The age of beige

Bella Pollen on Jaeger’s ‘new’ look: old-fashioned tailoring made sexy

With so many things in the world designed to make you angry, it seems pointless to get worked up about a colour, but I can’t help it — I have a thing about beige. It conjures up support tights for Scottish pensioners, ankle bandages and cheap hotel lobbies. Granted, French and Italians manage to look all exquisite and Louis Vuittonesque in it. However, your average Englishwoman dressed in beige more resembles something rolled in breadcrumbs, or worse — embalmed. But colour isn’t my only prejudice. I don’t just loathe beige. I fear it. I fear it in the same way that women, no longer in their first flush, worry about arthritis or the onset of Alzheimer’s. This is because beige is not merely a colour; it’s a conspiracy that creeps up on you as the years go by. Sisters, trust me when I tell you that beige is a danger to society and until it can be eradicated, be vigilant and stamp it out wherever you find it.