GINGHAM MORE

So after my very rambunctious proclamation that I am in fact back, I rather ironically, disappeared from the blogosphere. But I must assure you that I wasn't re-enacting every 90's pop groups' failed attempt at a come back. Rather the internet rudely up and left me, resulting in a disconnect from the digital world and thus no postage of late. And that brings us back to the here and now, and more importantly to the issue at hand, which is namely my new fixation on everything and anything gingham. 

The only accompaniment fit for Dorothy's ruby red slippers, has shirked its picnic blanket schtick and, thanks in large part to Diane Von Furstenberg's SS15 collection, become the only thing necessary for summer - or life if you're feeling as committed (&/or dramatic) as I am. 

I feel that gingham is more oft overlooked than its other patterned compadres. The breton stripe for example is a permanent fixture on my instagram feed, as is a smattering of ye olde leopard print (I describe it as such because in my opinion leopard print is eternally chic, amen) which I can't say I'm sorry for at all. Gingham is however seemingly relegated to warmer climes and what with us living in the UK where the weather is constantly pms-ing, the time just never feels quite right to don the simpler counterpart of plaid. But the question I'd like to address is, why?   

Don't you people own a vest? Or an imagination? Because evidently I didn't until I consciously acknowledged my consistent gravitation to anything remotely checkered. For the first time ever I finally empathised with Homer Simpson. It was quite the outer body experience, as what can only be considered an epiphany occurred right there in the middle of Zara (where all life changing things happen, right?). I had my first real life 'Doh!' moment. I hope the similarities end there, I don't know how I'd dress the beer belly or accessorise the balding head... 

There I was in my natural environment (i.e. shopping) with a peplum, plunge neckline, backless, gingham top in hand, the only thing it lacked was the ability to make me a sandwich and would you believe it, I put it back!!! This is definitely worthy of three exclamation marks and should hereafter be known as a situation. Since this event, I feel a sartorial emptiness. My wardrobe as is, is just not quite enough. The void is real as is the struggle. Gingham has since photobombed every scenario of life, becoming a spectre of sorts reminding me of my bad judgement.

Then I found it.

Or rather it whispered to me, lulled me in, flirted with me a little, caressed my body with its fabric swathes and that was that, I was hooked. Cash was being handed over before I'd even checked the size, let alone the price. And here it sits. Happily winking at me from the sanctuary of my wardrobe. 

Is love of a material item materialistic? Something this pure and real surely can't be... Weirdly I haven't worn it outside yet. The weather seems to be against our union but I have a feeling that you can't keep a zip fronted, shirt dress with an adorable drawstring waist, floaty skirt and (obv) gingham pattern locked away for too long. For now, pictures and pirouetting in my bedroom will have to suffice but as soon as the clouds break, we're outta here. 

(Images via: brit.co, romantiqueandrebel.com, whowhatwear.com,  pinterest, missyellestore.blogspot.com)