Thursday, August 23, 2012

Tell Detective Stevens if he sees a woman wearing last year's pink Blahnik strappy sandals, bring her in for questioning immediately.

Recently I joked about what what happen if I lost, or even if some unscrupulous so and so stole my favourite shoes. You know, my shoes that go with everything, my Vivienne Westwood for Melissa Cherry Lady Dragons. Nic and I had just watched the Sex and The City episode 'A Woman's Right To Shoes' and underneath my joking there was genuine concern. Like, I was exhausted just thinking about the tears that would be shed if that were to happen. You see, I know this is going to sound materialistic (well, duh, because it is materialistic) but I like my stuff. I'm attached to my stuff. I only keep things around that mean something to me, so all of my possessions have some sort of sentimental value. They all tell a story. Take for example, my lovely Fever Rose Garden dress:

This dress has very many happy memories attached to it. It was the first dress I bought from Fever, so the start of a long and happy relationship with that lovely independent brand. I bought it shortly after Nic and I started going out, so of course it reminds me of a long and happy summer of love. It accompanied me on many adventures - I wore it to explore Dover Castle and the White Cliffs:

I wore it to go dancing in Paris. I wore it the day we found our lovely flat. Here's a massively awkward photo of me wearing the dress to the butterfly farm in Stratford on a day out with Nic and his brother. I love this dress. Every time I look at it I think of all the happy times we've had together, and all of the times I've worn it and felt awesome in it. I have happy memories of all of the dresses in my wardrobe and they're priceless for that reason.

Here's me wearing my dress in the butterfy farm in Stratford Upon Avon

The memories themselves - well, only complicated surgery or, you know, getting old, will affect those. But if Bette Davis could insure her waist, and Jamie Lee Curtis could insure her whole body (apparently, for $2.8 million dollars), neither of which are actually replacable, then I could compare home insurance and think about insuring my dresses. Not that $2.8 million would actually cover that cost of course, OBVIOUSLY.  Also, what could have happened to Bette Davis's waist that the loss of it could somehow be covered by money? WUT? Anyway, if some unscrupulous beggar swipes my shoes at a party, or some dedicated burglar shins up the drainpipe and in the window to take my Hornsea teapot, or even if Loud Guy in the downstairs flat falls asleep smoking and sets fire to the place (I shouldn't joke about that one, the idea of that does genuinely frighten me) then I'm set. I might not be able to replace the dresses themselves, but at least I'd be able to buy new dresses and make a whole set of new happy memories in.  

Disclosure: This is a sponsored post, but all views are my own.