GUESTBLOG: SOPHIE VAN DER STAP
It’s winter, so I want to wear as much clothing as possible, be covered as much as possible. No lace trims, no plunging necklines, no skirts being blown up by the wind, no loose-fitting silk garments, no stockings with runs in them, no bare ankles and toes. Just wool and thick socks, everything covered up and warm.
But now there’s the postman. Since Hunkemöller and I found each other, so have the postman and I (which is pretty handy seeing as there’s no doorman to accept parcels that don’t fit through the letterbox). I even know his name: Christophe.
The postman always makes me happy. A parcel, for me? Again? Really? Parcels have the same effect on me as presents: a little bit of recognition in a box. Of course, I immediately did the test – ordering online – and, hey presto, it works. The tea towels I ordered give me almost as much pleasure as an unexpected gift from my big sis in Beijing.
However, after I’d unwrapped the parcel this time, I wasn’t quite as happy. A nice winter lingerie set, it said on the box. Enjoy, Hunkemöller. Enjoy? The set is so slight (i.e. sexy) that I can hold it in the palm of my hand and I start shivering even thinking about putting it on. Not that I intend to wear thermal underwear for the next five months, but still, can I have little more when it’s minus three out there?
The doorbell rings again. It’s Christophe. ‘Excusez-moi ma chère’ – and no, this is not how postmen usually address women in Paris – ‘I’ve got a second parcel here’. (A parcel, for me? Again? Really?). Slightly discouraged by the two grams of cotton in my left hand, I unwrap the second parcel a little later on: A silk kimono (cool in summer, warm in winter).
Now I may just pop those two grams on after all.
- 06 February, 2020
- 30 January, 2020
- 15 November, 2019