Silk Dress.

A few weeks ago, in a fit of optimism induced by bright sunlight, I bought a silk dress from Australia. It is made from a couple of recycled saris from India - a global masterpiece. It is designed a little like an apron: a waistband (or neckband) of one one cloth joined onto two layers of 'apron' - a lustrous brown and orange on top and a cream patterned with red below.


The thing about silk is that is glistens, and the reason it glistens is because each strand of silk is like a very long triangular prism which reflects the light and intensifies each pigment. It is like the water of a highly reflective lake, retaining the mirrored colours as it flows through the fingers.

I spent a good few hours playing with it - tying it this way and then that, strutting around, and generally dreaming of wearing it during the hot dry summer - as exotic and resplendent, I thought, as those parrots I saw once flying through trees in the Andes.

But instead, of course, the summer this year has turned out to be lush, green and wet. The air has been cool, and this silk dress has since been folded away like a dream I once had - a faintly ridiculous garment for this country of woollen cardigans, boots and long socks. But still, from time to time, when I read in the newspapers about silk pyjamas or tea dresses or evening gowns, I go to the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and look at it again. I run it through my fingers and hold it up to the light. It is my little piece of tropical weather; and a promise I have made myself to one day take it back to where it was made - and wear it in the sun.