Fashion for Turnips

It came as a blow to Nosher, or at least that's how it appeared.
The news the fashion designer Yves St. Laurent had died in Paris at the age of 71.
On hearing the news Nosher sat passively in his old deckchair on the grass outside his allotment shed, not seeming to notice that I'd turned the radio off and the sun had come around and was glaring in his eyes.
'You all right, Nosh?' I asked, not having seen him like this before.
Nosher blinked and seemed to come to his senses.
'Yes, I think so' he said, as if unsure.
'Did you know this fashion designer chap?'
Nosher suddenly smiled.
'No' he replied 'I was just thinking that a man is mourned in the media because he dressed women up to look like turkeys, whereas thousands are still dying every day in Darfur and they only get a mention when it suits the agenda of the Western news media or the politicians.'
'Wasn't he the inventor of the trouser suit for women?'
'I think the word 'inventor' is a little over the mark' Nosher responded 'women had been wearing trouser suits long before he came along - he just captured the media's attention. And let's face it, this is all about window-dressing - a donkey dressed up to look like a race-horse is still a donkey.'
'You sound a little cynical today' I remarked.
'Not at all. I'm an old man with very little disposable income who makes a virtue out of it. That doesn't prevent me from understanding that the world of fashion panders to human vanity and narcissism. A pretty girl is a pretty girl more because of her personality than her looks. That is what seems to get forgotten.'
I'd never heard Nosher talk about pretty girls. So he was young once!
'Surely fashion is about presenting yourself in the best possible way? Goods on display, that sort of thing?' I suggested.
'Window-dressing' said Nosher dismissively 'for very rich people, in the case of cat-walk fashion. It panders to narcissists who go into a sensual frenzy over a design that turns them on, not seeming to realise that all it's doing is pressing certain buttons in their brain. There's no deep mystery about style - it's a human fancy. It's the equivalent of idiots buying fruit and vegetables in the supermarked because they look nice - the flawless surface of a bland apple is mistaken for an indication that it is a better piece of fruit, when there is no correlation whatsoever.'
'So you're not going to be breeding a designer turnip anytime soon then?'
'Don't be daft!' exclaimed Nosher, pulling his tattered cap down to shield his eyes from the sun.
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