After weeks of being at home, I’ve got used to dressing down. I’m not so feral as to sit at my computer in my best blouse with only my underwear and a pair of Disney themed slippers, but I’m beginning to hanker after the idea of dressing up.  

The draw of an opportunity for a big night out in the company of three chickens and five friends, under a gazebo, was the thrill of the week.  What should you wear to dinner when you are no longer used to dressing up and the chicken is not on the table but under it?

There is an argument for rubber boots. The chickens do not have the social graces of the friends, who generally speaking, are able to exercise self control and don’t necessitate the need for waterproof footwear. The argument in favour of protective footwear may be well made but after weeks of living in trainers and padding about in bare feet, I have been feeling the urge to exercise my personal fetish and put on proper grown up shoes.

Some people can carry off blue nubuck footwear and a pair of tired old jeans, but I am not one of them. I would need to find something to wear with “THE SHOES”, and began to regret the amount of ruthless wardrobe clearing that has gone on over lockdown. In the history of blue dresses, I have reached a low point, because the multiples of blue are now history

Without the benefit of the Flatmate’s critical eye, and with a seriously reduced number of blue dresses that could be relied upon, even if the blind truth of the matter was that most of them were long past being reliable, I was on my own. For the first time in a while, a critical assessment of what I looked like was down to me. Just to add a little spice into proceedings, the well ordered content of my wardrobe was now strewn across the room.

Oh how I regret the impatience of my choices in not adding some kind of tactile marker that would help sort out the navy from the black. The long suffering neighbour might be good with boilers and exploding microwaves but when it comes to sorting through hosiery, it’s probably fairly safe to assume this may not be his forte. Who was I to put this to the test?

 It was time to do something different, but what?

In a serious departure from “blue”, I might have to go “red”. I would rely on my own sense of “how it felt” to me, and not worry about what anyone else thought about the hem line or the neckline or whether this was suitable attire for the company of chickens.

I went for the #Bombshell dress. If it’s good enough for #Nigella, who famously cooked her way to fame in a #Bombshell, it’s good enough for me. Mine is red tartan and I feel fabulous wearing that dress. Perhaps dressing for a feeling is better than depending on what other people see and say. What other people said about this departure to “red” only added to the feeling of joy in my #Bombshell dress.

What about the chickens? I thought they were colour blind. I was wrong. They are #tetrachromatic and have a superior colour range that even takes in ultraviolet light. This might be the only advantage that a chicken has over me.

By the time I tucked myself in under the gazebo it was dark and a bit on the chilly side. All gratitude goes to the coverall coat, but if you cut me in half, the blues are gone. I’m red tartan through and through.