion, though) - yes, they all scrubbed up very well for a bunch of people with heart attacks and strokes scattered amongst them. I try my best to look OK most of the time but, really, my heart's not in it. It has been thus for most of my life, in fact. I remember clearly my most obvious fashion stupidity - in my early teens, I'd seen some pics in some mag or another with people modelling fringed cowhide jackets. My eyes couldn't believe the beauty of these articles of clothing but, as I had no money at all, I thought I might be able to wip up the required look with my own hands. It was the sort-of country fringes that attracted me the most and it didn't really matter that where they were. So I got a pair of extremely tight, old, puke brown, bell bottom trousers and attacked the bells with a razor blade! Yes, the fringes were there, starting about 2 inches below my knees and floating hippieishly about my calves. I put them on and the image in the mirror was, I thought, soooo cool. I decided, stupidly, to wear them outside, in the real world - just down to the local shops, mind you, but that was enough. I got quite a few double-takes and surprised stares but, my mind had gone somewhere else - I actually thought that the weird looks coming my way were ones of appreciation, not horror. It wasn't until I purchased something from the shop that the full error of my ways crashed in upon me. The rather crabby shop owner looked me in the eyes as he took my money and said "Are you alright? Is anything wrong? Do you need an ambulance?" and things of that sort. I could only reply with a dumb-founded "wha'" but he made his views quite clear by moving his gaze downwards and laughing heartily and lengthily. I ran home with a tear in my eye and a hardness in my heart which hasn't melted since...