Shopping in Hell

So Alice informs me that I have to stop wearing T-shirts and start looking like a grown up. I am finding this a monumentally difficult concept to grasp. At five foot two it is tricky to look grown up. Even Barbara Windsor does not look all grown up.
"Oh these are wonderful," she laughs brandishing a pair of black , embroidered shorts."
"I wouldn't be seen dead in those," I say.
"Not for you...for me!" she says.
And after an hour of her shoving frills, lace and sparkles into my face, while she has grabbed yards of red floaty things I give up and push her out of wherever we are in the Tarragona Mall and into an Italian clothes shop where I find a really nice cinnamon coloured cotton shirt within minutes. But she keeps presenting me with really old lady dresses and she doesn't get that they will only make me look like a jellyfish or a very angry granny. So, to make my point, I reluctantly try on a black,  fine wool, waisted dress with pleated skirt and cap sleeves. It feels odd enough that Alice is in the ladies' dressing room and I'm wondering when the shop assistants are going to twig and whether they will be brave enough to question her rightful position there...anyway...I pull this dress on, turn to the mirror in the cubicle, and see...my dumpy mother...and when did I get wrinkles on my knees???????
"Well?" Alice is demanding from outside. "Let me see."
And, I pull back the curtain...
She draws up her six foot three frame (aided by platform sandals). "Oh dear...it does accentuate your thickness...but your arms are okay...you need a proper haircut."
"I just had one in el Corte Ingles..."
"Yes, well, you're just a very difficult person to dress...."