Saturday, March 15, 2003
Pretty In Pink
Slinking round Soho last weekend, I passed one of my favourite shops. (No. Not that sort of shop.) Borovicks is a supplier of fabrics, feathers and fripperies to the theatrical and film worlds. It's been around for seventy-odd years, staffed by a bunch of cheeky-chappies whose patter rivals that of the Berwick Street market-boys outside.
Among other things, Borovicks does a nice line in camp. Fake zebra skin. Lamé and satin. Fluffy boas. Stuff so loud it makes a Bollywood wedding resemble a vicar's tea-party. You name it, they have it. You name it, I buy it.
Which is why the bathroom is now covered floor-to-ceiling in swathes of faux fur, so shocking-pink in its day-glo brightness that sunglasses are required just to take a pee. God knows what it'll be like when I stumble in there with a hangover.
I have been informed that, with its fur-covered walls, collection of five framed Trade flyers, four Barbies, three Kens, two Flamingos, and the entire Clinique men's range, my bathroom is "a bit of a give-away", but I haven't a clue what people are talking about.