Does Anna Wintour have a double ? I can’t think the power in the land of Vogue
would be on a bus but the woman had the right hair, the omnipresent dark glasses, and the assembly of clothes was that rare thing – absolutely wrong and absolutely right, from earrings to shoes. I said how lovely her hair was. And it was. It had shape and line. And she thank ed me in a clear, deepish voice which was another part of the harmonious whole. I’ve sought line from the age of nine when I saw my first ballet and struggled to explain why I preferred Lucette Aldous. My mother suggested she had “line”.
I don’t think I could define it easily but as it’s a standing joke that I can’t talk without my hands – I could probably show you.
Whoever she was, this woman and I exchanged several remarks on a bus by now blessed empty of overweight tourist and Saturday shoppers. And when she got out she waved goodbye. A movie moment, interesting and attractive, away from worry and insecurity and fear.
Fashion is a recognised speciality in journalism. And I was never in it.
I just bought Vogue whenever I could for years until I gave up on the British edition because the US edition was a far superior publication – much more editorial, a read more than a look. I read about health and food to eat rather than look at, this artist and that film, books, all sorts of well written considered bits and pieces. The clothes were American rather than European but that was educative too. I have long been less interested in “the latest thing” than what worked for me. Magazines were my first love but times move on and I regret their changing, but not the experience of them in my life.
The day before, the splendid postman had left me with one of those cards that warn “postage to pay “ and an address. And when you looked up the newly sited collection point, there were three alternative versions of opening hours, so I left it till the day, checked and prayed.
The first time you go somewhere is always a bit fingers-crossed. The old site was simple, in a building labelled Post Office. This was now a Customer Service Point (I laughed aloud)
in an edifice labelled Royal Mail where electric doors opened before you touched them bringing you into a space with a chair, a notice and a counter behind which stood a man in his late fifties wearing a Royal Mail red knitted shirt and glasses. And in front of which stood a tall young man with black hair gathered loosely off his face because of the rain.
One of the nastiest allusions of older women among themselves is “Fancied him, did you ?” No I didn’t. I thought he was beautiful -like a tree or a young animal. The man at the desk asked me what I was there for. I produced their card, he excused himself to the young man and left to deal with us both. I turned to the young man who was Japanese and said “Your hair is like black smoke.” He gave me a big grin. “And where are you from ?” I asked, and he named a city I have never heard of, adding “ In the south.”
I named the order of his islands with my hands -Hokkaido, Honshu, Shikoku, Kyushu – he nodded at the last and asked surprised how I knew this ? I said “Miss Kirk for Geography.” He is studying interior design – we talked about my kite shaped raincoat
(take a bow Cocoon, a British company) I talked about the line again and – he said “You are professional – teacher ? doctor ?” I said “journalist” and he asked where ?
The Royal Mail man returned and asked me how I was going to pay ? “I said “In money” and we all grinned. “And” I said “you haven’t asked me for identification. I brought my passport specially … “ “I don’t need your identification “ he said. Moment suspended.
We shook hands all round.
Annalog 