Costume Change/ Broken Arm Season

 I'm doing the best I can.

 I still have one good arm, a great pair of legs, and when necessary, I hold things with  my mouth.

One of the bigger challenges each day is the once simple act of getting dressed.

The morning shower has been replaced with a hot bath, and every attempt to not slip in the tub while using my feet to manipulate the shower head and taps.

My broken arm needs to be kept dry.

My good arm does gymnastic feats and prevents me from drowning.

Then there is the wardrobe crisis.  

Aside from my favourite green dress-on-its-last-legs, I can't fit my arm into anything else; forget even attempting to pull on and button jeans.

Undaunted, we went back to the old hood in search of sleeveless, large pieces of clothing that I can crawl into and zip up with one hand.

Bruno waited patiently...

I got lucky.  At Helmut Lang, the SA gathered a long skirt into a hole for me to step into.  She then pulled the skirt up, smoothed it down, and folded the elastic waistband once over for a better fit.  She suggested three loose blouses to go with the skirt.  I chose the one with the largest arm holes.

Voila!  A new look.

I think the word is- editorial.

Because it took such a collaborative effort to get me dressed, I decided to leave the store in my new editorial outfit, and asked the kind SA to pack my old threads up instead.  Then I walked down the street to have tea with the London Besties, thinking editorial works at Grangier and Co, because Notting Hill netizens respond to style.  The restaurant was packed, but Broken Arm clad in editorial secured us a table.

And then the wonderful Myha at Matches called in a sleeveless coat for me.

 Together we found a way to get me into the coat.  She belted me up, knotting the ribbon towards the side of the body.
Do you like it, Tammy?  It's very, 'The Row'... I agree with you, it needs a heel...But you could wear it with-

I could wear it with leg warmers, I tell her.  On my arms.  It would take care of the cold.  It's editorial, I say, and don't bother taking it off.

*sleeveless coat- Isabel Marant

Bubble, Bubble

I've been living in a bubble for the last four days.  Aside from the lack of sleep, weighty eyes, and hazy head, Bubble-living is rather enjoyable.

All I have been doing is lying very low, hanging out with my hunky, old-man dog,

and grumpy horse.

For the Grumpy Horse, I will endure heat, humidity, and...

In Bubble-land, I can't believe how fortunate my life is.  My husband drives me everywhere.  I don't even walk down or up stairs.  There's an elevator that leads me to my front door.  There is piped music in the elevator.  There is air-conditioning and concierge service!

Then I get my hair cut at noon, and my Bubble is burst.

Yay- haircut!

Poof!

After I cut my hair, I went to the 6th floor for dim sum, ran errands on the ground and lower ground floor levels of the mall.  The last thing I did was groceries, stood in line for a cab.  All this activity meant that I had to interact with many people and the unforgiving Singapore heat, emerge from self-imposed exile and silence.  

Poof!

What burst the Bubble was, the number of folks gawking openly at me.  At first, I thought I had lost a button on my shirt or something.  Man-on-quick-date to my right stared and stared at me, from the moment I sat down.  He stared harder when I opened my mouth to order my lunch.  He stared even harder when one of the waitresses remembered me, stopped to chat and offer tea.

Poof!

It dawned on me that I felt a sense of intrusion because in the West, guess what, people don't stare.  It's considered, rude.  And the English already such a reserved lot, do a fantastic job with averting the eyes.

It took me a moment to stop fidgeting with my shirt and my hair.  It's not me, I realised.  My buttons are fastened, and my hair is post-salon perfect.  It's, them.  Folks in Singapore, stare openly.

Poof!

Duh, this is what it feels like to be stared at, remember?

Woes of a teen model, once upon a time.

Scrutinised by strangers.  A flicker of recognition.  They think they know you.  Another flicker in the eyes.  The woman right before you waiting in the same taxi line, has just turned her body so that she can face you full on and memorise every fibre of your shirt(C'est Isabel Marant), beat-up jeans (7, my only pair), oh yes, my purse is blue(Bolide) and my bracelet (Collier de Chien) French, is passing some kind of unspoken judgement.

I feel like telling her to relax.  The longer she stares, the more heat her animosity seems to gather.  I don't meet her glares.  I keep my sunglasses(Linda Farrow, she has a shop on Mount Street!) on.  I get a migraine easily when the light is too bright and too hot.

The taxi driver tries a different trick.  He pretends he does not quite understand my speech.

"Marthin Road?  Where is Marthin Road?"

All the while he is gaping like a monkey in his rearview mirror.

Poof!

 I have no idea where Marthin Road is either.  I direct him instead to Martin Road.

Soon I am home.  I blast the air-conditioning.  The hunky old chap snuggles close.  Alright.  I'll blow a new bubble again.