http://www.thefashionpolice.net/2010/07/wear-or-die-denim-dress-edition.html prompted a spontaneous eukhh from this part of the world.
Not so far from me lives a small community of Brethren, and you see the women shopping in the nearby supermarket. They really go for denim, the younger ones, anyway (their elders favour navy polyester; the men, of course, look like ordinary men, the Lord apparently making no sartorial demands on them). Since they’re not allowed to wear trousers or short skirts, they opt for several metres of top-stitched denim in the vague shape of a skirt, and flap along like ships under sail.
The Denim Skirt is accessorised with a headscarf (female heads must be covered), clumpy shoes (stylish ones presumably being the work of the devil) and several small children, the little girls with their heads already covered.
And of course it's entirely their business. So why - given the tolerant attitude I recently expressed towards the wearing of the burqa and veil - do I always feel I want to seize these women and shake them til their teeth rattle in an effort to wake them up?
By which I mean, I know why I do, but I wish I didn't.