Even the most total of oiks will reek of sophistication

This week, the annoying staccato of the sex change operation song in Emilia Pérez is playing on a loop in my head.

I’m not completely sure what we’re looking at here? It’s pinned long johns. It’s heroin needle leggings. It’s a spanx iron maiden. This is what Edward Scissorhands’ arse feels under his leathers, which is horrible and a bit hot. I may never truly understand this, but I love the ambitious impractical-ability of wearing a bed of spikes.

I don’t think Pam’s dress is done up at the back, but we all deserve a long weekend pootling around Paris, mainlining croissant and sipping beer on rue corners, pretending our day jobs aren’t just ingesting stimulants and typing.

One of the reasons cinema took over from opera is because opera is really boring to watch—it’s 3 hours of people being overly-dramatic, directly from their diaphragms, often in Italian. Not getting bored at the opera is a gift bestowed to few—usually analogue elders, raised on rations, who remember Elizabeth’s Coronation and typewriting. These days, opera is a cerebral pursuit, and to endure it for a few hours is to verify your own refined chicness, your stance again the grotty pull of the attention-economy.

With all the family diamonds and people going ham on décolletage, opera dressing—rather than opera going—shortcuts these signals of cultural speriority. Even the most total of oiks will reek of sophistication masquerading in this butter-coloured sheath, a silky cocoon that whispers private education funded by inherited wealth. I don’t think this coat is cheap, it’s the kind of aspirational apparel that even Theresa May would have to shake the magic money tree for. But who are we if not dreamers? I want to look like I have a casual Brancusi in the corner of my European pied-à-terre. I want to look like Cate Blanchette and Tom Ripley bumping into Peter and Marge at the Tchaikovsky.

Had this image knocking about for weeks now and I can’t quite put my finger on its allure. It’s not aspirational, or flattering, but it sure looks warm.

If I call you two-faced it’s complimentary because I mean this jug made by someone called QUILLIAN. I cannot get into the specifics of the little world I’ve imagied for Quillian and his (his?) well-lit, probably coastal studio and mounds of clay. Quillian unwrapping the string on his greaseproof paper sandwiches. Quillian in those fire retardant gloves at the kiln, forehead beading sweat. The reddened bridge of Quillian’s nose after a salty sea-path walk. Save me from myself.