During the Satyagraha in South Africa I had altered my style of dress so as to make it more in keeping with that of the indentured labourers....I regarded the scarf and the cloak as too much of an incumbrance, so I shed them and invested in an eight-to-ten-annas Kashmiri cap. One dressed in that fashion was sure to pass muster as a poor man.
Nearly 80 years later, Vogue gal and screenwriter Plum Sykes isn't going to make the same mistake.
I glumly resign myself to wearing a Burberry trench and nasty J.Crew Wellingtons with dogs printed on them. I'm about to leave when Delia Ephron, Nora's sister and a fellow writer, calls to wish me luck on the picket line. "I made six new friends," she yelps. "It's the best party in New York right now!" Newly insecure, I immediately change into a brand-new gray merino-wool Martin Margiela turtleneck sweater and chunky high leather boots from Veronique Branquinho. Some warmth is provided by my sharply tailored Alexander McQueen fur-lined suede jacket with enormous hoops of fox fur at each cuff. The look is fashion girl meets snowbunny.
Sykes ventures to the picket line where monster Ron Howard is too. But, :(, it's raining!
My spirit is undaunted, for a while. Then my soggy sign falls off its pole, and my mood falls, too. My toes are frozen. The fur on my cuffs is starting to stick together, like little points on a meringue pie. Defeated, I take a raincoat when it's offered again. But then a strange thing happens. After wearing the raincoat for just a few minutes, I start to feel cozy and protected. Indeed, I like the mac—and what it represents—so much, I wear it to a late lunch at DB Bistro Moderne. Sure, the coat-check boy looks at me as if I'm a street person. But when I tell him I've come from the picket line, I am offered friendly smiles, hot tea, and an immediate seat.