04 March 2009


Heavily influenced (try haunted to distraction) by a post on The Sartorialist, which showed a rather superb denim-clad girl in New York (see Saturday, 21 February), I went off today in search of my own denim nirvana. You may yawn but it's a deep-rooted quest in me that I thought I might have satisfied by now, but, if I'm totally honest, I know will stay with me forever. I have denim in the blood and I need it like you need water. Any attempt to ignore it just increases the need tenfold. And anyway, I kind of like my obsession. So here it is, my first pair for 2009 (late I know as it's March already, but there is a recession going on).
And so I decided, not unlike the New York girl, to get me 'the boyfriend'. So-called because you (the girlfriend) have allegedly raided his (the boyfriend's) wardrobe and claimed his pair as your own. No more tight-as-hell-skinny-minx-second-skins, but a rather more loose fit (yes ladies, the bigger the better) that literally just hangs off your curves - the key of course is to know how to wear them (rolled up and heels for me but I'd be really interested in hearing how YOU like to wear yours/his). Then a funny thought occurred to me on the way home: I don't have a boyfriend. Whose boyfriend should my jeans therefore have belonged to? I do have a husband though. And whilst he is gorgeous, somehow 'the husband' doesn't quite have the same rock 'n roll ring to it, does it?

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