I never thought I’d blog about fashion, but really this is more about aesthetically pleasing and fantastical forms of personal adornment (or rather art!) crafted with incredible creativity and handiwork. The sort of thing I would wear if I ever made it to Narnia. Accompanied by vignettes of the fairytale great and good.
But darling, of course it had to be so large! Remember I was smuggling fifteen children out of Germany at the time. They weren’t at all pleased to have to wait under there for an hour while we exchanged vows – not one bit! – but they at least got one decent meal out of the experience – I saw to that by dropping platefuls of cake at the reception and then stepping on top of the mess. The waiters did look confused! And remember dear old Winston admiring my small delicate feet – that was a rogue boy’s hoof poking out when it shouldn’t have! And then, darling, you can’t imagine Mr F’s horror upon discovering that evening that one of my pearl-encrusted garters was missing – I hadn’t felt a thing.
‘Oh gosh, what’s happened to my legs?!’ That was when I realised the spell had worked, and I was a mermaid. From hip to toe I was just one slick, solid mass, forking into a water-dynamic tail at the bottom. I can tell you, finishing the runway without functioning feet was a hard ask. Not to mention my scales were extremely dry! I had to flip right into the jacuzzi next to Karl Lagerfeld afterwards.
Well, what a disaster. I woke up that morning and immediately felt that I simply had nothing to wear. Not my blue velvet, not the white gossamer spun from spider webs, not the hobbit-couture nude silk, not my last birthday gift from the elves (it uses essence of rainbows instead of thread, you know). And I certainly couldn’t borrow anything of mother’s. I tried my old wedding dress, but the tie-dye just didn’t come out right; I even considered borrowing one of the suits of armour from the great hall, but they hardly flatter the female figure. I really was in a quandary! But the carriage had already been waiting an hour and a half, so I had no choice but to pick the coverlet off my four-poster and go to the ball with it draped around me.
This old thing? Oh, it was my stepmother’s in the ’80s.
And then he said, ‘I shall give you a cloud for a dress, for only then will they know that in marrying me, you are attaining cloud nine’, and then I said, ‘Honey, I’d be on cloud nine already if you’d just give me that twenty-eight carat diamond for my finger’
It was a nice dress, but so heavy! The thing was solid gold! Why? Well, Daddy’s got a little paranoid since the assassination attempt, thinks we’re all targets or something. My arm was frozen in place the whole evening. Some really lovely men kept handing me soda ices but I couldn’t raise them to my mouth! And the Gazette ran a whole piece on how wooden my dancing was! I very nearly wrote to the editor.
Oh, I couldn’t sympathise more. Of course you were right not to ask the Dowager Queen for help. She’d as soon have given you a poisoned apple as a spare gown! You know I was in exactly the same position? I was just soaking in the solid-gold tub with the seven dwarves fanning my face – they are such dears – when suddenly the clock chimed eight. Late again, and none of my gowns back from the Mice Menders yet. So I had no choice but to run to the kitchens where Cook whipped me up a nice firm meringue and popped me in the oven to set. He barely had time to stir in all the peppermint flavouring! And after all that, I left the house with my bath towel still around my head.
But Nanny, I couldn’t have gone into the forest without my cape, now could I?
No no, I’m not your fairy godmother, love. You’re mistaking me for someone else. Don’t worry, it’s the wings. Happens all the time
I was just taking a stroll in the fruit grove, when a Big Bad Wolf appeared. Now I’m well accustomed to lunges at my breast, but this was entirely unwelcome. The horrid creature took my flowery bodice in its yellow jaws and made off with it! Yes, it was just here that it happened. Is there any chance the Wolf could be brought to reason? I really don’t want to appear before the King in nothing but corsetry!
I certainly couldn’t go into battle wearing a breastpiece, no. The men look up to their Prince for courage. Torso armour is for the weak. No, Rodders has never trodden on my cape. Good old boy, known him since he was a pony. He has been known to discharge his waste over the old velvet, though! My under-valet had quite a task getting that out, I’ll say.
Fear me, for I have the power to hang all the constellations of the twilight sky about my person
I had to finish the dishes, so my dear chipmunk friends got to work at the Singer while the owls picked some of the herbus rarissimus flowers that bloom but once a year
No, I can’t do anything about the flowers. Yes, I’ve tried. Occupational hazard of these magic powers, you see. Can’t get rid of the damn things. Yes, I know they aren’t helping me revamp my look. Can’t you just photoshop them out?
The 7th Order of the Bath Guard? You haven’t heard of them? Well listen up, pal, I’ll have you know my regiment has the honour of protecting the King while he sluices the battle grime off his back at night. It’s a tough job, and only the Wearers of the Robes can do it. And listen, if you’re ever low on rations, I can probably get you some of the royal talcum cheap, eh? Pre-used, of course.
That’s my kingdom, behind. I’m wearing the national flag, actually. No, it’s only accessible by boat. Population of ten. Goats, that is. All the people left long ago, talking about a difficult commute or something. Is it hard being a ruler without subjects? Well, yes. I haven’t taken this dress off since my maid resigned three years ago, and I can tell you it’s not easy sleeping in a tiara. And the reason we’re all so awfully thin is that Cook took off shortly after, too. It’s why I’m backing the ‘Make Larocheforte Great Again’ campaign. Larocheforte jobs for Larocheforte workers. Goats really are no substitute for servants.