There are many desires of the perennially picky that never quite materialise. Or more precisely elegantly refused. My pickiness is not entirely whimsical it’s just that mine is not that willowy physique that takes any material and any cut and makes it look effortlessly lovely — it is a petite hourglass — that ultimate tease of a figure that would look ravishing if it were only 5 inches taller or boyishly-adorable if it were only 5 cup sizes smaller — coupled with my gaping eyes I am a dead-ringer for a precociously filled out middle schooler who seems just a bit too worldly for her own good. I can see it in strangers’ eyes — the surprise at my vocabulary, the mild worry about my being out late. There are several advantages to my appearance but exuding professional authority is simply not one of them. This digression crucial to emphasise that clothes matter to the likes of me — they take me from being a woperchild to the well-adjusted woman I’d like to think I am.

To this end I have maybe nine outfits— in multiples but still just those — button-down shirts, skinny black trousers, fitted dresses, single-button jackets, pencil skirts, navy blazer, jeans, polo t-shirts, oversized memory t-shirts. Of these my navy blazer from Theory is the most precious as it is simply irreplaceable — it’s not too fitted but is still becoming and has these very sailor-like gold buttons — I wear it with a white shirt and polo shirts and jeans, a little black dress, little grey dress, little red dress, skinny black trousers — basically with everything else — it’s the closest thing to a security blanket I have and when I roll up my blazer’s sleeves to mid-elbow I can safely say I am ready to take on the world — art-opening, cocktail party, working lunch — anything. I waited a long while to find this blazer — refusing, refusing and ever since my mother found it for me at Harrod’s, I have basically worn very little else. Same with my perfect button-down blouses from Brooks Brothers. That blazer it’s an armour, that white shirt it’s my sword -there’s nothing remotely effortless about any aspect of my wardrobe — every garment has earned its hanger, every undergarment has won its drawer and every pair of heels its rack. To introduce a new class of clothes into this stringently curated closet is quite a feat and I can’t believe how easily IDLF has sauntered in.

Of all the staples I’ve wanted — the perfect silk shirt has always been on my list and I’ve never really found one that worked for me — when the velvety texture is just right as with the lovely Equipment shirts they are blessed with unfortunate patched pockets. And I refuse to pay $200 for a silk shirt — it’s a staple and that price would make me feel unsure about wearing it out and about as I like to wear my clothes — over and over, year after year. Well today after an unfortunate tea spill I needed to rush out and thought I’d pick something up at Uniqlo when I found it — there it was the silk shirt I’ve been waiting for — Ines de la Fressange for Uniqlo — I did a double-take when I saw her name there — Karl Lagerfield’s muse at Chanel then Roger Vivier as blue-blooded as it all gets and now for Uniqlo but so many of these high-low mixes feel compromised. IDLF’s cotton shirts were fairly tragic but her silk blouses were ridiculously perfect. I bought one in Schiaparelli pink for $30 — this is how much a shirt should be — no patch pockets and oversized but with precisely fitting shoulders. I’m wearing it with a pencil skirt but I can see how it would work with skinny black trousers, with capris and under my beloved blazer for that extra touch of luxe.

This is what chic is I suppose — that sense of effortlessness that IDLF exudes is inimitable — she is everything I always longed to be in some ways — incredibly tall and superbly slender and exactly like me in other ways — the eyes, mouth and hair with a Peter-Pansy late bloom. Ines is a woman who has — contrary to every appearance — led a full and exciting life with all its requisite traumas as well and triumphs and still has her insouciance intact — she’s like Daisy in Gatsby —leaving one overwhelmingly aware of youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, the freshness of many clothes, gleaming like silver safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor. If there is a shirt that can match metaphorically the sheer perfection of Fitzgerald’s writing I don’t know yet but I know it’d smuggle in at least as much pleasure as this new shirt and the promise of a new clothing class — off-white, black, blue and perhaps another Schiaparelli pink. To adhere to my mother’s advice on matters sartorial— when you love it buy two, when you can’t live without it please for the love of laundry buy five.