Posted in: Pashmina news
AS I write this column, I am sitting in a Spanish airport wondering how it is that, despite spending an obscene number of hours each week scrutinising pictures of celebrities arriving at Heathrow and LAX looking impossibly glamorous, I am about to board a flight home in Havaianas and a creased-up black sundress, which will blow up over my head at the first hint of a British breeze, while suffering a hair malfunction of epic proportions.
And, despite three days of non-stop sunshine, I am – thanks to a pre-holiday Fake Bake session – actually returning to the UK paler than when I came out.
This is not how it is supposed to be. I should be all kitted out for the journey home in the de rigueur flying wardrobe befitting a fashionista of my status: loose pants, cashmere cardigan and pastel pashmina.
The only problem is that, instead of styling myself to look stunning for passport control, I have spent the day reading trashy chick lit by the pool, washed a huge paella down with a couple of cervezas and spent the last hour dozing in the back of the car en route from our villa to the airport.
I don’t know how, but this always seems to happen. When it comes to holidays in the sun – for the daylight hours, at least – I lose my fashion mojo.
Every time I go abroad, I have in my head a picture of how I plan to look. If it is the Caribbean, I am going for Liz Hurley meets Jemima Khan, while for a jaunt to the States the plan is to channel the two Kates – Hudson and Beckinsale. For Ibiza, naturally I am going for Kate Moss, left, meets Jade Jagger all hippy chic.
I buy all the kit. From the slouchy travelling clothes, to the beach jewellery, the clutch of itsy-bitsy bikinis, the perfectly cut kaftans and the sparkly thong flip-flops that, although I can’t actually walk more than ten feet in them, look fabulous poking out from underneath my silk maxidresses, and, of course, the compulsory beach headgear – stetson in Ibiza, wide-brimmed floppy sunhat for Miami.
Usually, it all starts off pretty well. My first trip to the beach/pool sees me looking the celebrity-ready-to-be-papped part. The hair is flowing, the jewellery is on, I am coated in my SPF 25, shades in place, then come the fateful words from my husband: “Are you coming for a dip?”
I know I should say no. I should remain aloof and fabulous underneath the parasol, but the lure of the clear blue is too much to resist.
I dive into the water and the waves wash away any stylishness I may possess. And it is all downhill from there. Hence my current sartorial situation.
But, as I look around me at the red faces and man tans, I think how much worse it could be . . . unlike the celebrity holidaymakers, at least none of my bad beach looks will be turning up in the gossip mags.