Friday, November 30, 2007
Gillian was the sort of woman who could make the Maitre-D at the Savoy feel uncouth and shabbily dressed with just a look from her classic wardrobe. None of your avant-garde catwalk chic for her; if this tears look took off she would adopt it in five years when it had moved from nouveau-riche to chic.
She didn’t walk with a silver spoon up her arse though. If desired she could don jeans and a tee-shirt and fit right in with the lads at the Docker’s Arms in Ludgate Street, knocking back pints and catcalling the bar tenders.
Gillian was so far past being classy she was classless.