Yet I feel that all I do is stitch up hems and darn yet more holes.
I know that the answer does not lie in a shopping mall yet somehow I think that my self inflicted new clothes ban is to blame for this vague itch of disgruntlement. But how have I arrived at a situation in my life when I think that the answer to a general rumble of dissatisfaction lies in the purchase of some new clothes. I know consumerism is the panacea for the 20th century but for some reason I thought I was inured from it.
Just last week Brendan, courtesy of my mother's recent forays into the charity shops and car boot sales in her town left me with two shirts and a pair of trousers that are like new, so why am I hankering for poorly lit, dreadfully musak-ed stores full of lollipop headed sales assistants (that always make me feel so self conscious when shuffling through the racks looking for something in a size larger then Belsen). I don't even like the majority of the clothes, nor am I keen on the conditions in which they were created but so suckered in am I that I am yearning for a plastic tagged label to remove.
This morning found me yet again setting aside a pair of denim 3/4 length trousers to repair for the umpteenth time, alongside a particulary unflattering example of pyjama nightmare where the hem is steadily unravelling in a slow attempt by the article in question to hide its shame and seek relegation to the rag bin, but no, off I go to sew it back together again. But why? It is so hideous I daren't photograph it for fear of cracking the lens yet I know it will find its way back into the top of my wardrobe and I will be sleeping in it again before the week is out. And its not like I don't have any other night wear.
Why am I so incapable of throwing away these poor excuses for clothing in favour of the other items lurking in the depths of the wardrobe? Do I really feel that the face that I want to show the world has much in common with a bag lady?
For some reason I have managed to squirrel away all my nice clothes on hangers and have let the dross rise to the surface time and time again to the point where I am intimately acquainted with about one tenth of my wardrobe and the rest is a mystery. Trinny and Susannah where are you when I need you most?
I am going to gird my nettle and strengthen my loins and I vow to take a day next week and empty the contents of my wardrobe and swap everything at the back for everything at the front, rag everything that has been patched up at least 5 times, everything that is stained, everything that is stretched beyond recognition and everything that looks as though it has been used for mouse bedding.
In the meantime, I'll just go and sew another patch on my grotty grey t-shirt that I use for gardening, and ignore the fact that my black tracksuit trousers that I normally wear for work are now fetchingly spattered with some of the lovely purple paint from the bedroom wall.