I love clothes. I love the play, the sheer theatricality of them, which is one of the reasons why I also love London, for London is above all a place to dress up. We all do it; we wear our clothes like badges, like uniforms, from the City Boy's pink shirt (there can be no other explanation for such a vile garment's popularity), to the Camdenite's Mohawk and leather and piercings, or the soft skirts and thickly jewelled eyes of Upper Street fairies who skip along boho-style in used Versace; or the elaborate hats and vacant stares (usually from starvation) of Shoreditch lads and ladies.
In a city where functionality is irrelevant, style and self display swiftly becomes all. After all, one can quite comfortably spend a day in six inch heels when one need totter no further than the nearest tube station, one might breeze about in chiffon safe in the knowledge that midwinter will never penetrate one's environmentally controlled offices, homes and playgrounds.
Even I, who flop about the parent's rural abode in hiking boots and dog-drooled cagoules, change delighted into unnaturally tight pencil skirts and patterned stockings with no thermal value the moment I head for the great Metropolitan adventure. We are blessed in London, for we can play fancy dress even when we do not notice. We have an entire city as our wardrobe, our stage, and we change persona simply by pulling out the body glitter or slipping relieved into an old hoodie before heading out to mug a granny.
Although I am a traditionalist when it comes to assembling an outfit - if it ain't black, don't fix it, say I, yet I love to watch the bright colours and patterns which garland other London butterflies. I see those around me flout every rule in the book and look fabulous; redheads in purple, stripes alongside spots; sparkles in the hair and on the arms on girls and on boys; sequins and camp beneath pinstripe suits.
Thus I have developed a simple rule for anyone trying to decide what to wear, and that is to do what you like. Ignore those hideous programmes full of hideous women who bully perfectly nice folk into becoming coiffured poodles and Just Say No. The number of well intentioned friends who have tried to squeeze me into something either pink or fluffy or both does not bear consideration; suffice to say they failed. Remember, this is London where anything goes, from peasant tops and stilettos to full body rubber, or even dungarees.
The next simple rule of dress is to wear your proper size. Embarrassing as it may be to ask the six-foot stick of a shop assistant for an Extra Large, proper fitting clothes stop one from impersonating a sausage about to pop. However, baggy items are an equally bad idea because they just look - well, baggy - and baggy is depressing. While beautiful people pull it off, we mortals should do all we can to exploit what we have rather than cover it up. I for one revel in clothes which roll across my buxom bits like waves in the sand; I like them just as much as I like the things that bag the flab.
Which leads me on to my final rule for putting together an outfit, a rule summed up by music-hall-queen Marie Lloyd when she sang 'If it shows my shape just a little bit then that's the little bit that boys admire'. Or, to put it another way, suggestion is everything.
True, we have all seen wraith-like boys in drain-pipe jeans and second-skin shirts oozing androgynous sex appeal; or Soho girls in boob tubes and miniskirts oozing - well oozing Soho - but in general baring this much flesh only works if you are miniscule and confident and out for the night. I opt instead for a full-length tops and skimpy bottoms or vice versa. A bustier and trousers, for example; or long boots and little dress. It is all about finding the balance, about insinuation.
London is an exotic land of accessories and potential; of presenting ourselves to a city of strangers in any way we see fit. Attire has neither reason, nor need here, it is pure symbol and possibility made tactile. It is a scintillating instrument for us to use. Clothes can be a way a way in or a means of escape, and constructing an outfit sometimes feels as complicated as answering the Sphinx's riddle, but it is not. It is a game for us to play, it is imagination.
(c) Philippa Tatham 28 January 08
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by Sarah Shavel
Sometimes it doesn't occur to me how beautiful something is until I really need it. I believe this is how the Ugg phenomenon swept fashionable cities the world over. Inexplicably, and out of nowhere, these clunky, chunky, frumpy shoes were hot to trot right alongside Manolos on the tootsies to be seen around town. Shock! Horror! What? Why? How?
I jumped on the Ugg bus along with the rest of the fashionable female population, but I never really loved them until I moved to Chicago. Here they are dearer to me than some ex-lovers have been. I finally understand - they keep your feet really warm! In addition, their heels don't dig into the snow, or slip on the ice. And if they get kinda dirty - so what? - they are humble-looking to begin with. Moreover, unless you get the fancy pink kind, they are brown, so the Chicago winter grime blends right in. I know there have always been sane people who have made the choice to wear shoes with comfort and ease in mind but when has it ever been cool? I suppose occasionally throughout history, fashion and practicality come together in a cosmic eclipse of sanity - kaftans seem to come to mind - but since the hippy era the two have rarely met.
I can go to a job interview in Uggs and nobody thinks it is strange. I must note that the job in question is usually either as a bartender or as someone serving someone else something (like vichyssoise). But even so, I can tromp my ass across town while keeping warm and not using my car - because global warming and such - and boy do I need the exercise after this Christmas - but, none the less, I can walk proudly into even the snootiest establishment and nobody will snoot at my footwear. My boots have made it into the cannon of cool and I am soon to follow them there.
Sometimes I even wear them around the house like slippers!
Yes!
(c) Sarah Shavel 10 January 08
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by Anna Bewick
My Primark dress rocks. Therefore, whenever I wear my Primark dress, I, too, rock. It's a love/love relationship.
Listen, I'll describe my dress to you. It's one of those full-length maxi dresses that everyone's been wearing this summer. Nothing special you might think? Don't I look like a hippy? Ok, my flatmate calls me Earth Mother whenever I wear it, but stay with me. Imagine ... thin straps join the fabric as it wraps across the bust, forming a slightly scandalous neckline that drops into an empire line cut, pulling me in at the top of my waist and flowing out over my hips, skimming all the bits I want to hide, and showing possibly more-than-is-decent of the bits I don't. It's the perfect dress.
Men look, women envy. If I'm lucky – given that this dress is, don't forget, from Primark – I don't bump into anyone else wearing the same dress (oh the angst - who wears it best? - these things matter). It cost £16, and it's given me a summer of priceless fun and attention. And if this dress could talk - it could tell a few tales.
(c) Anna Bewick 15 September 07
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by Julie Kokkalou
I slipped into the embrace of a lining that was 75%-cocoa-brown faux-fur and it was like hugging a treasured friend after a long absence – ‘I've missed you’. I didn't even need to look in the mirror (but of course I did; just to allow myself to revel in a heightened state of elation).
The main body of the jacket is a weathered chocolate-brown fake leather. The faux-fur collar is intermingled shades of deep brown, white sunlight, and rutting-stag russet. Put the collar up, do up the double, tarnished copper ring-buckle at the front of the neck - the soft warmth is comforting. 80% acrylic, 20% polyester never felt so good.
The cuffs are long, thick, and elasticated - I don't like short or non-elasticated cuffs on jackets - and the same round the bottom. The untarnished copper-effect zip suggests the colour of unearthed treasures of some ancient civilisation. Practicality has not been sidelined. There are air vents under the arms - a very wise move as a pong wafting in on the breeze would probably mar the femme fatale effect.
In the city this jacket speaks of the countryside; in the countryside it harks back to the trappings and bright lights of the city. So in each setting you ask yourself - where do I belong?
Do clothes make the woman or the woman the clothes? A tag in the jacket reads, in dusky pink ‘Wear me, work me, love me’. By wearing it, I'm working it in a sense - because it accurately portrays a large facet of my personality without me having to say or do a thing except be me - a case for the woman making the clothes. The knowledge of the accuracy of this portrayal then, in turn, makes me feel and behave even more like ‘me’ - it keeps the sense of self firmly rooted - a case for clothes making the woman.
Conclusion: clothes make the woman and the woman makes the clothes. 50-50. Symbiosis. Wear whatever makes you happy, and wear it with pride.
(c) Julie Kokkalou 29 April 07
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by Gill Smith
It is a well-known fact that a woman, in possession of a strong desire for something, must be in want of Ebay.
The quest for a laptop bag that is stylish, interesting, has pockets for everything I could possibly like to have a pocket for, plus easy to carry made for quite a challenge. High street names such as Debenhams and M&S failed to impress on one - or several - of the key criteria.
So, Ebay - although other web-based auction sites may well be equally suitable - and an infinite supply of patience.
This is not because you'll need to wait for your dream bag, other than a little delivery time, or frustratingly lose out time and again. It's because 'laptop bag' brings up a huge range of options from a number of suppliers - from complex back-pack types, to briefcases, to the usual bags made by computer-makers. The website's facility to save a few for detailed checking later is paradise for the indecisive. Colour? Carrying method? Flowered, or not too flowered?
Getting it right mattered more than price. My laptop bag needed to be different, suit me, and not look too much like a laptop bag and attract thieves. Having found my dream bag, I'm not sure whether the loss of bag, or the precious running-my-life laptop, would distress me more.
It's red Italian leather. Scarlet is actually the only word that really works. It has shoulder-straps like a handbag, but in this bright shade, is perhaps a bit less subtle than most of my bag choices.
I adore it.
And it has pockets. I mean, really. Majorly. There's the section for the laptop itself, complete with Velcro straps and space for the power-supply. There are big pockets inside that almost swamp my numerous journalist's notebooks, comedian's gag book - even my in-case-of-boredom magazines. There's a small zip compartment where the more girlie things sit side by side with decaf coffee sachets and a small supply of paracetamol. There's even a pair of elasticated pockets where my teaching whiteboard pens live - with an underused highlighter - plus low-cal sweets, lip salve, lots of slots for pens, a place for business cards. And that's just the inside.
Outside there's a flat pocket for carrying A4 papers smoothly - and a disappointingly black umbrella (free with the bag) safely stashed at the bottom. And at the top there is a pocket that fits everything.
By everything, I naturally mean my phone, huge bunch of keys, wallet, glasses-case, hankie, PDA / GPS. So maybe not everything, but everything that I could possibly need urgently. And really, that's all a girl needs from her bag. To look good, while carrying everything, yet only use a tenth of it.
(c) Gill Smith - 4 April 07
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by Nadia Gilani
No mouth is more startling or striking than a red. Red lips are for faces what black is for bodies: classic, universal. From luminous and alabaster skins to indigo, red lips electrify.
If you wake up feeling low, if the day fails to inspire: reach for red. Remember: don't take red for granted. And if you wear it, your face is complete.
Claret, plum, 50s scarlet? Feel your instinct. Your red lips will glow.
(c) Nadia Gilani - 1 September 06
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by Gill Smith
When it pisses it down in Edinburgh - and it does - you know that the pisser is serious.
To clarify - a dreech day in Auld Reekie makes sure every inch of you is saturated. You'll only dry by spending 60 minutes in a gig in a completely air-con-less venue. It's a nightmare when the weather's too warm. But on very damp days, the audience gently steams.
This particular day's cats-dogs-and-even-horses shower caught me en route to my newly-favourite bar from reviewing a show at the pretty College of Art.
I sheltered under an arch. I admired architecture, wrung my hair out, temporarily unstuck my jeans from my thighs. Across the road, near the Gilded Balloon, I saw The Rusty Zip, a retro clothes shop.
It's neighbour to a shop specialising in work outfits, and close to a passable café. Inside the Zip (yes, I went in), there were glam dresses and accessories from every decade I can remember, plus a fair few from years that must, by now, be into multiple fashion revivals. Tucked away at the back, there were leather jackets and coats for every look - from 1980s pop styles and colours. to Danny From Grease. And the option I went for - blue Gestapo.
I won't make you jealous by telling you the ultra low price. Or that there were several lovely coats - and making a choice was severely challenging. But my 3/4 length, belted, one-button-needing-sewing-back-on grey-blue coat is a timely replacement for the previous favourite jacket. That came from Edinburgh too (full story) - for far more money at the constant divorce sale. And I can excitedly tell you why - I've shrunk out of it.
(c) Gill Smith - 31 August 06
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by Sarah Shavel
Bags come into my life like the best loves: they strike when I am least expecting it and refuse to be ignored. I can’t just go out and snag a bag. It doesn’t work. I am unimpressed by most of what I see, and if I make the mistake of settling for the best of the average, I’ll grow bored and disown it within weeks. My bags have to find me. They have to charm me. And, they have to turn me on. The right ones are never what I expect, but always exactly what I want.
It has happened again. And I am twitterpated. I see it on Portobello Market wedged in between a million pretty things. How anything can make a strong statement there is mysterious. It’s a psychedelic sweet shop of lovely and the vendors are experts at coaxing money out of awestruck shoppers.
I am usually too wary to let my eye rest on anything for more than a moment. Once too often have I fallen for something that is wonderful at the time, and a disappointment once I’ve brought it home. That is embarrassing and unpleasant. But, there it is, a sexy well-built model, with a lot of panache and a eccentric sense of humour. Holy crap. How have I missed you after more than a year of living here? It must be fate intervening.
Royal purple, lavender, and silver. Metallic leather. A perfect strap to ensure it rests snugly just above my hip-bone. I should keep walking, but I can’t help checking it out. I think we would be good together. So, I slowly stop and enjoy the view. But because looks aren’t everything, I have to investigate its integrity to make sure it won’t fall apart or let me down when I am counting on it.
I try not to hope. So often something that looks good turns out to be flimsy or unstable. But this time I am lucky. It is hand-sewn from top-quality leather. The lining is royal blue and gold, and the woman who made it is as nice as her creation. It’s obvious that this bag was conceived in love. It has to come home with me. I’m not carried away often, but when it’s right I can’t deny it. That’s the way it has to be.
We’ve been together for three weeks now. Yes, at first there was a period of adjustment. I had to see if it could handle all of my baggage, which it does beautifully. I had to my other bag know that we had to go on a break. But now I couldn’t be happier. When we walk down the street other girls look it up, but I know it will always be coming home with me.
(c) Sarah Shavel - 8 July 06
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by Lea Harris
I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a follower of fashion. In fact, I’m the polar opposite. I dread buying clothes, especially shoes. It’s not that I don’t like shoes, on the contrary I do. Those wonderfully needle-thin stilettos: on anyone else - elegance and grace. On me, if I could get the damn things on – a lethal weapon. Not to other people however, just to me. If it all ended in tears … they would be mine: broken heels, broken ankles and very broken pride. I would love to wear Jimmy Choo’s, but alas, that will never be. My feet and I will always have a love/hate relationship – I love the shoes, my feet hate to wear them.
I blame my mother. It was her high-heeled numbers that had me crashing down concrete stairs, chin first, at the grand old age of nine. Then the 70’s arrived with the platform, and brought another disaster caused by borrowed goods, boots this time; bottle green, platform boots. They were gorgeous and I coveted them. But I caught one of the heels on a stair and broke it. The money I was saving for my own pair was handed over to pay for a replacement.
So my feet have ended up being bare, in sandals or in clogs. I guess I trained my feet too well; now anything with more than an inch cripples me. And because my feet are very broad, shoes are always going to be a problem. I window lick shoe shops that have delicate, elegant heels, but drooling is not my best feature and the way the shop assistants glare at me makes me feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. So, I’m resigned to what are classed as sensible shoes. They are practical and support the foot, but they’re also downright frumpy!
That is, until I fell in love with this red pair. They are chic, stylish and cherry red, but above all, they fit. They don’t have a heel, they aren’t shiny and I couldn’t wear them with a cocktail dress; but at least I can ditch my walking sandals for something that covers old twinkle toes. The inner soles are soft, the leather is supple and I won’t break any bones wearing them. What is this miraculous pair? They’re called 24 hrs - for working and student girls. And as I’m neither a student nor a working girl, it’s nice to know that the sensible shoe has now gained some street cred.
(c) Lea Harris - 1 July 06
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by Gill Smith
'They're great for the party, but they're too high for me. They can go straight back to the charity shop afterwards' she said, reaffirming my belief that parenthood does something strange to your taste.
My father's 60th birthday could only be celebrated one way – with a 60s party. There were wonderful hippies, lots of garish green, orange, and corduroy, along with a few Beatles-style haircuts that I'm not convinced were solely for the bash. Plus I had a wonderful excuse to extend my wardrobe in interesting new ways.
But best of all was those shoes. My mother was daring a short skirt, chunky jewellery, and 'winkle-pickers'. I'm yet to work out exactly what winkle-pickers means, but those were not going back to any charity shop for a very long time.
They're brown leather, pointy, high, but not impossible to walk in, and sport a fabulous girlie pink ribbon-style trim – finishing in bows at the front. It's like wearing chocolate cakes decorated with rosy icing. Only not quite so squishy.
So yes, I confess, I stole these gorgeous stilettos from a near-pensioner, and am utterly unrepentant. In fact, I'm very glad I did. If I hadn't got there first, they’d be in my sister's closet right now.
As for getting rid of them – no one in the Red Cross Shop would cherish them like I do. And I bet they wouldn't have managed four compliments in just two evenings out, along with two attempts to steal them – well, mere mild threats. I did the right thing.
(c) Gill Smith 10 June 06
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by Philippa Tatham
The joy of being a Glamorous Receptionist in a Swanky City Firm is that one is professionally obliged to wear beautiful things. The tragedy of being a Glamorous Receptionist, even in a Swanky City Firm, is that one is unable to afford beautiful things. For a fabric fetishist like me, this is something to weep into my pillow nightly about.
I crave clothes like ordinary people crave love or affection. I am sure that psychologists would have a field-day. Velvet, satin; anything that sparkles; shoes with points; shoes with patterns; chiffon, cotton, rubber, wool; the very words cause a tingle. I love corsets and scarves and skirts that show leg, skirts that tumble over the knees like my grandma used to wear. Jeans! Oh, Jeans! My tiny room is swamped by the wardrobe which vomits garments like a force-fed battery hen, and I have physically broken my chest of drawers – something about which my landlord remains sweetly unaware.
Apparel is a habit, an addiction. Yet it is one that does not break the bank. You see, as well as being a binge shopper, I hate spending money. And refuse to. £10 on a dress? Maybe, but I’d rather it was four. Four pounds? Well I could get it for 99p.
Oh yes I am. Cheap with a big C. I have to be, to indulge as often as I do. Old clothes tire me, plus I am a firm advocate of rough love, and tend to destroy even the best-made garments. I throw things out as soon as they reek of age, and so there is no point spending a lot on a few nice things. It’s like telling a woman with PMS that a small bar of good-quality cocoa will satisfy her chocolate longings.
It doesn’t.
So. I buy my shoestrings on a shoestring, and my advice for shopping with no funds is first to avoid low-cost stores. Never buy fabric that feels nasty, because there is no way of hiding that it is. Polyester screams Cheap - which you may very well be, but there is no reason to look it.
I can’t pass a charity shop without going in. It’s the excitement. Everything is a one-off, a not-to-be-found item with a label usually far beyond my price range - especially if you frequent the posher parts of London such as Kensington. Every piece has a history: there are no virgin clothes here, but experienced material whose past remains a mystery. There is a very exciting second-hand shop on Holloway Road, where – amongst other things - you can pick up knee-length leather coats for a fiver.
But watch out for being enticed into buying the purely horrendous just because it seems exciting. Some things have been donated to charity for a reason. And I’m sorry, but gold lamé shoulder-pads will only ever look good on 80s Madonna and Barbie, and have no place in real life.
Another caution. Avoid all stores claiming vintage status - like the ones in Islington and Notting Hill, or the Topshop basement in Oxford Street. Some places such as Past Caring on Essex Rd near Angel tube are vintage - in the sense that they sell things a little older and quirkier than a charity store. But vintage is more often another way of saying that they raided a dead woman’s closet, and whacked a massive price tag on everything, because they know some authenticity-seeking sucker wanting to slum it with Daddy’s bank card will snap it up. No.
My personal favourite is car boot sales. Last week I bought an immaculate red Monsoon basque for 50p from Holloway Market on Seven Sisters Road (up north again) that moulds my figure like a caress. And there are belts and jewellery: a lady who makes her own stuff appears from time to time, along with a woman selling the most outlandish and fabulous cast-offs from her stall on Portobello Road (another notorious ‘vintage’ site).
At a car boot, head for the stands run by people who look how you want to look - and who are your size. And never be afraid to rummage. As with cheap shops, be watchful of the professionals who sell new gear for very little, because the clothes probably contain more plastic than a cup dispenser. Having said that, there is a man who does unsold, unworn Next stock.
There are two exceptions to the No Vintage Rule. The first is Camden Market, which is more of an overwhelming sensory experience than a shopping district. It’s the only place in the world where you can buy handcuffs, earmuffs and marijuana lollipops from the same spot. And where every garment’s a unique one-off. Many of them are so laughably under-priced that you suspect that there must be a sweatshop filled with hippies hidden under the canal.
The second is the most incredibly exciting thing that my silk-swamped id has found so far in London. She’s a lady called Angel (http://www.angel-a.net) who runs vintage evenings. In that Del-Boy fantasy that is Bethnal Green, there nestles an elegant apartment block from which Angel flies.
Her two-story pad looks like something only city-dwellers in sitcoms can afford. On certain nights it becomes gorged with clothes, clothes, clothes. We drooling guests wander through lazy crooners from another era, sipping sangria from cups thoughtfully named and labelled. Every room is stuffed with women stripping and staring at themselves in great gilt mirrors, while jewellery dangles from bird cages and chandeliers, and free manicures are offered to all those spending over forty pounds – not an issue for most. True to form, I swiftly pinpoint the £1 bargain-buckets where I find a pair of cowboy boots, a sheepskin coat, a dress, jeans….
I spend £7, bags bulging, and the next few days trying to wear it all at once. My friends, a little more discerning than me - and less filled with the blood-lust - buy yellow berets , pretty shoes, bronze bags, Ferrar-flic sunglasses and a fur coat for £30. Which, as one points out, is actually a saving. She would spend far more if she bought it from Topshop, where it would be fake anyway. And she needs it to launch her new career as a theatre director.
Oh Yes. You can justify anything if you put your mind to it. I am not frugal, which is a dangerous thing not to be in London. Very often I find myself sipping cocktails costing more that my outfit. But that’s the glorious definition of decadence, the joy and contradiction of London living. When shopping on a budget - an art to which I have devoted my existence - the rule is simple. Value, not price. Is it worth it? Buy it.
But remember - the worth can increase exponentially if it costs 25p.
(c) Philippa Tatham 25 February 06
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by Nadia Gilani
When I think about knitting, I cringe a bit. Not a recoil, but a nostalgia and longing to be able to do it. I don’t knit now, never gave it enough time – just as I didn’t stick with piano lessons to the concert pianist stage. I stopped knitting long before ever really learning how.
The biggest turn-on with knitting is the chuffing sense of achievement. Creating something useful - seeing it grow row upon row between your fingers.
With me, only one thing got finished – and that with help. I’m not patient. My mother’s invincible with a ball of wool and a pair of needles. She once knitted two jumpers in two weeks, off sick from work with a chest infection. She knits as naturally as she breathes. Sometimes I’d be given credit for a couple of rows in things she’d made. They would be the lumpy or holey bits.
I had my first proper go around 14. The idea wasn’t necessarily to end up with anything, just to knit. I love things with stripes, and set out to make something useless and stripey. My mad, bonkers scarf was born.
Pillage of mother’s baskets yielded odd balls. She cast on some blue – and off I went. As wool ran out, she linked up a new colour – I knitted on. I was obsessed. The meditative properties of knitting are addictive, particularly because when you first start, you can’t do anything else like watching Eastenders. You have to focus on your hands – a zen-like lull is inevitable. Nothing else matters – only the needle through the hole, loop around, under and out motion.
I was taking it too seriously – and someone’s knitting is a psychological revelation. You could see my up-tightness. I’d get wound up in my needles - knitting so tightly, I couldn’t move them till my mother sorted me out. She’d gently tell me I needed to loosen up. I took offence at this, but reasoned privately that she was right.
Wherever I went, my needles came too. I got in trouble at school (and even had my baby confiscated for knitting in class). And despite the fanaticism, I wasn’t very good.
But soon, what started out as a skinny strip of nothing turned steadfastly - by default - into a scarf. I’d planned a pom-pom for each end, but must have got distracted because they never happened. In style, it became an over-long Where’s Wally, Technicolour Joseph. It was exactly what I was looking for - stripe upon stripe, all different widths, some fat, some skinny, all mixed up with muddled textures. It went in and out, so the edges weren’t straight. It had lumps and holes. But - I got to the end. And that was that.
There’s still something in me that passionately wants to be able to knit. I get jealous when I see people knit, but I’m lazy and feel useless. It’s such a cool and calming thing to be able to do – for men and women - and a top way to unwind. Like anything creative, it’s often the fear of what the end result will look like that stops the start. Just go for it. Hmm. I might just have convinced myself to start again.
(c) Nadia Gilani 27 January 06
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by Gill Smith
Several years ago I noticed that a ridiculous number of women in the media had two things in common. They were called Jill, and wore leather jackets.
Despite my preferred spelling, convinced I was half-way to fame, fortune, and being able to say 'My usual, Dah-ling' at the BBC bar, I knew I had to invest. One high-pressure sales-pitch at the leather store in Edinburgh during the Fringe later - I had a sleek black jacket.
Three years, numerous gigs, lots of train journeys, leaving on the backs of chairs, leaving under chairs, and general use and abuse later, I realised that the good life only beckoned after moving on to jacket number two.
So what had I missed about those original Jill's Jackets? Probably nothing - but this jacket was now missing its stiff edges, and had distinct I-carry-my-handbag-on-the-right-shoulder thinning.
Maybe what I had missed those years earlier was the fact that I look rubbish in black. The quest for a coloured jacket had begun.
We've all seen someone who's just a little too chunky for a badly too-bright overly pink or green fake-leather abomination. So being picky was a must.
Back at the Princes Street leather store - possibly because the only time I can get my husband to say 'Go on then' is during the Fringe, after several days of him saying 'Go on then' to Pleasance-Courtyard-pint-offers - I tried on a range of jackets.
Perfect fit. Perfect cut. Perfect colour. Pity that was three jackets.
One of the most wonderful things about this store is their inventiveness. My jacket could, apparently be re-tailored to suit my ideal, no extra cost. Until it transpired that would break the heart of the tailor - it would upset his fine, fine lines. And the small mark could easily be got rid of, no charge, until, obviously, it turned out to be a mark from the original animal - a sign of the cow’s quality. The colour was not, as I had believed, a delightful deep burgundy. It had a completely different name - which I can’t remember. I'm naïve, but my brain does have some hustle-filter.
After a long, long time of being offered a discount on the matching handbag, being told what great colouring I have, how I wear a jacket well - and joining in the whole charade by pretending that I wasn't sure if I was going to buy, casually checking how much discount on cash, and I'm still not really sure, another discount, oh, go on then - I am now the proud owner of what I consider a burgundy, not too shiny, sleek-lined, three-buttoned leather jacket.
It’s winter, and I have a new quest. It can be chilly hanging around outside Broadcasting House. I need to find the hat, scarf and gloves set that means I can wear it for at least most of the winter. So - what colours look perfect with - what was it called again?
(c) Gill Smith 12 December 05
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by Allegra Galvin
Models don’t generally question the clothes that they wear. Designers don’t often ask how much the people sewing their clothes are paid every day. And it is particularly rare that fashionistas will wonder whether the wine they are drinking at the show is ethically produced. Nobody asks and, if everyone is beautiful enough, nobody cares. Right?
Not always. ‘That which has the greatest use, possesses the greatest beauty. ’ Aristotle said that and so, more recently, did Howies (www.howies.co.uk), a skater-style label of t-shirts, hoodies, sweaters and jeans, all organic, represented by boarder Rob Warner - and just one of the new generation of ethical labels on show at the True Fashion Show.
Peter & Gabii Oliver, film editor and researcher respectively, along with Vonnie Williams - a designer and consultant to Tearfund - decided to give the labels that do ask tough questions a professional showcasing. True Fashion Show was dubbed an 'ethical' enterprise and clothes were sourced from all labels and shops that were fair trade / organic / anti-sweatshop.
What made the show truly inspired however was the organisers’ hard line on bending to the norms of ethical fashion. The clothes on parade were not, as expected, all homespun linen and hand stitched daisies. 50/50 (www.5050clothing.com) showcased sharp, Pink-like shirts in blues, pinks and white cheques and stripes, complemented by second-hand pinstripe suits and dinner jackets. Their mantra is Bible-based: ‘If one of your countrymen becomes poor and is unable to support himself… help him… so that he can continue to live among you’ - aka fair trade.
Amanda King (info@amandaking.net), who won The Observer young designer of the year award after graduating from fashion college, was challenged by the treatment of the workers helping to make the clothes for the stores she was designing for such as Miss Selfridge and Top Shop. This year she decided to leave and start her own label, the first fruits of which were a few stunning individual pieces that closed the show: skirts encrusted in black, gold and silver sequins, tops in bold red and white prints. The film crew covering the event found her designs made of eco fabrics to be by far the most popular of the evening.
Other stand-out labels were 'From Somewhere' (020 8743 7061) that transforms vintage classics into one-off contemporary pieces (beautiful chocolate quilted jacket and stitched cashmere jersey dresses). THTC t-shirts (www.thtc.co.uk) sport anti-war slogans such as George Bush and Son, Family Butchers, est 1989, and are worn by leading UK urban music artists such as Goldie and Dynamite MC, Wu Tang Clan's Inspectah Deck and the True Playaz. They are made in a factory where the workers are paid well above the national average.
Obviously the big hitter of the night was Traid (www.traid.org.uk), which has carved its niche as the leading fashion-recycling charity in the country. They have 750 textiles-recycling banks for donations, after which the clothes are sorted for quality and style and sent to the seven shops across London. Traid Remade has been around for four years and they customise and reconstruct second-hand clothes. All funds raised from these enterprises are donated to sustainable development projects overseas.
The designers were quoting Gandhi - ‘poverty is the worst form of violence’ - the models were sneaking to the bar to get fair-trade to knock the edge off the nerves and the crowd were sitting up and taking note. Fashion with a conscience has not only become very cool (and didn’t we all feel good about ourselves) but - and here is where things have really changed - the clothes have become genuinely beautiful.
Other labels on show: ethical threads, Elisabeth de Senneville, i believe in miracles, Junkystyling, Tonic T-shirts, Ciel (from EQUA shop), Enamore (also from EQUA), Plainlazy, People Tree, S.A.R.I Elizabeth Lasker, Hope tees, Terra Plana (shoes), Worn Again (trainers), Beyond Skin (shoes), Blackspot (Adbusters Boots). Venue - St Mary's, Wyndham Place. Date of visit 25 November 05.
(c) Allegra Galvin 1 December 05
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by Neelam Gill
Mmm... my turquoise dress is seductive. And bold.
It's not meant to look like an expensive black number.
It's a class of its own.
It shows my curves and fits my body like a hand in a glove.
It's splashed with shades of greens, aquas and lilac roses.
It's strappy and flows all the way down to my ankles.
It's see-through. And if your look lingers a second, you'll notice, um, peachy cheeks.
And some. It turns men's heads - and women's too! And I feel sexy...
(c) Neelam Gill 12 November 05
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by Pam Lee
I was flicking through a glossy magazine, and the attraction was instantaneous.
The points on these shoes were sharp enough to spear passers-by. And they were made of the most gorgeous material - covered with little birds.
Shoes had come and gone over the years. I wintered in bright orange Marc Jacobs boots, which inspired compliments. Well, that's how I interpreted the wide-eyed, aghast, looks.
There was a brief fling with a pair of baby-pink Mary Janes. Unfortunately, the heels brought back a childhood nightmare of being in the circus - walking on stilts. So I had to ditch them. But not before buying the same shoe in two other colours - why oh why?
And there were the Chinese-inspired red satin heels that made my feet look as though they had been bound from birth.
Finally - one dreary afternoon at the office and 2 seasons later - I booked a date with a shoe shop and the last pair (in my size) of my perfect shoes.
I was not disappointed. After 20 minutes of almost scalping myself (the entire, sharp, collection was tied to the ceiling), I was handed two little pieces of heaven.
They were placed in a box, and wrapped painstakingly in anaglypta. OK, so they cost the same as a package deal to Turkey. Yes, I probably should have spent the money on going to the dentist. But they're cheaper than a flight to Australia.
And who needs teeth when you own a dream?
(c) Pam Lee 9 September 05
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By Vanessa Whyte
I love my tweed trilby hat. I can wear it come rain or shine - with practically any colour, with long shiny hair or hiding a bed-head nest of knots. It’s my perfect match.
It always provides a confidence boost, whether it sets off my outfit and attracts attention, or hides the hangover bags forming under my eyes - and the huge spot on my forehead.
The colours of the tweed are crucial. Mine is primarily pale grey. But the interwoven brown threads let the hat take on different shades - depending on what it is worn with. A hat that goes with black and brown. What a find!
It certainly gets a mixed response. One man took such a dislike to it, that he spent a good ten minutes trying to shout over the loud roaring hip-hop in the basement of Westbourne Grove’s Harlem that my hat was ‘pony’ (crap), but otherwise, I was ‘good to go’.
Great.
It took me at another ten minutes of shouting to make him understand that I didn’t give a fuck what he thought.
And that no matter how good I was to go, the going would not be with him.
I bought my trilby in Zagreb, capital of Croatia. During my holiday, Zagreb was resolutely holding fast against any notion of summer. Ten points to the trilby - it proved my only sensible item of clothing. And it’s collected points absorbing the wintry rain of London, April showers, and the torrents of an English summer.
And compliments. One day, a man waited on the street for a whole minute as I walked towards him on my way home. He told me he’d been waiting to tell me how much he liked my hat!
One night in a club, another man plunged his sweaty crop of hair into my chest to provide a distraction whilst he took my hat from me to wear it himself.
These are the times when I lament not being six-foot tall. Or even, tall enough to reach up and calmly remove my hat from the opponent’s head. So, no dignity salvaged from this night as I chased after him, jumping up and down like a tiny child after a lollipop.
But I’m sure the Sinatra-esque silhouette I cast leaving the bar left a stylish finale.
(c) Vanessa Whyte 25 August 05
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By Gill Smith
I daren't count how many years ago I realised I would never be thin. I would never be trendy. And the Presbyterian granny's influence was enough that I will never be able to spend huge sums on Prada or Ralph Lauren.
Don't get me wrong - I can spend on quality, good material, stuff that will
last ages. But not on fashion, so that I'll wonder what I was thinking about in a fortnight. I do that enough with my hair.
Half of my favourite clothes are charity-shop finds or sales bargains. There's nothing like finding something gorgeous, something that's really me - and not having to pay much for it.
I've developed a sixth sense for things I'm going to look good in. Never mind whether that's anyone else's definition of good. And if it is fashionable - so be it. Accidents like that can happen to anyone. Clothes are about me liking how I look, feeling good.
Confidence oozes through me if I'm in my hot pink suede coat, my fuchsia jersey top, my indigo double-cuff shirt, my scarlet jeans, or the sunshine-yellow T-shirt.
You probably spotted the theme. Colour. Even during a teenage goth phase, I liked a sneaky bit of colour. I'm probably the only woman in the world without a little black dress. I make up for it with a little flowery dress, a little blue dress, a little raspberry-striped dress, and a little green-and-cream dress.
It's only recently, however, that colour has extended to my feet. Other than my toe-nails, pretty much the only colour near my feet was stripes on my sports socks.
Then I found violet sandals. They're far too high to wear anywhere that involves more than trying not to break an ankle between the car and the door. I totter. It's embarrassing.
But those sandals, with their diamante buckle, started a trend. Baby-pink
flowery pumps followed.
My next pair of coloured shoes was almost as high as the first. And I was determined to be able to walk - and more crucially, dance - in them. These are crimson stilettos.
Thankfully, they have a strong ankle-strap - which is covered in sequins. After a few false starts - and a lot of rehearsals around the house - all I had to find was an outfit to go with them. And an occasion.
The occasion was whenever most people could see me in them. Minus barbeques
and other social events that involve standing too much. Particularly on
grass.
I don't know how common a saying it is, but I have friends with the theory 'red shoes, no knickers'. I think it's the poor girl's version of 'fur coat, no knickers'. The outfit clearly had to leave that question hanging in my friends' minds.
Some tight jeans, a strapless top and a lot more walking-practice later, no-one ever did conclude the underwear debate. Not that it stopped them asking.
When you're waking up to the realisation that you're quite a lot of years older in fact than you are in your head - you need something in the wardrobe (or shoe-box) to remind you that yes, you may be getting older, but you don't have to grow up.
Oh, and red shoes, no knickers. But cotton thongs are surprisingly comfortable.
(c) Gill Smith 18 August 05
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Dashing Guy Adams - Pandora of The Independent - is named as Best-Dressed Man in Fleet Street by trade newspaper Press Gazette.
'I'm absolutely delighted', he told Fringe Report, 'although journalists are the scruffiest people in the world. Apart possibly from actors and Fringe impresarios. So it may not be quite the accolade I first thought.'
In her shortlist nomination, Esther Walker writes in Press Gazette, 'The editor of The Independent's Pandora column, Guy Adams, with his own jaunty sock collection, moleskin trousers and a line in sharp suits, is a strong contender for most dapper chap on the nationals' - before naming her definitive winners:
'For the sheer number of times his name has come up in discussions, Guy Adams of The Independent wins most dapper chap; The Daily Telegraph's Celia Walden also has a huge fanbase, so she is officially the snappiest dressing lady.
'Worst dressed man goes to Alan Rusbridger, because he's just asking for it.'
Girls! Hunky Guy Adams is pictured in portrait mode in the paper edition of Press Gazette.
Source - Esther Walker - Taking The Scruff With The Smooth - Press Gazette
- Thursday, 18 August 05
END
Fringe Report (c) Fringe Report 2002-2008
