Me and librarian stereotypes

Can't decide if to laugh or be cross at lazy librarian stereotypes - so thought I'd have a little ramble on the subject.

Let's start with clothes.  I have rarely met a librarian in real life wearing a twin set; although I am very partial to cardigans  - the library where I work being either tropical or frigid so clothes that can easily (and decently) be removed are de rigueur.  The librarians of my acquaintance do not dress as one - just as well as several are men.  Although strangely, in recent years, when shopping I have been attracted to items of apparel for their very 'librarianishness' - my favourite black Gap pinafore being such an example - must try to control this instinct.

Now what about going 'shush' ?  Actually caught myself doing this yesterday  in an ironic sort of way - suspect the students just thought I was doing it in a tight-arsed-librarian sort of way.  It just seemed inappropriate to bellow 'Be quiet, this area is for silent work!' hence the need for 'shushing'.  Tool of the trade - nothing more, nothing less -generally doesn't give us a big thrill to do it.

So we are either completely sexless or hiding raging passions beneath our very modest twin sets - the repressed librarian suddenly turning into a sexy minx.  A certain person (who will remain nameless) told me how he finds librarians alluring, just a little bit scary and likes it when they look at him over the top of their specs  (um - good reason to investigate laser eye surgery?)   Have resolved never to waive his fines again - obviously needs to realise that what he takes for flattery just won't wash.  Do you hear  people saying these things about female accountants or lawyers or primary school teachers?

I suppose in past years,when generally only unmarried women worked and the single state was thought something to be pitied, we were an easy target - a profession mainly of women, the vestal virgins of books.  But I bet you even those horn-rimmed spectacle-wearing, twin set toting, pursed lips 'shushing' library gals of yesteryear won't quite as buttoned-up as people like to imagine - just think of all those books they had available to them - Valley of the Dolls, Peyton Place, endless romantic novels - life lessons between the covers.

So when you picture librarians as mousy, shy, repressed, unloved, sexless, short-sighted (actually that bit is true), loving cats more than people, wearing flat shoes at all times, having no social life, wearing boring clothes, loving books (some of the librarians I have known have actually rarely read a book), needing silence, only ever listening to classical music you can pat yourself on the back as some of these things are true, some of the time.

BUT ... the rest of the time the librarians of my acquaintance like rock music, play various musical instruments including concertinas, run, cycle, have relationships with living creatures other than cats, like fashion, don't always wear specs, laugh loudly in the library and have to be told to pipe down, adore Michael Fassbender/Ryan Gosling/Ryan Reynolds (theme going on here -could that just be anyone called Ryan?), like cake (see http://librarycakes.tumblr.com/ curated by a colleague - excellent - if slightly sick-making), get drunk and disgrace themselves (n.b. I'm not actually referring to myself- although a short while ago I found I was unable to walk in a straight line after two white wine spritzers - complete lightweight).

Have decided to stop saying rude things about accountants.

Mum and matching colours

Mum was a great one for matching accessories; handbags, earrings scarves had to match an outfit or 'tone'.  These accessories were usually in her favourite colours: caramel, beige, ecru, taupe - i.e. brown (I really hate brown - what's to like?).

Matching became a bit of an obsession when she started dressing us in similar outfits.  I vaguely remember us wearing matching kilts and capes - mine was green and Mum's navy blue. There is a nice picture of us holding hands in front of the Viking ship at Pegwell Bay - Mum, young, slim and dark in a pale dress with a sticky-out skirt, me, small, blonde and cute (yup - I was once - for about five minutes) in a matching frock.  Goodness how long it took to get a decent photo as I spent much of the time sulking, having a strop or whining.  Back to the photo - I suspect I might have been the infant equivalent of Paris Hilton's handbag dog.

When my sister was about two and I was eleven Mum began taking the matching to new heights (lows?).    She decided to save money by making our clothes.  I particularly remember the purple crocheted dress with matching white pom-poms.  Sister being a tiny, dark-headed moppet looked quite sweet in her purple outfit; I, being at that skinny, gangly, knees-too-big for-legs stage looked hideous.

One delightful outfit was an A-line dress (flattering to most shapes - especially those with no shape), large, puffy sleeves (not so good) and a ruffled clown-style collar - think big, think enormous. In a subtle colour this might have been just about bearable, but it wasn't subtle in anyway.  The fabric had a white background with large swirly patterns on it - might have been a super-sized paisley - in shades of yellow and orange (I really hate yellow and orange - almost as much as brown - makes me go all shivery thinking about it).  I've never seen anything quite like the fabric - suspect it was for making curtains or upholstery.  This example of haute couture or should I say basse couture (been revising French GCSE with daughter - vocabulary increasing by the day...).  Again nice on the moppet, but a garment of extreme embarrassment for me - there was no hope I would ever grow out of it as it was made to be grown into.  

  Fortunately Mum got fed up with this new hobby and I was able to have clothes like normal people.

Nan and coats

Nan liked to buy me clothes and always insisted on buying what she called 'big things' such as coats and shoes.  She aimed to buy items that got you looked at,  as in her mind any attention was good attention.  Unfortunately her idea of what was a good look rarely matched mine - I refer you to the tale of the   Nan and the party dress

Coats were always dangerous.  I remember a maroon cord coat with white fur around the cuffs and hood - so not a good colour on me and the fluff moulted something dreadful.  Nan insisted I looked like someone called Lara.  I have since seen Dr Zhivago and have to say - sadly- I bore absolutely no resemblance to Julie Christie.  In fact in this coat I looked like Like a cross between Little Red Riding Hood and Liam Gallagher.

She then turned up with an enormous fake fur coat - made for someone about 40 years, no  60 years older than me.  It was an alarming yellowy-brown colour and looked like it had been made from a dozen dead cats.  When I wore it (under duress) people used to hiss at me and chant 'Fur is murder'.  I wondered at what stage Nylon had been alive.

But the height (low) of her coat purchases was the Afghan coat.  Her friend worked in a dress shop and when clearing out old stock the woman passed various items to Nan.  One of which came my way.  Now I think Jimi looks fantastic in his Afghan, but by the time I got mine they had not been in fashion for some time.  It had the advantage of keeping me warm, but my goodness when it rained - well, of course it smelt like a wet goat mixed with my signature scent Rive Gauche - hideous. Fortunately  one day I 'left' it on the bus - and it was never seen again.

Me and trying to look different

In a fairly tame way I tried to look different when I was a teenager and I found it most gratifying when old ladies said rude things about me on the bus.

A favoured outfit included one of a number of pairs of vintage (i.e.old and grotty) stilettos from Oxfam, worn with fishnet or footless tights (I vaguely remember this was a winter craze as my legs feel cold as I write).  On top I wore a leotard (dreadful things when you need a pee in a hurry) and a tight skirt.  My parents would roll their eyes and Dad would ask if I was off to work walking the streets - their humour was not appreciated.

I also had a penchant for dungarees (think some misguided fool had said I looked cute or it might have been my continuing crush on John Boy Walton).  Lee dungarees were my favourite, but I also had a bright red pair.   I thought the legs were too baggy so altered them to a skin-tight fit - again this made me a cheap date (no - not in that way - I was a nice girl) as I couldn't risk drinking too much and having to go to the loo.

The skin-tight theme continues with the purple satin trousers (terrible for VPLs) worn with a black vest - I remember wearing this outfit to a Rockabilly club and wondering why I got stared at.  I think the most shameful outfit was the red and white striped bikini which I would wear with a pair of cut-off shorts when walking from my university hall near Gower Street to Regents Park.  Any bloke who happened to even look in my direction was greeted with a hissed, 'Sexist pig - women can wear what they like, Germaine says so'.
Um ... the folly of youth or was it the vanity of a size 10 body?  The latter I fear.

Me and school uniform

My school uniform was pretty standard: white blouse, pleated skirt (on the knee), grey pullover, grey socks (very nasty and itchy) worn with a turquoise, black and silver tie.

In year 7 some girls managed to make this uniform their own - displaying black and red lacy bras through the thin white cotton (mustn't exaggerate - two girls did this).  The rest of us wore M&S vests and could only aspire to such greatness. 

But depending on prevailing fashion we all spent quite a lot of time either rolling our skirts up - to create a curious artificial muffin top or at other seasons pulling the skirt as low as possible - taking care not to reveal too much knicker.

There was also a fashion for wearing as baggy a jumper as you could get away with.  Girls would sit with their knees clutched to chests and then pull the jumper over knees; after a lunch break sat in this position most jumpers would be bigger (if although rarely uniformly - it produced a strange lumpy effect) - sadly for me Mum's washing techniques always returned mine back to normal size or possibly somewhat smaller.

Ties were worn as short and fat as possible, especially by those with cleavage; alternatively you tied them so that the slim side was uppermost (think Justin Timberlake in school uniform - there is a man who likes a skinny tie)  Strange that we never tried different knots - so much variety out there - Windsor, Pratt, Four-in-hand, Prince Albert (um ... mind boggles with the last one - I couldn't bring myself to do a Google image search).

Me and the purse-belt rebellion

There were only so many ways that school uniform could be customised - sophisticated girls wore American  tan tights (any other colour was strictly verboten) and rebels wore black pullovers rather than the regulation grey.  We were frequently lectured about the importance of maintaining a good uniform (honour of the school,  not looking like slappers) and there were regular uniform inspections with dire consequences if found wanting.

Some bright spark suggested we should wear the correct elements of the uniform, but mix things up a bit (I bet she became a lawyer).  So one Friday at break time,  along with most of the girls in Year 8,  I took off my tie and fastened  it around my waist.  Then the particularly ugly grey purse-belts we wore around our waists were worn as necklaces.  We all wander around the school giggling like idiots and feel quite secure as there was safety in numbers as Slipper Woman couldn't whack  all the girls in our year.

My hero

Our insurrection did not go unnoticed - we were summonded to the hall and the deputy head asked the instigator to stand up to save the rest of us from punishment.

I would like to say that we re-enacted the famous scene from Spartacus and that girl after girl stood up to say 'I am the purse-belt rebel'.  (Isn't Kirk Douglas lovely in that scene, a little bedraggled and dusty, but that manly tear so makes up for his lack of grooming.  Not so keen on the pants, but suppose slaves couldn't be picky).

Back to the hall - no one owned up so we all had a lunchtime detention.  Uniform rules were rewritten to specify what part of the body a particular item could adorn.

Me and the Bishop

The Rector asked who would like to be confirmed by the Bishop of Oxford.  I wasn't sure what this entailed, but he mentioned that we would need new dresses. That was all it took to bring me to religion - if he had mentioned shoes I would probably be a member of a closed order of nuns by now or perhaps an anchoress - a modern Julian of Norwich.

Confirmation lessons were surprisingly interesting - knowing so little about religion there was always something to surprise me - it was like some amazing soap opera with funny names.  The best bit came after the lesson when Mrs Rector used to make us hot chocolate and biscuits, then the Rector would turn off most of the lights and tell us ghost stories.

Confirmation day came and I put on my new dress (navy blue with a white sailor collar decorated with a couple of red anchors - I can see it now) - suspect the shoes weren't so good as I have no memories of them.  We get to church to find tens of small girls all dressed up as Barbie bride in flouncy white numbers with veils (sorry - again no recollection of what the boys wore).

I don't have a veil and am in a panic.  Mum, although not an experienced confirmation attendee, was not to be defeated - she attaches my baby sister's muslin cloth (i.e. the cloth for wiping baby puke - let's not beat around the bush) to my head.

I'm sure the Bishop winced when he came to bless me - it may have been the matelot outfit or the delicate aroma of  vomit issuing from my hair.

Me and the wedding

One of my aunts is getting married and I am going to be the smallest bridesmaid - I'm probably about seven.  I have vague memories of the day - a sweet mauve dress made out of some shiny self-patterned fabric, being given a silver bangle by the groom, deciding that I will entertain all the guests with a ballet dance and then, after about thirty minutes, getting cross when I am moved from the dance floor so the happy couple can have the traditional first dance.

There is a buffet-supper; I am allowed to go and help myself - although Nan-next-door says I must eat everything I take - waste not being permissible (also she and Grampy are paying so I expects she wants her money's-worth).  I milk the situation by making numerous trips to collect a single items of food, a slice of ham - eat that, then back for a bread roll, eat that and then back for a single tomato and so on - good excuse for swishing around in my nice dress.

Then the best bit - pudding.  This is a dodgy-looking fruit salad - too many pears and not enough peaches for my taste, but never mind,  I spot a bowl of cold pale yellow custard - so much nicer than cream.  I wonder why formerly hot food tastes so much nicer cold?  Pizza, tepid roast potatoes and toast left in the toaster for 15 minutes until it is nice and crisp - delicious.

Back at the wedding - I liberally (actually - replace that with greedily) spoon custard over the miserable fruit salad and plod back to the table (all those trips to get food and the ballet dancing are taking their toll). Unfortunately the bowl did not contain custard, but salad cream (I do not mean mayonnaise  - which would have been more palatable, if a little strange), but sharp and vinegary salad cream.  I am mortified at my mistake and do not tell anyone.  Instead, taking Nan's words to heart, I plough my way through the fruit salad and salad cream -a  very nasty combination.

me and bras

I went to John Lewis to buy that oh so desirable an object - a new sports bra.  At least JL has a good private lingerie department where you are unlikely to run into passing male acquaintances as you hunt through racks of garments that look like medical trusses.

I initially looked online and was rather taken with the idea of what M&S advertised  as 'suptuous sports bras' - now suptuous to me suggests something that would feel amazing - silk, satin, possibly even velvet.  Impractical I know, but what about a lavender-coloured velvet sports bra with chantilly lace - how nice would that be?  Anyway sadly M&S had nothing in the least bit sumptuous to offer.

Putting aside fantasies of aesthetically pleasing sports bras (wonder if blokes have similar dilemmas when purchasing jockstraps?) I head to Oxford Street.  JL (they should employ me as a global ambassador) has an extensive range which is good.  But I am disturbed by what they are called - Shock Absorbers being a pretty good brand, but I don't want to feel like my big end (or whatever shock absorbers are for) has gone.  Actually they certainly do give you a shock when on - never wear for a hot date (any date actually) unless you are perhaps into S&M - then it might be an acceptable look.  Suspect if Michael Fassbender had chanced upon a Shock Absorber in Shame  he'd have found a new addiction.

The names of these garments of torture (constricting in the extreme - I could hardly flex my shoulder blades)  leave something to be desired unless you are a former East German shot putter ( I mean from what was East Germany, rather than a retired sports person)  - who wants to wear something called Sportsjock,  Lessbounce, Moving Comfort Juno (for your inner goddess?) or the French brand Zbra (no  - I can not have a racial stereotype attached to my chest).

This was definitely a case of  'be careful what you wish for'.  I remember all the nights when I'd pray for a chest (Ok, let's not be coy - breasts).  I think I could have empathised with Job (studied for RE A level) if he had been afflicted with a flat chest - but all those boils just left me cold.

Getting changed for the first PE lesson of secondary school was an eye-opener in more ways than one.  Most of us wore white regulation  vests, the lucky ones had a small bow or fabric rose to relieve the grimness ( although I have to admit it can be a good look on some - think Wolverine or David Beckham).  But at least we were together in our sartorial shame  - that was until the two girls in our class, who already looked like they could be pulling pints behind a bar, (jealous - moi? - Non) took off their shirts to reveal ... black lacy bras.  OMG  I don't think I had even seen a black bra - I lived a sheltered life where female relatives thought that a pale blue or pink underwear was extremely racy and likely to put them on the road to perdition.

I go home and tell mum I must have a bra - she laughs and I continue to wear a vest for a good while (I will not reveal how long - I am not seeking pity).  Eventually the day comes when I get my M&S 26AAAA  (very slight exaggeration) and think I have become Madonna in that J-P G cone bra.
But today when wrestling with the sports bra (I think I may have dislocated my shoulder trying to do it up) I remember those vests with great fondness.

Me and Quick Worker

It is the summer term; I go to a school disco with my friend Faith: she is the Holmes to my Watson, the Queen Anne to my Sarah Churchill, the Rachel to my Monica  -  we are the bestest of best friends.  This manifests itself  by us wearing  the same clothes, having the same hair cut and colour (courtesy of Clairol) and even buying the same type of knickers - generally decorated with the days of the week or dodgy cartoon characters - such is our desire to be the same.

On this particular evening we are dressed in identical navy blue jumpsuits - think Tom Cruise in Top Gun (I can hardly believe I am admitting this).  They have zips that go down to the navel - obviously being good girls we are  zipped up to our collar bones.  When apart we are both quite shy, but when together become a total pair of exhibitionists; we dance when everyone else is still shuffling around the walls, before the teachers herd them into the middle, we also make an awful lot of noise.  I'm sure some of this showing-off was down to me not wearing my specs - I take the line that if I can't see, then no one can see me. Of course we do identical dances; probably practised while watching Top of the Pops and spend quite a lot of time declaring our undying devotion to each other.  I am about to change schools, but we will remain as one and no man (if we should ever be so lucky) will come between us.

A boy keeps trying to break in on our twosome, muttering strange things about twins (the charmer...).  Then Faith needs to go to the loo - instead of going with her as I would normally - I stay and talk to Quick Worker ( for it is he).  I have no excuse for my disloyalty - it was not his scintillating conversation, a mutual love of music or reading - no, I suspect it was his DM's  - you may call me shallow, but ask yourself if you would have behaved differently.  Faith was then dumped for the evening - but don't feel too sorry for her as I think she enjoyed the experience of dancing with one of our geography teachers.

It is time to go home. Quick Worker and I say good night - this involves grappling in a corner (a compulsory activity) and then there is just time for one last trip to the loo before Faith's Mum arrives to take us home in her yellow Honda.  When in the brightly lit room Faith takes one look at me and laughs gleefully. 'Well, he was a Quick Worker', she snorts.  Somehow I have the most enormous, disfiguring love bite on my neck.

Despite the ensuing heatwave I spend the next two weeks assuring my mum that I am cold and need to wear a polo neck sweater (not a great look for those of us who are lacking in the chin department).

Nan and the fancy dress party

I am invited to a fancy dress party by one of the boys I met at Lucy's party.  Finding a suitable costume will be challenging; it is necessary to be cool, alluring, individual (but not too individual) and wear as few clothes as possible - while at the same time avoiding the gimlet gaze of Mum who might make me stay at home and do my homework.

 I enlist Nan's help; she understands that girls just wanna have fun , has wardrobes of interesting clothes left over from the 1950s and has gone out in some pretty shocking outfits in her time.  There are still problems to be overcome: I am 8 inches taller and 5 dress sizes smaller (viz Twiggy and Barbara Windsor - only from the neck down).  A red velvet cocktail dress takes my eye, but I (sadly) do no have the curves to fill it.  Nan (I feel) is not taking this sartorial conundrum as seriously as she should, for instance her repeated suggestion that I dress as an old lady with a head scarf, shopping bag and falling-down stockings. After much sighing and huffing on my part she pulls out a colourful floral dirndl skirt with a sticky-out petticoat,  a white embroidered peasant-style blouse and announces I would make a good gypsy.  No - I am not a swarthy, dark-haired flashing-eyed voluptuous Carmen-type, but skinny, mousy and freckled.   Although not at all convinced I give in because a) my lift has arrived (Uncle in his Ford Cortina) and b) I cannot resist the lure of the charming Piers - slightly punky, when off school premises (a good look) or traditional Sloane-wear (rugby shirt with turned-up collar) - when within the hallowed grounds (not quite so good).

So there I am  - the most anaemic romany princess in all of Oxfordshire wearing an off-the-shoulder top made for a woman with the frontage of Diana Dors (I'm getting worried about the recurrence of off-the-shoulder outfits in my fashion history), enormous hoop earrings (very bling - or tarty as we said in the olden days). Footwear  proved a problem - Nan has feet the size of Miss Piggy's and I only have my cowboy boots which she says won't do for the authentic gypsy vibe.  She suggests I go bare-footed and I (idiot that I am) agree.

Uncle drives me to the school.  Unfortunately the party is taking place in the cricket pavilion - to get there involves a lengthy walk over wet playing fields.  I make my great entrance with mud up to my ankles and hide in a corner while I survey the scene. I am a lone gypsy in a room full of girls wearing variations on the 'sexy' outfit: sexy school girls (think Britney) and sexy tights/leotard combos (think haven't finished getting dressed).  Remind self not to ask Nan's advice about anything to do with clothes ever again.

Needless to say it wasn't a great evening.  Piers obviously preferred the schoolgirl-look to the gypsy - perhaps he had premonitions of Big Fat Gypsy Wedding?  The evening ended with me trudging back to meet Uncle, who loyally said I looked nice and offered me a Murray Mint - I would like to say that this made it better, but it really didn't.

Nan and why ladies shouldn't wear trousers: part 2

As a student I loved to experiment with clothes (I must have had a premonition that a lifetime of cardigans was before me).  In my first term at university I cropped my hair, bleached it almost white and added food colouring streaks to match whatever clothes I was wearing that day - great if it didn't rain.  I put multiple piercings in my left ear with a sewing needle (don't try this at home - it does hurt) when I should have been writing  an essay on West Stow Anglo-Saxon village (I have since developed displacement activities that do not involve pain).  The androgynous look continued with army fatigue trousers (very comfortable, the pockets were always useful) , khaki-coloured shirts with button-down collars and a black silk tie for more formal occasions (sorry Dad - I expect you wondered where it went), black lace-ups completed the ensemble.  Comfortable and stylish - to my mind anyway.

One night when so attired I went to catch the midnight bus to Oxford (apologies to Gladys - does not have the cachet of the original).  Outside Warren Street tube I was approached by a plump, middle-aged lady in a vivid yellow satin frock.  She first asked if I knew the way to Brewer Street. I said that I didn't, being fairly new to London, but that we could look in the A-Z which I just happen to have with me in one of my many pockets.  She smiled and asked what I did.  I began to explain at some length that I was an archaeology student at UCL. 
She became slightly more insistent, almost purring: 'What I mean darling, is what do you like to do?' 
I begin to ramble on about how I liked foreign films especially anything by Eric Rohmer (oh yes, I could have featured in a junior 'Pseud's Corner').  It gradually occurred to me that she had quite impressive five o'clock shadow and looked more Glen than Glenda (good film - I know it is sometimes billed as the worse film ever made - but not in my opinion).. 
Finally realising that subtlety was wasted on me she asked: 'Which way do you swing?'
Somewhat confused I  said that as far as I knew I didn't swing, but I was off to Oxford for the weekend.

When I told Nan what had happened she sniffed: ' Well, if you will wear trousers you have to expect these things.'

Nan and the knitted swimming costume

Unlike her nemesis Nan-next-door,  Nan wasn't such a gifted knitter.  Most of the things she made bore little resemblance to the original pattern; for instance hats could double as small sleeping bags.  When she finished whatever garment she was knitting we had an interesting ritual ,whereby all family members tried it on to see who it would fit; poor Dad was frequently offered cardigans in pastel colours which he generally declined.
Actually I'm surprised Nan continued knitting after her first experience with wool.  As a child Nan lived with her family in Ramsgate, but she was not allowed to go onto the beach as Great Gran thought it common. Once she started work Nan gained more independence and ignored most of her mother's dictates including the forbidden beach. One summer she decided to knit herself a swimming suit that no one else would have.  She said she felt fantastic tripping down to the sands and revealing her white costume to her youthful admirers.  Her splash in the sea was also satisfactory -but she would never go deeper than her shoulders as she couldn't swim and she didn't want to get her hair wet.
Her return to the beach was not quite so triumphant; the white wool had stretched alarming and the costume was almost completely transparent.  She rushed back into the sea and stayed there until the beach emptied as none of her 'genetlemen' friends would bring her a towel.  Home-made swim suits never featured on her fashion agenda again.

Me and the Rugby Player: Nan tells me off - part 1

Nan has only told me off three times in my life; not because I am perfect (I say mock-modestly...), but because she loves me unconditionally.  The three occasions remain etched in my mind; at the time I was resentful,  but each occasion provided useful life lessons.

Nan was the consummate flirt - no man of any age or condition was safe and this included my boyfriends.  They had to be inspected by her - think Salome eyeballing John the Baptist's head. One of her favourites was the Rugby Player (hereafter RP).

I first saw RP dancing with his RE teacher at an inter-schools function; having admired his moves from afar I managed to jostle her out of the way - playing defence in the hockey team came in useful occasionally.   RP was kind, well mannered and extremely large - picture The Incredible Hulk - but not green.  He was also useful to have around the house; for example when the spin dryer broke he could wring the clothes out so they were almost dry (including  jeans).  Everyone liked him and Nan loved him, feeding him a constant supply of food and asking to feel his triceps at least twice per visit - he just lapped this up.

I was concerned how she would cope when we split up as there was a certain inevitability about it because:
 1).  I was fed up watching rugby; I would get cold and, despite repeated explanations, I was never sure what was going on.
2).  He had blond hair and I was only really attracted to blokes with dark hair.  When I met him it was in a dimly lit room and I was dazzled by the dancing ...
3). He started wearing similar clothes to me; jeans and t-shirts weren't such an issue, but when he said it would be cute if we wore the same coloured jumpers I realised we were to be no Burton/Taylor, Dante/Beatrice, Abelard/Heloise (I bet he was glad it wasn't the last pair).

The end came one Saturday when I was at my part-time job in the jeans shop. The pressure to sell was intense; anyone bottom of the sales league  for two weeks running got the sack.   RP, being a good soul, comes in to ensure I made at least one sale.  I disappear into the store room to find something to fit him - rugby, like fencing, strangely inflates the thighs.  When I reappear he is in a changing cubicle; one of my colleagues says RP wants to surprise me. He pushes open the cubicle doors and emerges clad in a pair of  Lee dungarees that exactly match the ones I am wearing (a good look with striped t-shirt and plimsolls - but in my opinion only for girls) and says something cheesy like 'Hey babe, now we can look like twins.'
I am speechless.  I do not want to be the twin - I want to be unique - and I want a boyfriend who looks like a bloke instead of a super-sized toddler.  Increasingly desperate I suggest a pair of Levis might be a little more appropriate, but he insist on buying the dungarees.

I go to Nan's, weep a little and tell her it is all over.  For only the third time in my life she tells me off because I am being picky (she wouldn't be saying that if she had seen what I'd seen), I am shallow and who would be a stand-in for the spin dryer next time it broke?  But her main complaint was that she had packets and packets of the biscuits that only RP would eat and what was she supposed to do with them?

The lessons I have learnt from this:
Do not make immediate relationship decisions based on ability to dance.  Dancing is an ephemeral pleasure and does not generally lead to long term happiness.
Always take prospective boyfriends to a well-lit room to inspect hair colour (hats to be removed if worn).
Casually mention dungarees on men and see if his eyes light up.