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Irish Examiner

Suzanne Harrington: Fashion faux pas leads to wedding-twin selfies

Our capacity to keep learning is ceaseless. I've just learned that prepping for a week in a field at Glastonbury, where I would be lugging a week's worth of camping gear and bedding, plus festival wear to accommodate every weather eventuality from heatstroke to hurricane, across sweaty miles of off-road terrain from the outer perimeter parking fields to the crew camping behind the Pyramid stage, lashed to a wonky two-wheel trolley, is significantly easier than prepping for an afternoon at a summer wedding in town. This is not an Irish wedding, accessorised by castles and lakes and ice sculptures and matching bridesmaids and those dining chairs also dressed to look like bridesmaids. No. This will be something far more Ibiza-ish, a laid-back celebration in a chilled garden, the bride and groom accessorised by their Gen Z children, having got together back in the mists of 1990s rave culture. Wear what you like, said the informal invite, so informal it pings as a WhatsApp group chat, rather than those creamy invitations embossed with gold cursive requesting the pleasure of your company. No spray tans required, or updos, or suffocation by spandex. Nor is it like dressing up at Glastonbury, where Oxfam has a stall which sells nothing but secondhand glittery garments, from ballgowns to hotpants, so that at night, the festival fields become an ocean of sparkles accessorised by wellies and hiking boots. No. These wedding people are Londoners, my partner's oldest friends who wouldn't be caught dead in a field in case it'd muddy their effortless urban chic. Right, I think. This warrants something non-secondhand, non-glittery. Something a bit more sophis. I splurge on a strappy orange item from Cos. Fabulous. Peering in the mirror, I notice I have a faint moustache from all the menopause HRT. Vanity wins over feminism as I smear my upper lip with a product I've never used before, which promises to melt away the bumfluff. And in an effort to recreate an illusion of braless perkiness under the strappy garment, I attempt an ill-advised experiment with tit tape, using the only tape I can find in the kitchen drawer, which happens to be gaffer tape. Even as a lifelong advocate of DIY styling, I would not recommend this. Do not follow me for more style tips. I arrive at the garden wedding with an upper lip constellated with tiny scabs — herpes chic — and sideboob traumatised by gaffer tape. Never mind. At least I'm wearing a glowy new orange ensemble, perfect for the solstice sunshine. The garden is filled with groovy middle-aged people sipping cocktail slushies, the men in linen shorts and Paul Smith trainers, the women in raw silk and statement jewellery made from recycled clothes pegs. Not a high heel or a fascinator in sight. It's gloriously relaxed. I silently high-five myself for not sticking out like a glittery-wellies sore thumb. Another guest, who I have never met before, arrives wearing exactly the same orange garment, plus the same sunhat and hi-vis orange nail polish. We do a double-take, point to each other, then laugh, and spend the rest of the afternoon doing wedding-twin selfies. Someone comments we look like escapees from a Rajneesh commune, but clearly the woman has taste. Read More Suzanne Harrington: Anyone justifying Iran civilian casualties will have blood on their hands