This blogger has been AWOL
for a bit. I’ve been concentrating on
creative projects, indulging the summer sunshine, and generating more
work. By work, I mean paid work, as
writers never stop writing any more than actor/singers stop preparing to perform. My efforts seem to be paying off, for
suddenly lots of stuff is coming in at once and I’m juggling. That’s so typical, feast or famine, like
buses and boyfriends.
As I prepare to gear up for a
stimulating few months I’ve been rushing around getting odd jobs out of the
way. I’ve even caught up with my
washing, which one must do when there are more clothes in the laundry-basket
than hanging in the wardrobe. Consequently
I was standing in the courtyard adjacent to my apartment recently and my thoughts
progressed through three related ideas.
First I heard the voice of my
dear Mother, who, when doing my washing on occasion, will reliably say: “I
don’t know how you wear these stupid things.
Aren’t they uncomfortable?” She
is referring to my G-strings which she believes are too skimpy. For some silly reason Poms and Yanks call G-strings
‘thongs’ which causes confusion for Aussies when talking about the things on
our feet… but I digress.
My second thought: “I love
having a real clothes-line. Fabrics dry
so much nicer in the sun. I hate it when
stuff is hanging around the house like a Laundromat, it’s claustrophobic.”
Then finally: “OMG my
knickers are a disgrace!”
This, ladies and gentlemen,
is a sad and sorry result of an unusually long period of no income. I won’t say ‘unemployment’ as strictly
speaking artistes call it ‘resting’ which is ironic as often one spends more
time, energy and angst trying to get a gig than when one actually has one.
The Degradation of Underwear
is an undisclosed and traumatic side-effect of the global recession. I don’t know why I haven’t heard about it on
the BBC?
People who are unemployed - or
under-employed which is just as common - manage all sorts of house-hold
expenses with creativity and perseverance. One doesn’t mind saying to one’s friends
“please, can we go to a restaurant which is less pricey” or “no, I can’t afford
to go sailing this summer” (damn it)… but as the weeks tick by one doesn’t
notice how gradually one’s undergarments are deteriorating. It’s a sinister reduction in one’s standards
which clearly any self-respecting woman remains in denial about for as long as
possible. But when the THUD arrives it
is a shock equal to walking into a nightclub bathroom to discover mascara half-way
down your face and lettuce in your teeth.
When a girl is stretching the
pound (or dollar) she will go without food rather than go without face cream
and a hairdresser. But the loss of
status in her nether regions insidiously progresses until such time as she’s
standing at the clothes-line aghast:
“Seriously it’s just as well I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment...
or have time to get one… for these knickers are not fit to be seen!” I am embarrassed even to hang them on the
line, though thankful at least the courtyard is not visible to the street which
means only three apartments will learn this shameful fact about me.
Of course I do have the
emergency stash – a pair of bra and panties which are new and sexy. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion. But little did I know when I bought them months ago that: a) it’d be so long before I went sexy underwear shopping again;
or b) they would lie neglected at the back of the drawer.
At any rate, I’m not talking
about special knickers for a hot date.
I’m talking about day-to-day standards of dress. This is a serious confession but the exposure
goes beyond embarrassing. It is a
frightening dimension of the international economic crisis and a matter of
significant concern for those suffering the worst of its impact – the
underemployed freelancer, the unemployed, and God knows probably the small
business owner. Hitherto, pottering
along in ignorant bliss, I had not realized this collective scandal was being so
comprehensively hushed up.
I suppose the Degradation of Underwear is like mental illness – no-one knows what to do about it and it’s delicate to
discuss. While still at the clothesline
I ponder on the cruelty of the rising cost of living when wages and benefits
are effectively going down. I don’t personally
blame Prime Minister Cameron and his colleagues for the state of my underwear
drawer, of course, though there might be some greedy bankers who are indirectly
responsible. I feel sympathetic to the
people who do not have work on the horizon as I do, and genuinely alarmed to
realize crowds of people across Europe and God-knows-where
are walking around in atrociously poor undergarments.
I mean, imagine? Oh dear, maybe not!
Reverting to an academic
rather than visual approach, I begin to wonder whether this phenomenon is taken
into account by the clever numbers-people who work out indexes for comparative living-standards? Economists and statisticians talk a lot
about the affordability of utilities (rightly so in a cold climate) but even in
a general ‘cost of clothing’ analysis are they making suitable provision for
the important ingredients which round up all our bits and point them in the
right direction?
In an instant I have decided
that if I have to endure any future periods of unemployment I will simply go
without. I’d rather be an anarchist or a
flasher than assault my self-esteem by going around with faded, loose, daggy,
saggy bras and knickers a minute longer.
Good God, as if getting older weren’t bad enough.
Given I will soon have means
to pay attention to my credit card, the next thing on my agenda is a shopping
spree to M & S or Victoria’s Secret or
some other refined establishment which I’m sure to find on Google or the High
Street. I’ve talked in my blog before
about a girl feeling so much more confident when she’s having a good hair day,
but realize the state of my knickers has an equally strong impact on my sense
of empowerment.
At any rate, my neighbours
will see evidence of the increase in my good fortune. That helps with the shame.
