Sunday, February 20, 2011

Melbourne, My Word!

K darling.

I was out on my nightly stroll just now and found myself the subject of birds. Not in an entirely Hitchcock way as they weren't attacking so much as nestling in my hair. I had paused to contemplate the colour red (and came up with Brimstone) but by the time my thoughts had settled, I had become the subject of several crows.

My word, I thought, as my assistants avidly scrubbed the nearest shop window so I could admire myself in it - THIS is couture. Just as this realisation passed me, a girl in a polyester floral top and the suggestion of shorts (I would repeat the word "short" to illustrate the style of the item in question but I have a contract with Vogue that disallows me to speak or acknowledge that which is not Style.) It was disenchanting enough that someone who is not invisible decided to interrupt my musing, but to her discredit, she snorted in laughter as her thighs (designed by Ed Hardy in the style of Roast Hams) rubbed across my vision. Do not pretend to hide behind your hands. Those claws cannot hide your unworthy disdain.

This is not the first instance of the unlooked judging those in power. As I have been in the vaults so long, it did take me by surprise. Does this city of Melbourne, in which I visit, sincerely exist outside the realms of couture? Surely not all of these people are so uncultured?

I am almost certain that somewhere close there will be a tattoo parlour here that only tattoo stars and butterflies. I can see it now, the person behind the counter is tall with jet black hair. Perhaps scattered with sailor tattoos. If one wanted to get a tattoo of a butterfly, why not live in a museum and pin one's wings to oneself every day? Or hire assistants to collect the coloured butterfly dust and use that to make dye in which to stain a silk patch in which you sew to yourself? This is fashion. This is Style.

I may have to make arrangements so that I wont be here much longer. In the meantime I will speak to the authorities about keeping the general constituency locked in discount marts where they can spend their hard earned money on excess floral and perfume so heavy in chemicals it burns slightly on the skin.

x D