Why I'm flying the flag for Kate M....

Will somebody please tell me: just what is wrong with the clothing of Ms Kate Middleton? I ask that question not as someone who finds anything wrong with the sartorial sense of the soon-to-be princess, but as someone who entertains the opposite view. In fact, I quite like her procession of pared-down coats and suits. They are exactly right on someone of her looks, age and, dare I say it, class.
The blue frock I could have left behind; too ‘eighties’ for me, but that’s just my taste. However, I would have, and still could kill for the black velvet coat. Again, just my taste in clothes, but to read the rants of the style columnists, you would think Ms Middleton had all the allure of a geriatric bag lady. In any case, who started this ‘princess-of-the-realm-as-style-icon’ thing? Is a drop-dead sense of style a requirement of her forthcoming job? In short, where is the precedent?
No doubt, as yet another fashion columnist suggested this week, they are all comparing Kate with her late predecessor. Well, yes, but Late Predecessor was hardly Lady Gaga. All I remember from the Age of Diana was a plethora of porkpie hats, awful frilly frocks and blouses, and a succession of decorative hosiery. Of course, Ms Middleton is beginning her royal career as someone much advanced in years – and learning – over Late Predecessor. And that is the point exactly. Some day, a fully-qualified Messiah will appear out of the clouds to single-handedly save the British fashion industry – has it not already been done? In the meantime, columnists, leave Kate to her elegant collection of genteel clothing. One day, we may all be wearing the same, branded as Kate M.

Remember those...?

The sight of an Activia-licking Martine McCutcheon swinging aloft in a post-mod take on suspended furniture brought the 1970s rushing back to me. Back then, I remember being thoroughly puzzled by the sight of a swinging basket chair in a newly-furnished suburban bedroom. Was it for him or for her to sit in, I wondered, since sharing the thing was nigh on impossible. And what the effect on the seated party was supposed to be, heaven only knew, since comfort was out of the question. Said party would only be able to teeter for a minute or so, before going in search of a real chair. I suspect the newly-weds used it to gracefully drape their discarded clothing upon each night, for a few years, before seeing the light and consigning the useless, dust-gathering shebang to an autumn bonfire. Well, we all have to grow up.
Another tooth-clencher is the memory of those ‘crinoline’ lampshades from the same era. I don’t know which was the most unsettling; the frightful, grinning plastic cadaver of a doll seated over the illumined area, or the garish bands of ruched fabric organised so as to travesty what was a most unattractive fashion to begin with. Or was it the sheer discomfort of being in company with a person who would even dream of putting such horrible schmuck in a place of prominence in the sanctity of their home – come back, flying china ducks! All is forgiven. Every age has its madness, I know. Two decades ago, many a motorist had a daily encounter with a seat cover made of wooden beads, and a pair of furry dice. More recently, matrons were going gaga over those arachnidan Philippe Starck lemon juicers. Maybe in ten years’ time, we’ll all look back in horror at the distorting of the human foot by a tide of flip-flops. In the meantime, my pen is gathering steam over carpeted kitchens, furry loo-seat covers and dancing plastic flowers – but that is for another day.