 | | 09/11/2017 14:12
Sur le blog Rosalind Jana
Diaphanous
As a teenager, I owned several wedding dresses. Odd, perhaps, especially given that I had no imminent plans to get married. Yet still they hung there in my wardrobe like a ghosts of brides past: the seventies white shiny nylon affair with a high neck and long sleeves with buttons at the wrist; the fifties gateau monstrosity of lace and tiered, starched skirts that itched like an absolute bitch; the sleeveless sixties shift – textured almost like broderie anglaise – with an inbuilt necklace of zig-zag beads. On top of all that I had the remnants of my paternal grandma’s actual wedding dress: endless lengths...
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