Inspector Clouseau

I’ve been at it again,  spying on the Swiss.  I set myself up at a table in Place Molard, Geneva, opposite Zara, dark glasses firmly affixed and waited.  It wasn’t quite the lunch time crowd so they arrived in dribs and drabs but as usual the women of Geneva with their nascent talent for chicness – not one blessed on me born into a family of women where an outing to Marks and Spencers was treated with excitement verging on religious fervour - did not disappoint.  Chic women of all ages appeared in my vision wearing this year’s trends à la perfection.

Being a woman with fashion and glamour hard-wired into my evolutionary biology, I approach each season with a mixture of excitement, disdain and a heavy heart.  I get very confused and thus shopping trips are not particularly efficacious. Wedges or ballerinas and if wedges how high?  With skirts or under trousers only?  Elephant wide jeans Kate Moss style or is it still skinny jeans Kate Moss style?  High or low waist? Hipsters I believe they are called but only designed for those who don’t have any.  And colour is in this year: canary yellow; bright blue; acid green but which one?  I should just wear beige.  Nice, safe, comfortable beige.  Taupe, ficelle, camel, any shade of boring, bloody beige and some nice flat shoes.  But soon I am brought back by that bit of evolutionary hard-wiring – that no doubt had me fighting over the best bits of fur in the cave days and keeps me chasing after the right look every season – because success in the fashion stakes is a feeling that flies straight to the blood stream.

Some years I think trends are all a conspiracy by the fashion industry.  I wonder if we are all not perceived as lemmings, they design something hideous say those puff ball skirts that made us look like bumble bees or this year’s ludicrously über stilettos, and then laugh their heads off as the skirts fly(!) off the shelves and we crash land.  But then again the catwalk is not something I can aspire to anyway being on a budget like the 99.9% of the population and thankfully not stupid enough to blow the cost of a decent family holiday on a half hour in Gucci.  If you are one of those who get sniffy at the very idea of Zara or any high street chain store then read no further. 

A lesson in how to wear this year’s acid green from a passer-by

The Swiss are not the petite French or the elegant Italians, they are from farming stock so whatever your body shape you will find it on the streets of Geneva although a well toned and slim version of the pear, apple and rhubarb.  When I tire of watching Geneva women I go into Zara, hone in on the really glamorous shoppers and follow them around.   They look a little embarrassed to be in there preferring to give the impression that they only visit designer stores but in general the more embarrassed they look the better they are at picking out the really good pieces.  There was a sixty something with that telltale permanent grin facelift in Zara the other day and she looked phenomenal, from behind.  I crept around and took note of all the things she took into the changing room.  She definitely had the eye for the cutting edge article that looked good on her and could pass for designer, shame that ability didn’t also prevail when she was shopping around for a plastic surgeon but then again walking two paces ahead of everyone is not such a bad price to pay for looking twenty years younger.  

Take my advice spend a couple of hours on a busy street in Geneva and all your fashion queries will be answered.  This will save you some serious dosh and is much more informative than any fashion magazine.  Let the Swiss do all the work for you but failing that and as this is Heidi land you could try a nice dirndl, a beige one. 

Copyright Jules Ritter May 2008