I haven't a thing to wear. True, I have more clothes than the proverbial Soft Joe; but none of them like me just now. The reason,I tell people and psychiatrists, that I own what amounts to a large department store full of garments, is that a few years ago I was restless,unfulfilled, and in possession of several credit cards. This is only partly true. I come from a long line of fashion obsessives. My Mother,to this day, cannot shut a cupboard, so crammed are they with her tops and frocks. She used to have her hats and her shoes made for her in Bold Street; when it was a Mecca for the stylish Liverpolitan lady. Her divine black and white modelling photographs adorn my walls wherever I live, and are a testament to ageless style and the importance of beautifully-made gowns. And boning, in the old-fashioned sense.Unfortunately she had a brainstorm around 1965; and threw out masses of perfectly lovely clothes,which I like to kid myself I would be staggering around in now,had she not had a purge. In grim reality,I wouldn't have got into them even at my most slender. She had a 22" waist, a thing which,along with a real pearl necklace and a Vivienne Westwood suit, I have never possessed.
The 1970's,for those of you who weren't there, were difficult years, fashionwise.Oh yes,there were some high points; Biba, Bill Gibb..but they were out of range for a student with nineteen and eleven to blow on a dress. And you had to be the size and shape of a thermometer, with spindly arms and no shoulders.Everything was cut,as it is now, to fit an undernourished ten-year-old boy. So there was nowhere for me to go but second-hand clothes shops..they weren't called "Vintage " at that time. I could,and did, get into garments discarded by dowagers, vastly-skirted New Look (the Dior post-war austerity revolution into the use of masses of fabric ,not the High St shop )suits, and bias cut oyster satin nighties with elderly,moulting feather boas thrown over them. They generally smelt a bit funny. You could douse them in dry-cleaning fluid,but this was high-risk for someone given to smoking menthol "More" cigarettes through an unstable holder. I once met someone for tea in the Lyceum Cafe, at the bottom of Bold St.It was lovely then, still had waitresses in white aprons and black frocks, big wall-mounted mirrors, and was a perfect place in which to pose. I was wearing a tightly tailored suit with padded shoulders, an ancient fox hung about them, and a pill-box hat with polka-dot veil. False lashes and a glossy red pout completed my valiant attempt to do Forties Vamp. I was admiring myself vastly,until I lit a cigarette, and tried to smoke it through my hat. The whole thing went up like a lit tissue, and one eye was firmly welded shut under the weight of melted nylon sweepers. I self- doused with a jug of water.The entire place had hysterics.
It was a while before I tried that again.
Although I was once so deluded as to think that I could make a dress.I had no sewing machine, and no sense. I did have a pattern lent to me by a crafty cousin, and I bought some fabric to destroy I mean fashion into a flattering maxidress,all the rage in 1974. What possessed me to buy a pattern with stripes in it,I shall never know.The same wild urge that caused me to tack it all together with big stitches and then go out in it, possibly.So "Hi Ho Silver Lining " started playing, as my sleeve fell off. I thought I'd brazen it out, and pull the other one off,too.I pulled at a thread.The sleeve stayed put, but the bodice fell in sections to my waist. I don't think anyone noticed. There was a light-show going on,anyway,so most of the punters were too mesmerised by the sight of a bubble of gloop projected floating across a white sheet,to notice a girl trying to wear her hair as a vest. We had to make our own entertainment, in those days.
Life dipping in and out between showbiz and Further Education presented wardrobe challenges. My natural bent was towards jade-green sequins and plunging necklines.But teaching "Communication Skills" to Plumbing and Maintenance 1 on Tuesday mornings in a grim shed forced me into more suitable attire. Seeking work placements for vehicle bodywork trainees often found me climbing over nasty mounds of scrap metal with Alsatians snapping at my skirt. The next big hurdle was being pregnant. It's better now, 14 years later, but when I was enciente, you could only buy maternity dresses with big white collars and bows at the neck, puffed sleeves, and vile little floral prints. These conveyed the frankly perverse impression that you were a huge four-year-old with a pillow up her dress.
And so ,when I was earning proper money in a job that didn't require scaling fences,un-pregnant, and bored beyond belief, I went shopping .For ten years.
I wasn't alone; I am now told that most of the nation did the same thing.
So now I am in reduced circumstances, and am Monarch of a vast empire of black bin bags and overflowing suitcases. I tried E-Bay, but the combination of high fees and increasingly rigorous regulations for small sellers eventually defeated me. Also, a high proportion of people who buy things on E-Bay are mad. This was mildly entertaining for a while, but then you come up against someone who threatens you with their appalling spelling and extraordinary demands,and you become weary of it all. I became awfully friendly with the staff in my local Post Office,though.
So now I have to wait for my gorgeous frocks to become vintage.The general rule in fashion is that something five years out of date is frumpy and awful, after ten years it is retro and quirky, or "ironically referencing" the previous decade, and after 20 years plus,it can be hailed as delightfully vintage.
So I am thinking of myself as "Vintage" these days, too. "An unusual piece, suitable for evenings, with most of the original trimmings, slightly foxed" perhaps?" "Might well repay delicate handwashing,and a bit of an iron?"
And in exactly forty-four years, if God spares me, I shall be an Antique.
The 1970's,for those of you who weren't there, were difficult years, fashionwise.Oh yes,there were some high points; Biba, Bill Gibb..but they were out of range for a student with nineteen and eleven to blow on a dress. And you had to be the size and shape of a thermometer, with spindly arms and no shoulders.Everything was cut,as it is now, to fit an undernourished ten-year-old boy. So there was nowhere for me to go but second-hand clothes shops..they weren't called "Vintage " at that time. I could,and did, get into garments discarded by dowagers, vastly-skirted New Look (the Dior post-war austerity revolution into the use of masses of fabric ,not the High St shop )suits, and bias cut oyster satin nighties with elderly,moulting feather boas thrown over them. They generally smelt a bit funny. You could douse them in dry-cleaning fluid,but this was high-risk for someone given to smoking menthol "More" cigarettes through an unstable holder. I once met someone for tea in the Lyceum Cafe, at the bottom of Bold St.It was lovely then, still had waitresses in white aprons and black frocks, big wall-mounted mirrors, and was a perfect place in which to pose. I was wearing a tightly tailored suit with padded shoulders, an ancient fox hung about them, and a pill-box hat with polka-dot veil. False lashes and a glossy red pout completed my valiant attempt to do Forties Vamp. I was admiring myself vastly,until I lit a cigarette, and tried to smoke it through my hat. The whole thing went up like a lit tissue, and one eye was firmly welded shut under the weight of melted nylon sweepers. I self- doused with a jug of water.The entire place had hysterics.
It was a while before I tried that again.
Although I was once so deluded as to think that I could make a dress.I had no sewing machine, and no sense. I did have a pattern lent to me by a crafty cousin, and I bought some fabric to destroy I mean fashion into a flattering maxidress,all the rage in 1974. What possessed me to buy a pattern with stripes in it,I shall never know.The same wild urge that caused me to tack it all together with big stitches and then go out in it, possibly.So "Hi Ho Silver Lining " started playing, as my sleeve fell off. I thought I'd brazen it out, and pull the other one off,too.I pulled at a thread.The sleeve stayed put, but the bodice fell in sections to my waist. I don't think anyone noticed. There was a light-show going on,anyway,so most of the punters were too mesmerised by the sight of a bubble of gloop projected floating across a white sheet,to notice a girl trying to wear her hair as a vest. We had to make our own entertainment, in those days.
Life dipping in and out between showbiz and Further Education presented wardrobe challenges. My natural bent was towards jade-green sequins and plunging necklines.But teaching "Communication Skills" to Plumbing and Maintenance 1 on Tuesday mornings in a grim shed forced me into more suitable attire. Seeking work placements for vehicle bodywork trainees often found me climbing over nasty mounds of scrap metal with Alsatians snapping at my skirt. The next big hurdle was being pregnant. It's better now, 14 years later, but when I was enciente, you could only buy maternity dresses with big white collars and bows at the neck, puffed sleeves, and vile little floral prints. These conveyed the frankly perverse impression that you were a huge four-year-old with a pillow up her dress.
And so ,when I was earning proper money in a job that didn't require scaling fences,un-pregnant, and bored beyond belief, I went shopping .For ten years.
I wasn't alone; I am now told that most of the nation did the same thing.
So now I am in reduced circumstances, and am Monarch of a vast empire of black bin bags and overflowing suitcases. I tried E-Bay, but the combination of high fees and increasingly rigorous regulations for small sellers eventually defeated me. Also, a high proportion of people who buy things on E-Bay are mad. This was mildly entertaining for a while, but then you come up against someone who threatens you with their appalling spelling and extraordinary demands,and you become weary of it all. I became awfully friendly with the staff in my local Post Office,though.
So now I have to wait for my gorgeous frocks to become vintage.The general rule in fashion is that something five years out of date is frumpy and awful, after ten years it is retro and quirky, or "ironically referencing" the previous decade, and after 20 years plus,it can be hailed as delightfully vintage.
So I am thinking of myself as "Vintage" these days, too. "An unusual piece, suitable for evenings, with most of the original trimmings, slightly foxed" perhaps?" "Might well repay delicate handwashing,and a bit of an iron?"
And in exactly forty-four years, if God spares me, I shall be an Antique.
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