As most people who know me in real life would agree, I am not exactly a walking fashion plate.
But I do have some common sense, which explains why I have never, ever bought a pair of bumster pants, shown the top of my undies to the world, or inflicted an over-flowing muffin top on the general public. Not only would it be cruel, it would make me look stupid.
I was thinking about this when I walked up Chapel Street (very trendy Melbourne street) on Wednesday night to attend the Stitch and Bitch meeting, and was looking at the clothes in the windows, the clothes on other people and caught a glance of myself in a shop mirror and could see the clothes on me.
While my ankle-length black skirt, sensible shoes and over-sized long cotton jumper would not earn me a place in Vogue, it would also not earn me a place on Australia's Dumbest Fashion Victims. I was an appropriately, if unimaginatively, dressed big girl, with a pretty, if pale and unmade-up, face.
Meanwhile a woman of approximately my age, but half my size, click-clacked her way down the pavement, nose in air, the better to not see a fat suburbanite like me. Her skin was a suspicious orange-bronze and had already acquired the leathery look of a woman of a certain age who had spent too much time in the sun. She was wearing orange lipstick, cropped pin-striped 3/4 leg suit pants, a ruffled white shirt, white stiletto fringed cowboy boots and was carrying a Louis Vuitton bag and holding a pair of Chanel sunglasses.
Naturally I assumed that the LV and Chanel accessories were replicas. I wondered how many hundreds of dollars she had paid for the fakes that would fool no-one.
But today it suddenly struck me that it would be even more hilarious if these accessories had been the genuine thing costing thousands of dollars each and everyone assumed they were fakes because of her overall look of a fashion victim.
Money does not buy class.
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