Tag: fashion

May 18

~ coronet22 ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday, when “The writer” remarked how extraordinary it is that he hasn’t opened his wardrobe for seven weeks, I realised I haven’t either.

I LOVE clothes. In fact, I love fashion. Not in the academic since of wanting to know what political or historical event caused hemlines to go up or down or why skirts grew too wide to go through doors – more as art and psychology – the line, the way the fabric falls, how a colour or a style can affect the wearer’s mood.

When it comes to my own clothes, they are my greatest extravagance. I own a ball gown, which I will never wear because I’ve never been and am unlikely ever to go – to a ball. Parties, yes, but a ball??? But I bought it, knowing that. It was just so exquisite.

When I was at university, I spent half of a year’s grant on a jacket and in the 60s, when Carnaby Street was London’s swinging centre, I would save up to have my trousers made there by John Stephen, the famous men’s tailor of the time and “The King of Carnaby Street”. I love to wear severe men’s tailoring more than anything and when my Mother discovered my penchant for buying men’s trousers, she became worried enough to she broach the subject of my possible lesbianism.

John Stephen with one of his Rolls Royce collection

Later, Biba became my garden of delights, scented and penumbral, filled withwaving palms, gently wafting feathers in vases and purple dresses on high mahogany coat stands. It smelled deep and pungent and so did the clothes for months afterwards, scenting my wardrobe with sandalwood. And they were cut as no garment I have owned before or since. If only I’d kept them.

So, given all this, how come I’m SO enjoying NOT wearing clothes? Of course, I’m wearing clothes but I’m not thinking about wearing clothes. Neither I nor my husband has ironed anything for the duration of Lockdown. Our sheets are as unrumpled as pulling them hard between us after washing can achieve and, as for the rest, we have been wearing track suits, yoga pants, T-shirts, and rugby shirts – all of which come out of the washing machine, are hung up to dry, then worn again.

It was quite a while into Lockdown before I realised how much of my life I have spent planning what I will wear to go out. Trousers or a dress? Pretty or cool? Sexy or comfortable? (No, I’ve never possessed a garment that was both). Would I be over- dressed, under dressed? Do I care? (No).Why can I no longer stand in high heels? Do I care? (Yes). Does my stomach stick out in this? Do I look like mutton dressed as lamb in that? To bright? Too dark? Too short? Too long?

For weeks I haven’t had pains in my ears from my earrings, I haven’t had pains in my feet from my shoes, I haven’t felt constricted by my waistband after eating, I haven’t felt a weight round my neck from whichever trinket I’m wearing round my neck, I haven’t had to plan exactly when to wash my hair so it will be at its best for a particular event, I haven’t been able to hide the grey in it, I haven’t carried a handbag or a document case or a shopping bag – and I feel LIBERATED!!!!

How are you doing?

March 30

~ coronet22 ~ 1 Comment

I start today as I do every day, by opening my eyes and, still half-asleep, stumble to my computer to try and bag an on line food delivery slot. My heart actually thumps against my chest as I discover there are fruit and vegetables and cheese and milk. It settles again as I realise I’m being offered these delicacies at the beginning of May. I spend two hours a day trying to order food. Kind (young) neighbours have offered to help but I’m reluctant to call on them till we’re desperate.

Last essential chore last night was to clean our white kitchen floor. Whoever is mad enough to have a white kitchen floor? Years ago I bought a small robot mop to do the job I hate. Sadly, it doesn’t have human form and looks more like a square, white crab as it shuffles backwards and sideways, spitting out a feeble jet of water in front of it, completely inadequate to the task. But why would I want to anthropomorphise it anyway?

The kitchen table and chairs baffle it and , as I get ready for bed, I hear it banging into the steel chair legs over and over until I rescue it, turning its back on the chairs and starting it off in another direction, as you would a child or a dog running towards a lake. Unfortunately, this tactic leaves the space under the kitchen table unspeakable and I will have to mop it anyway in the morning. I finish my bedtime routine, longer and longer with the advancing years, then, before getting into bed, feel oddly compelled to sneak back into the kitchen to check on the robot. There it is, still sidling along. As I leave, I turn on the kitchen light. Suppose it’s afraid of the dark?

“The writer” seems to be doing more exercise than he did BC (Before Covid) when he had every glorious London park at his disposal. Now, he tramps up and down the terrace every day clocking up his 10,000 steps and seeming to enjoy the monotony.

That’s him on lap 33 of the terrace, reflected on the wall opposite:

Yesterday, he spotted a traffic warden down below in the street. No cars, not one – just a traffic warden.

With perfect ironic timing, a Shalwar Kameez I bought on a recent trip to India to wear at a very grand party, turned up in the post today. I could hardly bear to go through my long cardboard disinfection routine, so excited was I to see it.

Yes, yes, I know all about cultural appropriation and I tell you that if I could culturally appropriate the grace and beauty of the women I saw wearing such garments, I would do so in a heartbeat.

Of course, I had tried my best to ascertain that the conditions under which it was being made were as good as possible, but there’s no way I could be certain and I was hit, as I opened the package, by the fact that this exquisitely delicate garment must have left the country just before the chaotic and devastating lockdown that has caused so much misery to so many.

The party was cancelled long ago and the dress will remain unworn, so maybe that’s my punishment for not resisting it, but it’s so beautiful, I can’t bear to put it away and it hangs in my study , an unlikely and inappropriate reminder of the distraught, packed crowds of migrant workers jostling and fighting to get back to their villages.