So I bought a dress for my mum. A pretty, flyaway piece of satin in pale green to match her eyes. Only, the dress was too long, and had too many frou-frou pieces of string on it. (Some fancy designer idea that you could tie it into a thousand styles.) I thought they looked like a bunch of trip hazards, and took the dress to a tailor to shorten and curtail it.
Jen, the dressmaker in Double Bay, did a beautiful and imaginative job, and for $198, almost the cost of the original frock, I ran out into the street delighted with the final effect.
I didn’t try the dress on, because the husband was double parked. Instead, I opened the back door of the black Subaru, threw in the bag with the dress in it, saw that the driver was not my husband, apologised and ran further down the road to my bemused husband in our older model black Subaru.
And that should have been that.
Except now, ten days later, I can’t find the dress.
Our house is almost empty because we are in the middle of moving home. It’s not in the car. It’s not in the boot, or under the seats. It’s not with the pile of bags waiting to go shopping. It’s not in the wardrobe nor out on the line. It’s not at my mother’s house, nor in the hall.
I think it’s still on the back seat of some random man’s Subaru.