That’s me, the little white dress. That LBD hussy everyone says you’ve been hanging out with, well she’s clingy and down-right tacky in my opinion. Not only that but everyone knows she’s as exciting as Alexa Chung turning up to an East London gig in a Breton top, classic, but boring. So, hi hun, call me LWD.  Everybody does.

I’ll be your new BFF girl, I’ll make your tan look good whilst neatly concealing the extra somethin’-somethin’ (namely-pizza, pasta and gelato) you collected over your family holiday in Lake Garda. But darling, if you holidayed this year without irony and with eight girls in Magaluf, I’m guessing I’m not the dress for you.

I know, I know, wearing all white ain’t nothin’ new. It’s been rammed down our throats all spring, ‘all-white is a bit of alright!’. Ever since that Zara skort came along in the colour of the season, London has looked like a rainy, pale, and less cosmetically enhanced version of a P.Diddy party. You’ve tried looks like me, white converse, that pointy-fronted pair of shorts, a sharp, white American Apparel T-shirt and a slash of red lippy. You looked great, on-trend yet classic and with the bonus of wearing the latest built in tan-enhancing technology.

What happened next though? You spilt red wine down your front, the teeny-tiny nude thong you wore for the occasion still managed to give you a VPL, your Aunty Flow came for an unexpected visit, some yobby joy-riders drove through a puddle whilst you waited for the 25, leaving you looking like the loser of a wet t-shirt competition and then some smart-arse tells you, ‘Wimbledon’s over sweetheart’. It’s called Sod’s Law, remember?

Though I would usually condone the mantra ‘the rules are, there ain’t no rules’ (can a quote from Thunder Road in ‘Grease’ be a mantra?) when it comes to white there are some rules which ensure you can politely tell Sod to, uh, sod off. Essentially, don’t make me tight-fitting, no body con. Maybe, if its realllyyyyy expensive, double-lined and you have a Bret Easton Ellis ‘hardbody’, but still, probably not.

Secondly, try not to dress me up, think of me as the Caggie of dresses. Remember, clean, crisp and tailored soon becomes crusty, creased and, well, a bit of a hot mess. I should be cotton, possibly broderie anglais, possibly lace, falling anywhere between your cuisse and cankle, and worn like you just threw me on this morning. ABC easy as LWD.

P.S. PLEASE don’t put boots, cowboy or otherwise, anywhere near me, this isn’t 2007 and you aren’t Sienna Miller. Sandals, espadrilles and trainers only, thank you.

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