Twitches of envy
PetroneIla Wyatt
Maybe the best way for the West to win the war in Afghanistan is through sartorial warfare. We read reports that women in Kabul are tearing off their veils. A change of clothes has always run hand in hand — or rather arm in leg — with a change in political climate. After the French Revolution and an end to formal social behaviour, women in Paris adopted the least stifling frocks they could find, almost-transparent muslin and gauze that revealed even the shape of their nipples.
Clothes maketh worldly power, not army corps. If the US government promised the female population of Kabul a miniskirt each, they might find bin Laden more quickly. (Incidentally, in Viennese dialect, `Ich bin laden' means 'I'm loaded.' Stuff that in your machine gun and smoke it.) But perhaps the women of Kabul, were they to fall for such temptations, would be in error. I live opposite the Wellington Hospital in north London which is much frequented by the Arab fraternity — the hospital, I mean. Watching the Arab women in their heavy veils and long tunics, I must confess to having felt an occasional twitch of envy,
Since I was 11 and my mother insisted on buying me a Dior nightdress, my life has been blighted by fashion. Short, long, brown, red, bias-cut or straight? What hours have I been forced to ponder these when I could have been pondering the great philosophers. Had they put me in Arab dress, I might now be the David Hume of my generation. Or so I tell myself in moments of monomaniac fantasy.
The fashion writers confirm that the miniskirt is back this winter. But what could be more absurd? Any doctor will tell you that short skirts and a cold climate are bad for the legs, inducing red knees, poor circulation and unsightly blemishes. I have poorer circulation than the money supply in a sharp recession. My hands and feet remain perpetually frozen. They said that Mary Queen of Scots was always cold. Obviously, then, this is a bad sign for my future prospects.
I shall not be wearing 'short' this Christmas. 1 intend to cover up. Perhaps I shall veil up, for two reasons. One, in protest at the lax social behaviour in Britain today. How would Mr Blair handle a delegation of Englishwomen arriving at Downing Street dressed in yashmaks? Better than Mrs Blair, perhaps. Second, whoever invented the Dance of the Seven Veils didn't do it for nothing. What could be more seductive than a veil blowing in the wind? What unimaginable beauty might it conceal? What delicious racing-yacht curves might a shapeless black gown hide from the eyes? The answer to these questions, of course, is none, but who would be any the wiser? I surmise that Arab women who enjoy wearing the veil realise that it is the greatest possible tease for a man, and that to desist would remove a substantial degree of fun from their relatively predictable lives.
There is a similar analogy to be made with male headdresses. Bin Laden might be as bald as William Hague for all we know, but his headgear leaves the world to fantasise about a richly decorated crown.
What if lain Duncan Smith were to begin dressing like Lawrence of Arabia? What alteration in his political fortunes might result? Be bold, lain. It's never too late to change one's life or one's dress.
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