Grandmother Momo used to say, “dress like you’re in the movies.” Up until the very end, she would put an outfit together, even if she was only sitting in her living room chair for the day.
Her love for clothes and old movie stars like Marlon Brando, plus a sharp tongue, are a few of her traits that I’ve inherited.
There is nothing like opening the wardrobe doors and working out what kind of woman I am going to be for a meeting, or to buy potatoes, or to sip coffee in Society Café. Some may call this shallow. A waste of time. A waste of energy. They will refer to Zuckerberg who wears the same grey T-shirt every day, so he can think of more important things in life, like being a Meta billionaire alien. I’m not Zuckerberg though, I have time to be shallow. And what world would it be if we were all in grey t-shirts?
And so, every day I take time and energy to assemble an outfit as if I’m in a movie – but recently a scene unfolded and I had no time to get into costume.
One night last week, I heard a commotion from the residential car park below my flat. There was a car moving around, and a mumbling conversation between two people. Now and again, they would call someone on loudspeaker, only for it to go straight to voicemail. Assuming it was Air Bnb-ers, I put the pillow over my head and hoped that whatever they were doing out there, they would stop soon.
They did not stop though. Not much longer there were different voices outside. The time was 3:30 am. Bloody tourists, I thought as I put on my glasses. I shuffled out of bed to see what was happening. When I looked out of the window though, there were not tourists below but a gang of firemen.
“Can I help…?” I croaked.
The blonde fireman shouted back, “Can you let us in please?”
Their beautiful broad faces gazed up at me. I peered down at my oversized Kakhi t-shirt and whimpered. If blondie’s voice didn’t sound so urgent, then I would have changed, but realising that time was of the essence, I threw on my black leggings and chucked my hair up like a pineapple. I didn’t even have time to put on a bra. 😔
It turned out Number 14, (you can read about how I nearly killed number 14 in this blog), had fallen. The nurses couldn’t get inside his flat and so the firemen had been called to save the day.
If I could have prepared for this event, I would have modelled myself on a Grace Kelly Rear Window look.
I would have fluttered down the stairs and let all the firemen in with a wispy voice, “What seems to be the problem boys?” But no, I wasn’t prepared. I opened the door to the jacked-up men in their uniforms and I looked like Peter Pan with an udder. I spend hours in Society Café in colour-coordinated outfits, and not one man appears, but here they all are in the middle of the night at my door.
The men made their way into number 14 somehow, and you’ll be pleased to know that the old man was fine.
I guess it’s a movie of some sort, but perhaps not the one Momo meant.
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