Around Edinburgh with a Cardigan.

Carefully packed in anticipation, I heard my mistress say ‘Lovely, lambswool. Soft and grey. I’ll need you because I hear its cold in Edinburgh.’ Delicately folded, then gently placed on top of the more common garments- knickers made of cotton ( India , ugh! So far away), scratchy lacy bra ( red nylon, need one say more darlings)and a couple of pairs of shoes ( smelling like you know where they’ve been) .Did I mention I came from Jaegar-no, it’s not an animal, or a smart car- it’s one of the finest- I might argue THE finest-outfitters in town.

Anyway, to get back to it. There I was in the suitcase trundled off to this Edinburgh. Car, plane, tram and then wheeled up George Street by my mistress. I was beginning to feel a little crushed I can tell you darlings.
Well! You should have heard them! Squealing they were, meeting each other in the street like that. Thank goodness, I was still in the suitcase, no Jaegar garment would want to hear that sort of screeching. And then they all went off to an ‘Offie’ What in the name of goodness is that, please?
I was so relieved when finally my mistress opened the suitcase and took me out. Hung me up most carefully. Not like her at all, she usually leaves her stuff all over the place, but I think she was trying to make a good impression. I always make a good impression.
I was blessed by a restful night in the wardrobe (I say blessed because, thank goodness, I wasn’t out that night.) The black trousers told me there had been drinks before dinner (well yes, we expect that sort of thing at Jaegar), then off to a restaurant where there was far too much joyous conversation and more drink flowing. The trousers (M&S) said there were five women including my mistress. None of them young, trousers reported, but all of them trying their jolly best and believing that trying would make it so. You know the type.
The next day it was my turn. My mistress bore me proudly along the Royal Mile, up to the Castle and along the city highlights, arresting late morning at a famous cafe (Oh my heart leapt, I do like famous, I was hoping for the Savoy) Well, it transpired that this cafe – called elephant something- was where a famous children’s book was written. So my mistress, she had to write something too. I read it as she wrote it; We sit in the Elephant House, with our coffees , on our ‘girls weekend’, inspired by loving support and memories and all talking at once and going backwards and forwards like w were on the elephants back. And words go back and forwards too and aren’t we lucky we say. It’s like confetti. Different colours, strains of a conversation, snippets overheard, interrupted, repeated, then wholly refuted . We drop forty years of shared experiences, filling in some gaps and laughing, still pressing all the right buttons. Gentle teasing drifts like morsels around the table, almost like a girlhood code. Hmmph. Not very Jaegar.
Ah, but luncheon, now that was a bit more my style. Harvey Nicholls( Harvey Nicks they called it, a bit common really) Lovely place, lovely staff, hung me up carefully beside a very nice Alexander McQueen and right beside an Abercrombie and Finch raincoat. Oh, I was very relaxed and happy there; I felt I was in the right company at last.
I was returned to my wardrobe at the end of the day, my mistress was dressed in a rather common acrylic (thats plastic and oil darlings), so I was going to have a rest. But not for long. Soon I was jolted out of my comfort by mistress, saying she was lending me to her friend Jacqui. Oh horrors.
Imagine my surprise when I realised I was once again in good company- this Jacqui person was carrying a mulberry handbag and I do believe it was a Michael Kors watch which was snuggled comfortably under my cuff. Such joy. And I heard it said’ Oh,its a Jaegar ,a very nice cardi indeed’
Well at last to be appreciated. Oh, I so enjoyed that evening , the journey to the restaurant was only a few steps- far enough I think as some of the girls might have been wobbling a bit by then.
I was sad to be retuned to my mistress at the end of the night. She wasn’t very lively the next day either I can tell you. Droopy doesn’t begin to describe it really, but they all hung on in there- as my mackintosh friends say.
Well my fibres prickled a bit when they began taking about sex.Over breakfast too. Very common I’m sure. Seems like they are all familiar with the practice, whether from memory or more recent incursions I wouldn’t like to say but there was a pink flush to my grey complexion by the time they finished- actually, do those girls ever finish?
By midday, my mistress’s friends left to catch their plane home. There were hugs and kisses all round (I do quite like that darlings ), and promises to meet again in a place called Nice.’ But not this year’ said my favourite, Jacqui, ‘I couldn’t stand you lot more than once a year. Make it next September’ Oh, thank you God. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d survive another marathon.
I knew my mistress was getting tired then, she started buying scarves- lambswool like me- I’m so glad she didn’t buy the cashmere it might have upped the game a bit too much. Then she went to the airport, where the most awful experience of my life commenced.
Crowded, flustered and tired, that was no excuse. She left me- yes, you heard right SHE LEFT ME-on a tray in the security area. Unbelievable. Didn’t even miss me until she came home. I was so hurt.
I, meanwhile, was moved to a dark office called Lost Property where I waited for four whole days . Abandoned. Owners came and claimed their loved ones . Property gleefully retrieved, whilst I just lay there. No one of note was nearby. It was mobile phones,gloves,hats , even a couple of handbags, but nothing you would want to speak to.
Then, Eureka!, my drawer was opened. I heard a voice’ My friend sent you a permission letter, I’m to collect this cardigan, here is the reference number’
‘ Sorry hen, we need the release form. We can’t let you take it unless we have her signature.’
I felt smug. Here at last someone valued my true worth. I wasn’t going to be released ( and definitely not to a hen) without the full legal process being in place. I’ve heard about the requirements for adopting a human child and I expected that a Jaegar cardigan would merit the same scrutiny. And I am delighted to say it did. At first.
‘No, really, she wrote to you last week. The form should have arrived by now. I’m her very good friend and here is the email she sent me.’
‘No, sorry ma’am,that won’t do’
I sigh comfortably, preening my ego, and visualise a court case where my mistress, pleading and distraught by now, begs for me to be returned to her. She has to prove ownership (and possibly swear that she will guarantee to take better care of me in future?)before she stands a chance of my repatriation.
Suddenly a brisk Scottish voice, female I think, but it is hard to tell with these Celts sometimes, interrupts. I think she is a senior person. Anyway they all stand back ‘ For God’s sake, ketch yersel’ on Jimmy. It’s only a cardie’
Deflated, demoralised and not a little disappointed (I was so looking forward to that court case) I was handed to my mistress’s friend Teresa. Now she doesn’t have a Mulberry handbag but I soon learned that she does have yacht. So that as all right then. I might go to Nice with them after all.