It was close to the top, hovering just below: Any bag of any kind and More pointy black shoes.
The Coat beckoned to me from the hanger, so creamy and politically incorrect. I knew, even before trying it on, that the swingy lines would forgive all figure sins, and at the same time convey a certain slyphlike élan far beyond the purlieus of my daily wardrobe.
Joseph Magnin. Knee length wool. White mink collar. Aged a genteel cream. It was mine by divine right, and by force if necessary. I was able to avoid that violence with a heavy dose of plastic.
"But!" you're saying, "it's August. What kind of crazy person buys a wool coat in August?"
Two kinds. First, anyone who enjoys the hiemal summers of San Francisco. The other, a child raised by my mother and indoctrinated from birth with the mantra buy it when you see it, not when you need it!
In this case, guilty as charged on both counts.
1 comment:
Catherine, look the other way. (swipes coat)
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