We are just back from America and getting over the jet-lag. I have not been to New York for twenty years and I cannot wait to return…
We do the usual things; walking down Broadway; watching the skaters at Rockefeller Plaza; eating mama’s meatballs in a manic Italian diner. For culture, the chief drags me round the Museum of Modern Art. It is cosmic and challenging – and not for the traditional.
Oh, and we also visit Trump Tower. Sixty-eight storeys high, this brooding black edifice towers over fashionable 5th Avenue. An army of press and protesters packs the pavements outside. Many have bones to pick, so security is tight. However, if you slip through the coffee shop at the back, you can easily get into the glitzy glass-clad building.
Inside, yellow marbled walls and a waterfall catch the eye. They are the only things that do. Despite a furtive look around, the new king of the western world is nowhere to be seen.
So the chief and I do what all girls do when all else fails. We go shopping. He splashes out on a MacGregor red and black tartan shirt. Well, it looks like tartan. The Americans actually call this fabric ‘buffalo check’. I, meanwhile, buy a light blue tee shirt.
It is a modest purchase, but it is one that will affect the wardrobe. A chic French girlfriend has a strict policy when it comes to buying clothes. It is ‘one in, one out’. If I wish to look as elegant as she does, on my return to Scotland something must go.
Of course, once you start, it can become a sorting frenzy. The cupboards are jam-packed. You cannot see the wood for the trees, or the dresses for the blouses. There are piles of jeans and rows of jackets. There are sharp suits from news-reading days and track suits from sporty ones.
Some garments are more useless than others. There is the bright pink coat that hasn’t been worn for at least five years. And the much-loved, but well worn grey jersey that has seen better days. There is also the hopeful size ten party dress that I will never, ever get back into…
There must be no more dreaming. Sentiment is shelved as skirts and shawls are stuffed into bin bags. Coat hangers can now actually run along the rail. The charity shop will have a field day. Especially if someone likes shocking pink.
The MacNaughties watch suspiciously from the door. They look worried. The thing is, these doggies do not like me going anywhere close to a closet. A closet means dressing up; which usually means going out; generally without them.
As they are already recovering from being left for a fortnight, some sort of reassurance is required. I decide to abandon the clearance project for the roly-poly game. It is more fun than playing shops – and it seems to do the trick…
Spirits are lifted.
