A Cut Above.

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The fashion houses of Knightsbridge came hand in hand with Royal Ascot, Henley and summer wedding territory, and so I became accustomed to the prim and proper of London’s social elite: the ladies who vied for matching two pieces to be topped off with flamboyant fascinators or a theatrical hat.

I couldn’t help but find fondness for one particularly affluent woman who would visit us each season to ready her wardrobe for the social obligations of the coming months. Like many others, she would plump for traditional cocktail dresses and matching suits and jackets, but each time she dented her bank balance, she would ask to see the in house tailor.

I soon ascertained that this wasn’t the usual alterations request where the customary motions of nipping a hem in here or tucking a dart in there were followed. This lady required something I imagine many of these socialites yearned for amidst their restrictive pencil skirts and their wiggle room only seams. She wanted each and every hem hacked at within an inch of her derriere.

As was deemed appropriate by the vast majority of our customers, the length of our dresses was accustomed to falling just below the knee. Nevertheless, this particular shopper, whom, might I add was some 70 years old, was not satisfied with anything that didn’t brazenly skim her knicker-line.

During their first encounter, the seamstress was understandably weary of cutting into several hundreds of pounds worth of fabric to create something she wouldn’t let her own teenage daughter wear past her front door, but nevertheless, after just one season we knew the drill: if all and sundry was not being flaunted, then this eccentric pensioner would not be satisfied.

In the decade where Ascot’s rules of dress were being published in every newspaper to avoid the faux par of a heaving bosom or an unashamed pair of bare shoulders, I only wish I could have witnessed one of her entrances into her world of cocktail parties and canapés.

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Day 101.

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Today I reprise my role as happiness huntress, and by doing so I am delving past the 100th day into a realm unknown. This cheery verdict came courtesy of a splendid postbox treat, inviting us to watch one of mother nature’s most perfectly crafted couplings getting hitched. This pixelated face is awash with squares of smile. #100happydays #day101

Day 83.

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As a little person I was always rather jealous of my parents and their piles of post from the man in the red jacket, and it was with covetous hands that I would forage the pile in hope of seeing my name. Nowadays, a dose of adult realisation has taught me that the post is not so sensational, unless you receive the most wonderful of postbox surprises… a nuptial summons from a pair of fellow mad hatters that I know are going to wed amidst one hell of a party. I’m so excited it took me forever to be sensical. #100happydays #day83

Day 48.

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Once upon a time in the City of Angels there lived a man and a woman who were to be married. At the same time lived a writer in London whose words would assist them in twisting the key to the so called ball and chain. I don’t usually find commissions in editing a groom’s vows and wedding day message, but it does prompt a smile to do so. And that’s one step into LA. #100happydays #day48

Day 38.

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For the past two years my April the 6th breakfast has been served with a side of bridal anticipation, a helping of butterflies and a monumental cloud of hairspray. Both years I sauntered down the aisle ahead of a heavenly bride, willing myself not to be labelled the blubbering bridesmaid. I was victorious on that count, as were both pairs as troths were pledged and they moseyed into matrimonial magnificence. I may be all for staying forever young, but weddings certainly soften the coming of age blow. I’ll just go and cry into my bran flakes now. Happy anniversary. #100happydays #day38