Ah, the 1980s, that decade of excess and ebullience, I remember it well. A starter for 10 – shoulder pads. Clearly they had a role in 1940s black and white films, where wasp-waisted and willowy women spoke passionately through red lipsticked and tense with longing lips….but that which was spawned on the shoulders of glamorous oily soap operas went above and beyond the call of any duty.
Jutting like aerilons of some fantastical plane they swooped outward and upward, only just avoiding the lobe-stretching lug-chandeliers and the rigid lacquered pelmets of Bighair. Balanced by ankle-fracturing and toe-tormenting “matching, co-ordinating, accessorised” (boke) shoes- (and- handbag) in royal blue, cerise, apple green or turk-oyse leather/plastic* (*please select and delete, according to taste and budget). Was this not a sight for sore eyes? Viewed by the myopic through unseemly huge owlspecs.
All with me so far? Splendid. Being in possession of a small-ish frame, I found, to my dismay I possessed, also, square-cut shoulders. Not sloping, stooping or gently rounded. Squarer than a Regimental Sergeant Major’s moustache ends….squarer than a thing of great squareness. Woe, was very much me. I tried, oh how I tried, to find something, anything with the requisite upholstery and “lines de jour”. Well poohbumpissbellydrawers! I resembled, in those b.awful communal changing rooms, nothing less than a very small, but pugnacious American Football player. And it was not just the assessing-my-own-reflection scowlface. It was those (padded)shoulders. A master carpenter could not have set his square squarer. Even drooping dejectedly (as I divested myself of Yet Another attempt to play with the big girls and emulate Alexon, Swellen or Kryspakkit ) failed to improve those bunker-sided lines.
Clearly I was then and still am a Woman Out Of Time With High fashion. Just as well, really. The local sights of megamuffin tops overspilling spray-on jeggings (a true bastardised hybrid, if ever one was concieved) topped off with an umbilical piercing, would land me in jail. And quite right, too.