Dress sense

In a serendipitous manner, Belgian Waffle recently posted about sartorial mistakes.  Purchasing errors, really.  She asked her readers to let her know about their own such errors, which got me thinking.

It so happened that I spent a good deal of yesterday up to my oxters* in clothes, what with all the ironing that has built up.  When the weather is good, I get the all washing done, and it dries on the line really quickly.  This is great.  Except that it then turns from "washing" to "ironing" whereupon it lurks accusingly in the basket, eyeing me with big, reproachful eyes.  Yeah, eyes made of buttons**.

I cracked, finally, and yesterday, as the weather had turned a bit cooler, I decided to Do The Ironing.  Fortunately, several reruns of Star Trek DS9 were on TV, so I had a couple of hours of sci-fi nerdiness to keep me entertained while I slaved like a Victorian skivvy.

Once you've ironed everything to within an inch of its life, you have to put it away.  This leads to a whole new set of issues.  My wardrobe*** is large, and usually pretty well-organised, but of course, with the change in the weather and the impending end of formal employment, I need to rearrange everything.  I dicked about with hangers, moving "work" stuff back and forth, putting summer clothes closer to the front, and so on, until I'd had enough, and thought  "Ahhh, bugger it." 

Everything was taken out, and laid on the bed.  Lord I have a lot of black clothes.  If I were a witch, I'd be laughing.

Cackling.

I decided to get rid of the last remaining suit in my wardrobe.  The others were all put in the charity recycling collection skip thingy a while back, as they were too big.  This one, being a skirt suit, was less baggy, and at least I didn't run the risk of my trousers falling off, but it looked boxy and unflattering. Plus, I've had it for at least 10 years, possibly more, and despite it still looking smart and un-worn-out, I can't see myself wearing it in the near future.  Into the bag it went.

As did several cardigans (too big, too boring, too work-like), a few t-shirts which I never wear, and a couple of dull skirts I bought in ill-advised shopping sprees and then wore maybe once, probably while visiting at Christmas.  Gone, gone, gone.

I still have far too many pairs of black trousers, and at least 8 long black skirts which are really only suitable for office wear, or maybe to a formal-ish party with a really pretty top and nice shoes.  They might be going to join their friends in the skip later in the year. 

On the plus side, I found three pairs of sandals which I'd forgotten I had, lurking at the bottom of the wardrobe. I bought them in America last summer so they are already worn in, which means I can use them this summer without giving myself Medieval peasant feet for the first fortnight.

The point of all this rambling is that I don't have many clothes which I actively regret buying.  There are a few things I have bought on a whim - usually in a sale, usually at Long Tall Sally - and then never wore, but I seldom think "I wish I hadn't bought that." 

I do regret getting rid of a few things over the years. Not things that were loved to rags amd just wore out, but things I decided to sell or swap or give to charity, and now wish I hadn't.  In fact, there are some clothes that I still look for from time to time, before remembering that I don't own them any more. 

Top of the list is definitely my first leather jacket.  It was a birthday present from an ex-boyfriend when I was 18 or 19, and I loved it.  It was very 1980s, as it had long tassles along both sleeves and across the shoulders.  It was made for me by a bike shop in Brighton, so the tassels were specially commissioned - they were 8 inches long, and I adored them. 

Once I started riding motorcycles, rather than just perching decoratively on the pillion, I had to trim them to prevent them from interfering with the controls, but they were still pretty - they went in a diagonal line from elbow to wrist, from 8 inches long at the elbow to about 3 inches long at the cuff, and looked excellent.

A few years later, a very talented artistic friend painted a Celtic design across the shoulders in shades of blues, greens and purples, and it was stunning.  The same friend also painted a Green Man on the back of Mr WithaY's leather jacket, which, if I can find a picture of, I will post on here.

Anyway, time passed and I got much fatter than I had been at 19 and eventually my beautiful jacket didn't fit me any more.  I bought a "proper" bike jacket with padding and kevlar and bulletproofing and ninja protection and my tassely painted jacket languished at the back of a cupboard. 

Years later, another friend (hello Fiona!) who is a dressmaking GENIUS accepted the painted jacket as part payment for some fabulous item of clothing she made for me - a ballgown or a seventeenth century corset or something - so it went to a good home.  I assume it emigrated to Canada with them when they went.  I am too fat for it, without a doubt, but I still miss it.

Another garment I pine for is my kaftan. Yes, yes, I know.

It was a floor length dress, with dozens of small fabric buttons and rouleau loops all down the front from throat to navel, and long sleeves that had faux historical pointed bits, meaning that when you held your arms out you looked like a pre-Raphaelite lady.  In a kaftan.  It was made of ultra soft Indian cotton, printed all over with a small paisley-esque design in shades of red, amber, gold, brown and black.  I adored it. 

I bought it in a second-hand shop in the Lanes in Brighton, for something ridiculous like £3.50.  Nowadays it would be classed as a "vintage" dress, and would probably cost about fifty times that much.

I loved it, and whenever I wore it - almost constantly in my first year at college, as I recall - I felt like someone slightly exotic and offbeat.  I looked, as my family will attest, like a girl with very little dress sense and a lot of colourful second hand clothes, but that's neither here nor there.

My mate Martin, now a respected and media-friendly archaeologist**** told me that the first time he saw me - Freshers Week at college, when I was a first year and he was a worldy-wise second year - he said to his mate "Oooh, she's statuesque." 

I was almost certainly wearing my kaftan, and probably several Indian silk scarves artfully draped and tied all over me.   We still talk about it now, more than 20 years later.  Gah.

I might have to recreate that look when I am not having to look smart for work.

Heh. 






*Just for you, badgerdaddy

**Neil Gaiman has a lot to answer for

***Mr WithaY's clothes are left in neat heaps on the bed for him to stash away as he pleases.  He lacks my anal "everything has a place to be" mindset.

****He's on Time Team a lot.  Media darling.

Awwww

Been to see Stardust today. It bears an intermittent and passing resemblance to the book, but it's lovely nonetheless. Robert de Niro* was entertaining, especially.

And at the end, the whole cinema went "Awwww" which was nice.

Spent a happy hour or so in Salisbury, buying a variety of exotic stuff** for the weekend. Am getting very excited about our friends turning up tomorrow.

Also found a few bits and bobs for the downstairs loo. It looks great. Kevin the Decorator deserves some kind of medal for services to the incompetent people of West Wiltshire. The whole downstairs feels different now. Cleaner for a start.

I found stuff in there in various boxes that I think we moved house with, almost 6 years ago. And if we haven't needed it in 6 years, I think we can live without it now. Mr WithaY feels differently, however. So we have a big box of stuff in the garage to be sorted out at a later date "in case we need it".

One thing made me laugh while I was in the butcher's in Salisbury. There were two or three young chaps serving at the front of the shop, chopping up meat, making sausages, selling chicken etc, and an older one out the back, doing something mysterious with a cleaver or meat hammer or something.

There was a loud "whack" noise, and an anguished cry of "Ow fucking hell!"

After a few minutes of frantic whispering, he stuck his head round the partition and apologised to me for his language. I said it was no problem.

"I'm very sorry" he said. "But it really, really hurt". I could hear one of the younger lads in the background: "Cor, it's really swelling up now..."

I wonder what he'd hit.


* Like an idiot I had put Al Pacino....thank goodness Mr WIthaY pointed it out before you noticed. Oh bollocks.
**Food, mostly

Printer error

Was watching The New Adventures of Superman the other night. One of the episodes where Nazis try to take over the world. There was some kind of a complex plot involving cryogenic freezing, political skulduggery and a bomb, but I wasn't giving it my full attention.

Until this struck me...

Whenever an evil organisation attempts a coup involving the overthrow of the media (especially the Daily Planet), they always have a huge supply of posters, billboard hoarding thingies, pre-recorded videos of themselves gloating and dishing out orders, and those huge building-sized fabric wall hangings, ready to be unfurled at the drop of a hat.

All nicely printed up with their evil logo, in this instance, swastikas.

Why don't the printers just call the police and foil the plot? Tea and medals all round.

They get a rush order in for ten thousand huge banners saying "All Hail the New Evil Regime, Death to All Who Oppose Us, Especially Superman, The Bastard" or something similar, but they never blow the whistle.

Presumably an evil mastermind turns up at the print shop with a badly-sketched image on the back of a fag packet, demands they design a decent one, tells them how many posters etc he wants, and by when ("My Evil Plan comes to fruition on Wednesday, so by 11am would be great, thanks"), and the printers just take the money and get on with it.

What are they thinking? Tch.

Other news: The WithaY house is uncannily tidy. Mr WithaY has been slowly but surely sifting through several years worth of crap in his study, and we can now see the floor again. Just as well because our mate Big Les is sleeping in there on Saturday night.

Kevin the Decorator has played an absolute blinder and the downstairs loo is stripped, pipe-removed, scrubbed, wood-clad and painted, and looks the biz. He is coming back tomorrow to fit new under-stair shelves, and it will then be finished.

I am going to move one of my stained glass panels from upstairs to cover the window in there (for privacy as otherwise it's a clear view out into the garden...and back in of course), and it is all ready.

Our American guests are actually turning up on Friday, not Thursday as we originally thought. They leave Boston on Thursday, but don't get here till Friday. I hope they're not too horribly jet lagged. Still, the spare room is lovingly prepared for them. I plumped the pillows up specially.*

We're off to Salisbury tomorrow to get some Big Town shopping and hopefully also get to the pictures to see Stardust.

I re-read it on the train the other week whilst trying to get to London. It is a lovely, lovely story. If you haven't read it, do so. And then read American Gods. Go on. You'll thank me one day.

Shamefully, I realised that I love that Take That song from the film. Gah. How embarrassing. I like a Take That song.

But (hasty attempt to re-establish some feeble rock chick credentials) I can now play "Teenage Kicks" on the geeetar, and it sounds bloody marvellous.



*Not a euphamism. Tch.