Dear J
In the continuing saga of the caravan, Jols and I have landed on a date of 15 October to meet up with White Stuff to take delivery of our Princess Nova and pose for some promotional photographs. The beard is coming along well, after a slight setback when I had to shave it off for the Roads Ahead book launch.
While working out the finer points, Georgie from White Stuff mentioned: “Of course, we’ll want you dressed head-to-toe in White Stuff clothes. Head off to the nearest store and get some ideas about what you’d like to wear…”
It will come as no surprise to you that it takes a situation of the gravest seriousness for me to hazard even a foot towards the changing rooms. I found myself in the Shrewsbury store, loaded up with a full five items to try on. Jols, for her part, flung herself into the task, and staggered up after me practically buckling under half a hundred-weight of White Stuff’s autumn collection.
“Oh my god,” the assistant actually muttered.
One quick explanation later, and by now ensconced in a packed-to-capacity changing room, Jols was subsequently referred to in hushed, reverential tones as “the caravan lady”.
It didn’t take me long to decide on my choice (by which I mean: I’m a man; we’re all the same shape; we’ll wear anything), and I settled into a nearby chair while Jols busied herself behind the curtain conjuring up some White Stuff magic.
We felt a bit bad departing the store having bought nothing, and leaving the staff to put the place back together – but the real work is yet to come: my wedding photos remind me it’ll take more than magic to wedge a comfortable smile into my face.
“Cheeeeeese…”
j
Fit for a Princess
Dear J
In the continuing saga of the caravan, Jols and I have landed on a date of 15 October to meet up with White Stuff to take delivery of our Princess Nova and pose for some promotional photographs. The beard is coming along well, after a slight setback when I had to shave it off for the Roads Ahead book launch.
While working out the finer points, Georgie from White Stuff mentioned: “Of course, we’ll want you dressed head-to-toe in White Stuff clothes. Head off to the nearest store and get some ideas about what you’d like to wear…”
It will come as no surprise to you that it takes a situation of the gravest seriousness for me to hazard even a foot towards the changing rooms. I found myself in the Shrewsbury store, loaded up with a full five items to try on. Jols, for her part, flung herself into the task, and staggered up after me practically buckling under half a hundred-weight of White Stuff’s autumn collection.
“Oh my god,” the assistant actually muttered.
One quick explanation later, and by now ensconced in a packed-to-capacity changing room, Jols was subsequently referred to in hushed, reverential tones as “the caravan lady”.
It didn’t take me long to decide on my choice (by which I mean: I’m a man; we’re all the same shape; we’ll wear anything), and I settled into a nearby chair while Jols busied herself behind the curtain conjuring up some White Stuff magic.
We felt a bit bad departing the store having bought nothing, and leaving the staff to put the place back together – but the real work is yet to come: my wedding photos remind me it’ll take more than magic to wedge a comfortable smile into my face.
“Cheeeeeese…”
j