The Two Orphans discover polyesterone in Primark

No, Polyesterone isn’t a jazzy new illegal substance. More like the chemical residue from a reaction between womankind and hypermarket materialism.

by The Two Orphans

Saturday 6th March 2010, 15:03 GMT

Will going to Primark lead to orphans to despair and brand-label leatherwork?

No more, when we woke up, were our eyes frozen shut. No more, when we went for a bath in the river, were we threatened with hospitalisation by well meaning mothers (not that we can imagine this happening. Most mothers feign a general indifference towards us). It was Spring, which meant hordes of badly-made flimsy dresses. As cynical voyeurs hiding in the shadows, this Spring debacle was proving mildly traumatic for us. More sunlight and less scarves to hide our own imperfections. There was only one thing to do, and this was to follow the masses. This was easily done. We followed a group of girls who all measured 5ft6, size 8/10, 32B, shoe size 6, hoping perhaps to find their clubhouse. We were surprised to find ourselves diverging far from the beaten track, two red-riding-hoods following wolves in floral print dresses. It was all very odd. Maybe they were part of some sort of cult – things were looking up! We made tentative small-talk with their ringleader, a teapot-shaped blonde with buck-teeth. She was endearing in her way, her eyes beautifully glazed like two boiled eggs. Definitely a cult, but the kind of cult you get a party bag from, with nail-polish and Chupa Chups.

The truth loomed, however, just over Christ’s Piece. We tried to walk back, but they grabbed our wrists and ankles, and dragged us towards our fate, our screams muffled by industrial masking tape. (Disclaimer: Actually, this is an elaboration. We just followed them. But it’s mortifying to admit it, and the above is better for legal purposes). Of course, their point of gravitation was Primark, which held a greater magnetism as we got closer and closer, the plastic soles of their ballet flats tapping on the ground like machine-gun bullets. We surged into the building and the doors slammed shut – actually, their hinges got stuck from an excess of chewing gum (but this does nothing for dramatic effect).

Primark always worried us – maybe it’s because we have trouble telling the difference between polyester and progesterone. Primark, a Charybdis of polyester and progesterone,bearing a hybrid of polyesterone… We were disconcerted.

There was a redeeming factor, however, in that there is no Spring in Primark. Pretences at ‘springlike’ clothing, perhaps – if Spring is synonymous with body odour caused by synthetic clothing. There is no change in temperature because Primark, owing its great success at commercial cuts, eschews central heating or air conditioning in favour of body heat. We were in a no-man’s land. No men, that is, other than the acne-infested boyfriends being led around like sacrificial offerings. In any case, we had had enough of Spring, so we drifted over to the other side of the store where we hoped to find some sort of snack or other – Primark seemed like the sort of place which might supply us with an aspartame-rich beverage, or maybe a sachet of powered milk.

In Aisle 37.2, we couldn’t help but notice that the Primark Baron seemed to be under the illusion that shoulderpads were still in. Shoulderpads are to the wanabe power-woman what brogues are to the wanabe bluestocking – essential. Or rather, inevitable: the invention of having wads of fibreglass-like material wedged into a perfectly good jacket, only to be seen again when the stitching duly falls out of your coat. We have been somewhat in debt ever since they provoked Dynasty catfights (a model for most of the social interaction between Gwendolyn and I).

As a last-ditch sales plan, there was a girl standing in proximity to Aisle 37.2 wearing a giant sandwich board which screamed out the words:

“When should YOU wear shoulderpads?

For those who don’t lust after being the new Joan Collins, or who aren’t political campaigners for the vote in Britain (?), the undeniable truth is that shoulderpads make your waist and hips look smaller and your posture more upright. The only question is whether there is a type of ‘situation’ in which you don the shoulderpadd-ed garb:

The 80s powerdresser always wears shoulderpads, and only eschews them when on the beach, where she strides around in her high-cut one-piece.

For the 2010 powerdresser, there are two situations in which YOU must never wear shoulderpads, for fear of dying barren and alone:

1. First date. Too intimidating- you don’t want to scare off the poor lamb by implying that you were his social/ shoulder equal.

2. Post-breakup coffee. You may be able to obstruct their way out the door, but this doesn’t mean you’ve got them back.”

At various intervals the girl burst into wild sobs, now and again wiping her melted face with a £7.50 spandex ballgown.

We ran, and never looked back. Maybe we were too prim for Primark. But we didn’t discuss the details. We ran to the fields. We weren’t sure if we were going to head back to Cambridge. A potentially lucrative career was ahead of us, making cow-skin bags and selling them to Italian fashion houses. We were of course waiting to be left some inheritance or other, from an as yet unknown source. But then, what would become of the aesthetic practice of orphanhood?

Topics: Fashion, The Two Orphans