Kiwi at the Council: An Intervention in Print
There are moments in a fashion correspondent's career that test her. Moments that demand she set aside personal feeling, professional courtesy, and the last thin membrane of goodwill between herself and the abyss, and simply report. This is one of those moments. Kiwi attended the council on Thursday. Kiwi wore nothing but her own exterior. And her exterior, we are grieved to confirm, is brown.
Not a considered brown. Not the rich, deliberate umber of a fruit who has made a choice. A hapless brown. A brown that happened to her and to which she has since surrendered entirely. She arrived with the confidence of someone who believes texture is a personality, which it is not, Kiwi. Texture is a baseline. It is the floor. One does not live on the floor.
We have said, repeatedly, in this column and in at least two open letters to no one in particular, that fuzz is the benchmark of civic presentation. Kiwi's surface is not fuzz. It is a suggestion of fuzz that gave up somewhere around the equator. There is a word for this. The word is insufficient.
Colleagues at the rival rag apparently found nothing remarkable about this appearance. Tangelo was seen adjacent, also undressed, apparently content. This tells you everything you need to know about the editorial standards at factjuice.com and nothing you did not already suspect. When the bar is the ground, one does not notice who is digging.
Quince's verdict: a silhouette in search of a coat, a texture in search of ambition, and a council appearance that will, regrettably, live in this column forever. We do not enjoy this. We simply cannot stop.