Suddenly all I want is a backpack and a jumpsuit. Not a fancy jumpsuit either (been wearing those for years, even though they make peeing a pig). No, it’s a denim one. A utility one. Butch. And with the backpack, I know I am describing a Ghostbuster (granted there are very few hotter than Melissa McCarthy or Kristen Wiig right now – and Bill Murray has always been cool). Or a plumber. Or a handywoman. I basically want to wander around looking capable. A loo. A tyre. Maybe even knock up a cement mix. Capable is the new skinny.
Useless utility chic is my style these days. I wear jazzy workout leggings to watch Newsnight. Everything has to go with trainers but hell will freeze before I actually run anywhere. I even have a Mountain Warehouse cagoul. Which I wear to the park. Not to do the Tour de France.
What the hell happened? When did I start wanting to look like I was about to head off with River Phoenix and the gang down a disused railtrack in Stand By Me? What happened to all the sparkly shit I used to love? Is this what being a grown-up is all about? A wardrobe that is almost entirely ‘gr-avy’, with the odd novelty skirt thrown in.
Then I realise it’s not about turning 40 and suddenly being magnetically attracted to cardigans. It’s about confidence. The kind of confidence that means that I don’t need to please anyone but me and if that means I feel like working a romper suit then so be it. I want a backpack because my back hurts, people. Bring on the backpack. Who you gonna call?
P.P.S: But all backpack suggestions gratefully received here