Hem fatale

FOR the first time in years, I bought Elle magazine. I must have been suffering from a short-lived delusion that I am 23 and could feasibly incorporate a silk and leather Christian Dior dress ((pounds) 1,830) into my lifestyle. Actually, it was probably due to a reaction against discovering a copy of Good Housekeeping in the bathroom.

The word fashionista appears frequently in Elle. It appears that in order to be one, and embrace the spirit of spring/summer 2003, one's wardrobe must include a short skirt. I have not worn a mini since the period immediately proceeding my twins' birth, six years ago. Post-childbirth is a dangerous time, fashion-wise. Minus a colossal bump, you are tricked into feeling tiny, a mere willowy wisp of a girl, who could fit into Kate Moss's bikini and can therefore expose acres of thigh without the police being called. No longer pregnant, you feel about seven stone, and look forward to being booked for Vogue's swimwear shoot.

Out went the army surplus dungarees which could clothe a shopping mall. In came a scrap of a skirt no larger than a car exhaust bandage. I wore this skirt to a barbecue, expecting admiring stares and even applause. This was not a good look. I was constantly bending down to check on the babies in their carrycots, my rear in full view of the garden. Such a spectacle is not what friends wish to witness over their charred chicken breasts. Luckily, no one started laughing or retching, and no photographic evidence was gleaned. But I did notice people staring in a worried way. Years later, a pal who'd been at that barbie remarked, "I remember you in that mini, ha-ha-ha. You were very, er, brave."

'Brave' can sound complimentary, but these days it's not a term I wish to hear in relation to my fashion sense. Brave used to imply cutting edge - now it means nasty. In fact, I feel I've been kicking around a tad too long for this season's miniature clothing. Yes, in theory, women should wear what they want, regardless of age. But who wishes to embarrass their offspring by flouncing past the school gate in what could be a mistaken for baton twirler's outfit?

I'm not sure what dressing my age even means. Kookai feels slightly too youthful - if such stores had doormen, they might tactfully suggest I try a nearby shop specialising in beige cardigans - yet I'm not ready for those independent boutiques offering lilac two pieces and hats with netting for weddings. Fashionistas don't have this problem. The models in Elle have legs like a gazelle's and a median age of 17. None of these creatures frequent soft play centres, building sites (to watch churning cement mixers) or the thrilling piles of gravel my children hold dear to their hearts. They don't face the dilemma of how to clamber over a stile without showing their pants. What do models' lives consist of? Shoots, parties, and sitting in taxis.

Elle may trumpet that this season's key looks are pirate (swashbuckling swag) or sweet florals (butter wouldn't melt) but how are these to work on the school run? Expensive, fragile clothes attract accident and tragedy. The only posh-ish outfit I own - a Calvin Klein (at Debenhams) trousers suit - met an unhappy end as a result of collision with candles at a friend's wedding.

This never would have happened to a New Look sweater. I fear that, as soon as a non-fashionista gets ideas above her station - and swaps her dung-caked boots for suede Pied Terre mules - some accident in the home, involving a spillage of tomato-based sauce, will render them useless. Likewise the mini. Jeans can be worn to the park and remain unscathed, but a short skirt is designed to attract small, muddy children and enthusiastic dogs, intent on poking wet noses up your hem.

When we moved to rural South Lanarkshire from East London, fashionista pals declared, "Oh God. You'll go all jumpery." You can fight it and wear a dainty silk dress while hoiking your leg over barbed wire but really, what's the point? At some point you have to get real. You are not sitting at a pavement cafe, killing time before your French manicure. You are in an abandoned quarry with three children, and it's raining.

Living in the country makes me more cautious, fashion-wise. When we moved here I just wanted to fit in, make friends and be liked, and wore dark brown for a year so I'd merge in with the soil. These days I'm more adventurous - a touch a black has been introduced - but I fear that my devil-may-care attitude, and that ill-advised skirt, will not be seeing a revival during spring/summer 2003. Meanwhile, if any Sunday Herald readers are experiencing car trouble, I have just the thing to bandage your exhaustu Email Fiona at: magazine@sundayherald.com

Copyright 2003 SMG Sunday Newspapers Ltd.
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