I don't know about you, but I get very anxious whenever Britain stages anything alfresco. It's bad enough having to endure the predictably unpredictable sequence of sleet, motorway chaos and brief interludes of sun followed by third-degree burns. But having to do it all under the watchful eye of Parisians or Sydneysiders, knowing that our bunting and snazzy Olympic uniforms will not be looking their best, is humiliating.
The worst thing about British open air, though, even more than humiliation on an international scale, is the leg dichotomy. I'm talking about when it's too cold to go commando, leg-wise, but too far gone in the calendar for thick dark tights not to be utterly depressing.
This picture was taken back in early May, when temperatures were, to adopt the maddeningly understated terminology of the Met, "below seasonal average" ("languishing at the very bottom of what's acceptable for a country about to embark on a series of internationally scrutinised outdoor events" would be more like it). Caught as we were in the vortex of the said leg dichotomy, ankle socks seemed an ideal solution.
Sock it to me
Not only that, they'd also become a cult hit on the front row in February. By day four of this trend the front-rowers, being front-rowers, had naturally fetishised a specific brand and colour: Falke's mercerised cotton socks in grey.
Now I'm the last person to pick a fight with grey; and I can't fault Falke, which really does make a superior genus of ankle sock. They may cost five times the chain store version, but the colour won't fade after the second wash, and they'll keep their shape for yonks. A sock that does all that is, to borrow from the credit card ad, priceless, as all but the churlish would agree.
The only thing I could initially think of against this nascent legwear revolution was that it looked terrible. Well, maybe not terrible, but something you could imagine Alan Bennett's Lady in the Van wearing. While Van Lady is a sympathetic character, she is not exactly a chic one. Yet even that niggle began to fade by day five of the shows, as more women with delicate calves and spindly ankles adopted them seamlessly into their style arsenal.
You could say my conversion to the ankle sock is the very definition-in-action of a fashion victim. I could say it's the hallmark of an open mind, and we could have a ding-dong about the futility or otherwise of fashion for hours. What I would point out is that many an elegant woman has sported ankle socks in her adulthood. Or at least some elegant women have. During the war. When they'd run out of stockings and Bisto.
The pre-eminent champion of ankle socks however, is Miuccia Prada, on whom they look unexpectedly elegant - like a quirky summer bootee. But, as my brush with ankle socks demonstrates here, Miuccia is Miuccia.
Street style details at Paris Fashion Week
It's hard to put one's finger on what makes ankle socks work for her and not for so many of us. Ankles partly come into play. I think hers are markedly fine-boned. But more pertinent than ankles is intention. Hers is to be whimsical, which works extremely well with her strong, intelligent features.
But if whimsy's not your forte, ankle socks may not be for you.
At least you'll avoid the length issue. Who knew they come in a multitude of lengths? Or that it matters very much where they cut off? Calf is unthinkable, a smidgen above the ankle about right. Matching shoe colour to sock will help create a longer-looking leg.
Did you see what just happened there? I've talked myself back into them - because if we all wear them, they won't be whimsical anymore. And our toes will be lovely and warm.
Via: Socks: theyre in, yet the jurys so out
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