(WARNING: this post is only tangentially fashion-related, so anyone who doesn't like my rants or thinks they will have mean things to say when I'm done is free- no, encouraged- to click on the little 'x' on the top left-hand corner of your window/tab).
As I've mentioned ad infinitum, I'm crap at reportage. I didn't expect to score anything out of a visit to the India Fashion Week venue, other than a fair bit of person-watching (I got there a bit early, but in the two hours spent out on those grounds, the most interesting person from a style point of view turned out to be a lady in magenta tights, a shiny black, full-sleeved coat and her hair in three - I think- odango buns wrapped in stripy ribbon (the last feature, IMO, was the coolest). Given that temperatures here are set on 'slow bake' right now, I did wonder if she was moving around in a special air-conditioned bubble of her own or something. I probably cut before the Very Stylish started getting there, but it was hot and I was tired of the constant reminders of just how badly outfits can be botched- I've seen enough leggings-as-an-excuse-to-wear-too-short-dresses, not to mention too-tight jeans and too-skimpy tops, to scar me for a lifetime).
But the real kicker, the reason for the title of this post and my top reminder of just why I can positively detest Delhi at times, came not twenty minutes ago, as I was crossing a street in Connaught Place (CP to anyone who's ever been to it). It went as follows:
*BFH, walking along, minding her own business*
*cue shady-looking chap (henceforth referred to as Creep) in shiny striped shirt and jeans, walking along behind BFH*
Creep: Excuse me?
*BFH turns around*
Creep: Can you tell me your name? (note: I'm quoting verbatim)
Thoroughly freaked-out BFH: NO!
Creep: Why? I want to have friendship with you.
*starts walking along behind BFH, who has started walking away at top speed*
BFH, yelling now: BUGGER OFF, and if you dare come near me again I'll call the police! (not an empty threat, since BFH's father is actually in the police).
I hate this. I hate creeps with scuzzy facial hair and dung for brains, who think a girl on her own is a walking invitation for a pickup line, and I hate the stupid culture that breeds them in the first place. I also hate the fact that I seem to be a walking magnet for things like these, and my only option from now onwards will be to stay locked indoors. UGH.
A very pissed off
Blue Floppy Hat