I need to be honest with you. Some of you will already be aware of this, but to those of you reading this who may not know me, there is something about me you should know.
I own way too many clothes. My room looks like a monster from a Miyazaki film has opened its giant mouth and vomited clothes all over it by the time the end of the week rolls around. My wardrobe is stuffed - literally, and potentially figuratively. I live in fear of the clothes rail finally giving in and collapsing under the weight of clothing I expect it to support.
I don't feel guilty. I love all my clothes equally. Each piece, okay - item (I never really spend enough to refer to my clothes as "pieces") is bought with grand hopes and dreams for the ensembles it will contribute to, for the life it is going to live. Everything in my wardrobe is perfect for something.
I also like talking about clothes. Not too long ago, upon overhearing a conversation between me and my friend L about all the clothes she had purchased on a trip to London, a friend of ours commented that he could listen to us talk about clothes all day long. Not because he cared about the subject matter - I feel that he would like me to point out at this stage that he is an incredibly masculine, bearded Canadian, with little time for such trifles - but I like to think he found the rhythm and cadence of the conversation soothing. Maybe.
As full as my wardrobe is, there is always room for more. With the change of every season there are new dresses and jackets to dream of and new sartorial hopes and dreams. This winter, I am delighted by the bright cobalt blue that I am seeing everywhere. It pops out from the seas of black and grey, while still providing the strength in colour that we look for in our winter wardrobes. When the temperature drops no one really turns to pale colours, do they? It's as though we need the strong tones to remind us that we are still alive, in the icy mornings.