It's been exhausting, darlings, this whole iD Fashion Week thing. If I had any cucumber, I'd be supine right now in the sun with slabs over each eye, trying not to attract the attention of hungry birds. This year, darlings, I decided it was time I stopped seeing fashion as frippery and started concerning myself with style, not substance.
And, because it's all about me (and I was too mean to actually attend any official events), here is how the week unfolded.
Monday: Lie in bed wearing yesterday's orange polar fleece for morning cuppa. Try not to remember a former MP once called me a tellytubby's name when wearing it (not while I was in bed, darlings). Was there an orange tellytubby?
Perhaps I should have sued.
Catch up on Hyde St keg party news. Recall seeing merry group in ill-fitting winceyette sleepwear en route to the party on Saturday morning stop to help push conked-out car for stranger.
Snazzy swirl of one chap's deep pink dressing gown particularly show-stopping.
Orange not good combo with red, white and black polypro long johns. Swap for old red polar fleece. Sister-in-law calling in for cuppa makes no comment about colour co-ordination.
Try not to get sidetracked from own style matters wondering about police style in teapot tape saga. Is it up to police to rule things unlawful?
Tuesday: Sister's cast-off top with red and pink splodges draws early-morning compliment from workmate.
Point out have accessorised with matching cold sore. Hard to tell if she's impressed.
Wednesday: Don togs for aqua jog. Nervous about repeating recent wardrobe malfunction where centre back seam rotted, exposing my only cleavage. Keep checking my mending - looks and feels like wound repair carried out by drunken surgeon using darning needle. Is being too cheap to buy new togs false economy or trend-setting?
Thursday: Go through wardrobe to find something for informal Wellington gathering marking 40-year anniversary of my polytech journalism course.
Rule out many items precluding breathing and/or eating.
Remember Hyde St reveller's snazzy pink dressing gown.
Decide should wear pink '50s evening coat. Ignore fact might have looked glam on Marilyn Monroe but wouldn't look out of place with jim-jams on me. Also designed for mid-winter. Saving grace?
Is not black.
Wonder about style of ACC Minister Judith Collins and threats to sue two MPs and Radio New Zealand. Ponder further about remarkable smoothness of her forehead. Perhaps better not draw conclusions about that now, even in iD Fashion Week.
Think instead about style of new Southern DHB chief executive Carole Heatly. How much time does it take staff to put out a press statement on an issue not attracting wide coverage?
Would it be faster and better PR to have someone do an interview on the day a story breaks?
Such thinking does not solve my style dilemmas. Meet old workmate in George St. She's been fashionista spotting.
Pretends almost mistook me for one in my op-shop chic. Yeah, right. May have spotted I'm carrying a copy of The Ties that Bind to aid quest to wear scarves in nonchalant elegant fashion rather than noose-gone-wrong-food-encrusted way. She admires my haircut.
She says everyone at reunion will be eyeing up each other to see "who's let themselves go".
Oh dear.
Friday: Pack so many items from wardrobe fear I will exceed baggage limit.
Distract myself again with teapot tape saga, wondering about Prime Minister John Key's reported comments that many people had not accepted that a serious principle was at stake.
Wasn't he deadly serious?
Remember his ridiculous question about what would happen if a Sunday paper eavesdropped a famous couple discussing a child being suicidal, reported it, and then the child committed suicide?
Are we just to blithely regard that as style slippage under pressure?
Struggle to plane with pink coat and knitting (is that trendy?).
In Wellington realise may well collapse from heat exhaustion if don pink coat. Console self with good being done to arm muscles by carrying coat, and enough clothes for six weeks, up stairs at accommodation.
Saturday: Meet old classmate from primary school and journalism class for a catch-up and a gander at wedding fashion exhibition Unveiled at Te Papa.
So busy talking, keep getting confused about which bits we've seen.
Drag coat along like recalcitrant large pink child to evening gathering. It sulks and dominates coat rack. Large unknotted scarf threatens to strangle me. Remove it before food.
Close to April Fool's Day: Wear coat few blocks to accommodation. If heads turn, it is away from spectacle. Haven't had enough drinks for Marilyn Monroe delusions. Look too substantial for style. Cling to fond hope looking barmy on a balmy evening may have a certain je ne sais quoi, but remember I am no good at French either.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
