Age appropiate clothing.

I had a meeting this morning with a company across town. I grabbed a cab over-enduring a never ending rant from my taxi driver about polish drivers. Apparently one pranged his other cab the night before and drove off.
'How did you know he was polish then?' I asked.
'Becasue I know the cunt that did it.' he replied.
Fair enough.
Anhoo I eventually reached my destination and let myself into one of those smotheringly bland new office type building that are popping up all over the place like liver spots on the back of Hugh Hefner's hands.
I trotted up to the reception desk and said ' Ah Good morning, I'm here to see-'
And then I stopped talking and said 'Snarf' Not actually snarf, but a choked laugh nonetheless.
Behold oh receptionist evoking the great spirits of Patsy and Eddie.
It was mutton carefully disguised as lamb.
Before I continue with this most minor of rants, I should point out that I realise I might come off a bit snobby but...
She was forty if she was a day. She wore her red/blonde/orange hair in two bunches high on her head. She wore a sparkly boob tube red top with the words 'angel' printed acoss her chest in diamante, over her shoulders a shrug cardi, you know the tpye, only covers the shoulder. Her glases were square and red. Her makeup, well a drag queen should have been writing it down.
'Yes?'
'I'm fatmammycat, I have an appointment with-----.'
'Oh right, just take a seat there' she pointed at a comfy looking leather couch with a much bejewelled finger. Her nail varnish was vermillion, except for the tips which were sparkly.
While I sat she carried on with her work, but I was at one point able to catch a glimpse of the rest of her ensemble.
She wore-and I shit you not- a mini kilt in reds and greens. It just about covered her saggy arse and orange peel thighs. Her wooden mules finished it all off.
I was bewitched, I was bewildered, I was awestruck. I was wondering why any company would let this lady be the first thing a client sees coming through the door.
(yes I know how that sounds like I am a terrible snob- well no I'm not, there has to be a line)
Fortunately the person I was to meet wore black, she being PR and so on, so I was almost able to put the whole ghastly sight out of my mind.
Almost, but not quite.
There has been a proliferation of these woman in the last few years. Women in their thirties and forties dressing like japanese school girls, or, at the very least, their teenage daughters. Saturday night is rife with mutton tops and overly tanned bodies squished into dresses that display every lump and bulge. Ironed straight hair and sparkly alice bands. Eurgh. Enough.
It's time to reclaim the night!
The whole point of being a teenager is that you can get away with wearing the most god awful stuff and you still look cute and happening, you buy cheap tat because tha's all you can afford and you make it work, you create a sort of style-even if it's like every other teenager on the planet.
But there is something awfully tragic about grown women clinging to the vestiges of youth by dressing so utterly inappropriately. Unless you're a singer or an actress you can't really get away with it. And I know I know, the world would be a sad place if all the individuals were gone, but this woman wasn't being individual at all. I know a few artists that have a very distinct style, I myself am a very fussy dresser, Etheline has a very preppy style. But we are all in our thirties, and not a single one of us would charge into Miss Selfridges, wave our credit cards about, copy a look amimed at seventeen year old girls and even hope to pull it off. And if we could we probably wouldn't. Why? because we had our day of hanging around town in day glo pants and over the knee socks, we wore crop tops and pleather and thousands of bangles. We dyed out hair ridiculous colours and stretched our eyeliner half way out to our ears. We did it when it was our time to do it. Then we got a little older and our style evolved.
I guarantee you that receptionest probably has a teenage daughter of her own and they are 'best friends'. Well sorry Oldie spice, no best friend would ever let their mother out the door looking like that.