Recently, I met some friends for Sunday lunch. All of us were wearing oversized shirts. In truth, I almost hadn’t changed out of my dog-walking clothes for the occasion. So I was mollified to see that all four of us had dressed as though we were about to paint a bathroom, in an assortment of clothes that a Surrey banker might label as “man-repelling”, despite never having heard of Leandra Medine.
The following weekend, I went to a couple of fashion shows. I looked along the front row. All of us were wearing oversized shirts. That is, those of us who weren’t were wearing oversized coats, boxy T-shirts, baggy knits or tops so shapeless that no adjective exists to describe them. While no fashion editor is going to rock up to a show in Look 15 from Dilara Findikoglu, the wilful slouch of it all was something to behold. Breasts? Waists? We didn’t know them.
