Thursday, July 22, 2010
It's no secret that I love glamorous grown-ups, preferring a smartly turned out septugenarian socialite to a Gen Y hipster any day. I love the old ways of doing things - gloves at the races, adhering to dress codes, grooming, diamonds, ballgowns and all that - but for some reason I had failed to clock that our Governor General Quentin Bryce is clearly the chicest woman on the planet, until her svelte form stole the Master Chef show last night. (And you thought it was sad that a cooking shows could beat the election debate...)
The Gov Gen was hosting a dinner for volunteers at Government House, clad in an LBD cut so sharply it verily sliced off my sofa dwelling fashion apathy and sent me scurrying upstairs to shed my suddenly shameful sweat pants. Who cares if no-one could see me?
What self respecting style fan could watch Bryce, her blond coif shining against the brilliance of her regal smile, in that Paris frock with the cut-away triangle in the back, and stay dressed like a slob? Bryce could give Carla Bruni and Samantha Cameron a run for the public appearance money. Aren't we lucky to have her?
Posted by Mrs Press at 5:04 PM