The Diary Of A Purple Sweater

First, let me introduce her.

My lady. Our mistress.

She, a not-so-complete unknown, still proud to be discreet, is about to take center stage while I introduce you to our modest world. The rest of the time, we will remind you who are the true heroes here.

Monday mood

Her: Merrel flat trailer shoes. Barefoot-like. Muse from YSL.

I: How many of her bloody facets would I have to keep safe today?

Latest words uttered

Her: Hoezo Hij?

I: Perché proprio esta donna? (I am learning Italian – no complaints, please)

Latest word written

Her: Vicenzaoro (for her next article)

I: Please. (But I do not generally assume this word)

Latest meal

Her: Almond milk, chai spices and strange mushrooms

I: Almond milk, rice water and gentle olive soap

(Feel free to consider what is the safest for your bowels)

Today is one hell of a day for an old and lazy git of a garment.

‘She’ has to meet a French author, write about Simone Belotti’s debut collection for Jil Sander and present her job to secondary school pupils.

From Jil Sander’s runway collection, she considers the wool-blend skirts with diagonal cut-outs as whimsical if only she had more time to work out and lift her inner thighs. The black one is made of 70% grain de poudre wool and 30% mohair and the fog shade one is made of twill – 97% virgin wool and 3% silk (I wish I could be that kind of virgin…). The cut-outs sign the pieces, introducing a new language to the NY brand brought by the Italian designer. His first collection mixes undercover sensuality with easy-to-wear garments. 

But there is no time to discuss ‘la griffe’ of Belotti’s cut-outs. Our lady has to get dressed and rush to the bookshop. I wish she could get herself a ready-to-wear bunch of hair as we are going to be relatively late.

As we head to the bookshop, I can tell she is mentally revising her questions. The percentage of autobiographical elements in the novel is not what she wants to ask about. Some readers are thrilled to discover an author’s life, pains and doubts while others are galvanised by a character to the point of mentally excluding the author. The stationery section is as big as the children’s section – a bad sign for the eldest booksellers as novels are no longer selling but a good one for the customers who consider that children need to read as much as they need to write their own stories.

Her stone paper notebook is available here with grey or navy blue covers. Not that you care much about it, I guess, but she chooses the one that matches her morning shoes. The pages are made of an incredible combination of strength and softness. It takes some time to actually tear one. The paper feels like velvet under her fingers. Yet, it is surprisingly cold against my wool. We have to hurry as the writer is heading to another city in less than two hours. Unfortunately, the cashier is discussing with an old man how difficult it is to be a divider nowadays.

‘For sure, answers the old man, I will not become a divider when I grow up.’

‘You are very wise, sir. It is certainly better to turn into an eyelet. Or a hole punch.’

As long as they do not consider becoming bodysuits with triple choker collars and criss cross straps woven by some frustrated spiders on ecstasy. I have met one in the laundry basket of our lady’s mother and its intrecciato almost killed her poor father’s pants. While she pays, our mistress cannot help but discuss the cultural weather with the cashier. A social plan cut the number of employees by three. Not a single paper published anything about it.

Let’s now head to the very sophisticated building where our writer is expecting us. Well, expecting my lady. I am not sure that the writer expects my mohair more than any other garment but let me pretend I am important in this subject.

The woman is around sixty years old. Yet she looks younger than many women in their fifties. As we approach, she wears a cashmere turtleneck sweater under an iced blue jacket and has a very warm smile. Empathy and love seem to be the secrets to her lasting beauty. As well as strong aristocratic genes. Longlisted writers for booker prizes are somehow humans. If getting an exclusive interview is not something that thrilled my young mistress anymore, meeting the human under the multilayered aspects of his or her latest book is what keeps her pen vivid. As we sit, dividers, eyelets and social plans are no longer part of our conversation. Here, the conversation is about a 45 divorced man who cannot really get in touch with his young adult daughter. I have read parts of the book while my lady was on the bog and the writing is fine, a streamlined tailoring but the subject is not something I care much about. Authenticity in familial relationships is big business in the literature industry though. But where are the modern-day Kareninas? The Bennetts of the 21th century in modern literature?