Clothes maketh the mood

As non atmospheric barometers go, clothes are a pretty reliable gauge of a whole spectrum of stuff from the weather to mood to the economic climate.

Whilst it might not take an effort of staggering genius to work out that a crowd wearing Wellingtons and holding umbrellas means rain is forecast, who would have thought that the colour of one’s clothing relates directly to the financial health of one’s nation? Apparently – and somewhat counter-intuitively I think – the more prosperous the times that we live in, the more likely we are to dress in sombre colours. When things are looking particularly good on the pocket, we wear black. But when we go about our business dressed in the bright springtime colours of the spectrum, beware – for the economic cloth is indeed wearing thinner than a socialite’s waist line.

Of course it’s not just what we wear that makes a difference, but how we wear it. Some people – my little sister, my good friend David, for instance – have an affinity for style that is woven into the very same warp and weft of their DNA as their eye colour and the distribution of moles upon their person. It’s true that both have correspondingly bulging wardrobes, but to write their stylistic talents off as an accidental by-product simply of volume is to make the same error as to subscribe the works of Shakespeare to a typing pool full of monkeys; a reassuringly equitable comforter to the rest of us that is actually complete nonsense.

No, people like my sister and David have a genius gene for fashion. They will always select the right outfit for the right occasion; will co-ordinate colours and fabrics with military precision; will have spotless matching un-scuffed and mud-free shoes; will arrive shining and immaculate in spite of journey trauma; and will artfully accessorise with a seemingly throw-away casualness that belies the real skill behind it. As a consequence, it doesn’t matter how much my sister might protest that she’s feeling fine when she’s laid up with a virus; if she’s still wearing toning satin nightwear in her sick bed I know she’s ok. But better reach for that telephone in double quick time if she’s got her husband’s football club pyjama bottoms and a pair of holey socks on.

Although my sister and I are close and share many similarities, this passion for fashion is not one of them. It’s not exactly that I don’t like clothes; more that I can’t usually be bothered with all the faffing around that goes with it all and would much rather spend an extra hour in bed in the mornings ignoring the alarm clock than wrestle with straighteners and the ironing board. That my sister’s immaculate and magnificently groomed appearance makes me look like a bag lady on a bad day is neither here nor there.

However, I do seem to have accidentally boarded the zeitgeist of the current gloomy economic fashion barometer by purchasing four hooded sweatshirts in a dazzlingly colourful array from daffodil yellow to emerald green. I wonder if my sister’s noticed how stylishly on the money I am?