ME TIME BLUES

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Unaccustomed me-time! Two hours to stroll through the emporiums of bling, maybe stop for a coffee, buy a little treasure somewhere along the way. Sounds nice?

The sun is shining, the summer sales are on:  Life is good.

So what I do actually need? In truth, not a lot.

Things are, however, a bit grim on the underwear front. I locate the nearest M&S and head straight for the undies dept.  There is a spring in my step. I feel like a six-year-old in a candy shop. I want everything…….

A whole  lot of other ladies, whose underwear drawers must be in a similarly depleted state to my own, are already hard at work.  Together we embark on a frenzied raid of the sale rails.

Some time later, the underwear has been selected and its time for coffee.  I order a cappuccino which comes in a  bucket sized mug. These days, I mostly drink herbal teas, so am not prepared for the scale of the caffeine rush. Pumped up with adrenalin, I hit the shop floor some twenty minutes later. Ready to go again.

This time, I wander into the kids department, which is swarming with people. Deep breath as I remind myself how much fun I am having!

A blond lady is perusing the PJ’s with her affable pre-teen daughter.

‘Darling,’ she says, ‘We must buy this! (holds up floral print pj’s) Even though they are too small for you, they are just soo…. pretty!’ The pre-teen emits girlish squeals of joy.

Maybe I should buy some for my  teenage daughter?  However, I really can’t buy pj’s for Jude without getting some for Iarla. But would he like stars or dinosaurs? Decisions, decisions. Maybe I should also buy some for my friend’s little girls. After all, I’ve had it on good authority that:

  • They are pretty
  • They are half price
  • Children like them

Twenty minutes later, I have selected four pairs of pj’s. My arms are overflowing with treasures, my heart with beneficence.

SMALL REALITY CHECK.

How much are all these bargains going to cost? I do some quick mental arithmetic and realise that I must put something back. But what? Who can I leave out? Actually I can’t  leave anyone out, so I  put all the pj’s back and hang on to the underwear. After all, that was what I came in here for in the first place.

By now, it is all getting a bit much. I am succumbing to CONSUMER CONFUSION

Doubts creep in about the selected underwear. Do I even need it? Probably not. Is it nice? Not sure. Maybe there is better, more perfect underwear in another shop. Should I go and check?

Yes-but first a little rest would be nice.

My yoga teacher has shown us all these wonderful positions you can do when you need to recharge your batteries.

Suddenly, I have a longing to do a calming position. Zone out for a couple of minutes in a Downward Dog.

An image of my teenage daughter pops into my head. She is waving a finger at me.

‘Don’t even think about it Lady,’ she warns

‘I know, I know,’ I snap.

It’s not as if I really meant to- but a chair would be nice.

Given the average age of Marks and Spencer’s clientele, I am surprised there are not more chairs around the place. By now the bucketful of coffee I downed earlier is taking its toll on my bladder. Not only are there no chairs in this emporium, there are no loo’s either.

I locate an aisle in menswear and stash my underwear under a rack of ties, promising to return and commit the final act of purchase  once I’ve found the loo.

Due to time constraints the promise is broken.  Operation UNDIE REPLACEMENT  has to be abandoned til another day.  My ME TIME is up and I’m glad.  I willingly revert back to mummy mode and scarper off to collect my boy from summer camp.

 

 

 

A faux pas…on fashion friday

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I started my first ‘proper’ job  when I was 26.  The office was a  chic, caffeine fueled sort of place.  People worked long hours, had dark rings under their eyes… when asked how they were, they claimed one of two things.

Either they were  ‘UP THE WALLS!!’ or ‘UNDER PRESSURE!’

I watched, I learned.

Nowadays, I would identify the prevailing dress style of my colleagues as designer casual. At the time, I just felt it was all a bit nondescript. Boring even. The one thing everyone had in common was spectacles and those dark rings.

I drank lots of coffee and worked on my own dark rings.  After a while I was asked to attend an evening meeting with some colleagues from another research centre. It was a Friday night.

After the meeting, I planned to hit the pub  with my  buddies. The pub we frequented was a biker joint. Lots of loud music and long-haired bikers. My usual pub attire consisted of  Dr Martin boots, black leggings and a mini skirt. On this occasion I decided to tone it down, on account of the meeting.  I settled on a black vest and harem pant- probably the most respectable outfit I possessed at that point in my life.

I wasn’t exactly late for the meeting, but I wasn’t early either. When I walked in, everyone looked up. My immaculately groomed and dressed boss beckoned me to my seat and introduced me to all the other immaculately groomed participants as his research assistant. Needless to say, they were all wearing suits….

After that episode in humiliation,  I was consumed with longing for a BRIEF CASE.

I located, ‘the one’ after much searching.  Of course it was beyond my budget. A small obstacle, I threw caution to the winds and blew my savings.  Then I blew some more savings on shoes and a suit. The shoes were a novelty. Proper lady shoes complete with little heel.

By the time the next meeting came around, I was ready.

OH YES.  Never again would I turn up to a meeting in harem pants. How ridiculous! What could I have been thinking of?

This time the meeting was about drug prevention.

I had to fly to Amsterdam. ON MY OWN

It was a big deal. The stuff of stomach ulcers (sadly, I kid you not)

After a sleepless night in my hotel bed, I got up. Showered. Put on my spectacles, and sombre black suit. Stuffed my paperwork in to my new briefcase.

Ah the gravitas of that bag!  Seriously grown up.  Deep breath.

LOOKING GOOD, GIRL!

I strolled into the meeting room, intentionally early and fiddled with my paperwork.

Twenty minutes later, there was no sign of anyone.  More deep breaths.

Eventually my colleagues filed in. They were assorted youth workers, night-club owners and people recovering from addiction.

This time,the only suit in the room was my own.

Everyone else was pierced, tattooed and colourful. Mega cool. In fact, they’d have fitted right into my pub of preference back home.

Personally, I’d never felt so uncool in my life. Wrong footed AND those bloody lady shoes were killing me.

I would like to tell you that was the last time I got it wrong, but I would be lying. On a more positive note, I don’t have to worry much about transgressing dress codes nowadays as I live on a farm.

So that’s it for fashion friday. Have you ever made a fashion faux pas?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wardrobe Mistress and the Monk

Anne and Ron rolled up last night.  I was cooking dinner so Ger went out to do the meet and greet. We often take it in turns.

So who are Anne and Ron? In their email they described themselves as two senior citizens visiting Ron’s homeland. They told me they were very excited about booking a night in our gypsy wagon.

All well and good. A lot of guests pass through the gates of our little glamping site in the Summer. Most of them are young couples, or friends on holiday together.

Ger returned twenty minutes later. ‘They’re lovely,’ he said.

‘Good,’ I said, shaking the sweet potatoes. ‘Do they want tea or coffee.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK go and ask,’ I said, putting on the kettle. Lately I’ve found that people have been leaving my chocolate brownies so I baked cookies instead. I was keen for the guests to try them out.

Ten minutes later, Ger returned. ‘Ron will have tea,’ he said. ‘Anne has gone to bed.’

‘That was quick. Is she OK?’

‘Yea, she loves it here. She’s always wanted to stay in a gypsy wagon ever since she ran away with the carnival at the age of seventeen.’

Carnival?? Double take. This sure is a new one to me.

Intrigued, I volunteered to carry the tea-tray down to the orchard, I encountered Ron -deep in conversation with the lovely French couple staying in our caravan.

First impression- he looked like a wizard with a walking stick.

He told me to drop the tea into the wagon. Slightly uncomfortable as I knew Anne had gone to bed, I knocked on the door and introduced myself.

Ann climbed out of bed and took the tea. She was wearing a full length white cotton nightdress. She looked like a teenager who, unaccountably, has become a senior.  I could clearly see the girl she once was. Slight, fair-haired, impish smile. I could imagine her running away with the carnival.

I have a golden rule when it comes to guests. I do not ask personal questions.  If people want to talk about their lives, their families, their jobs, then I’m happy to listen but I will not ask.

This time was different.  I REALLY wanted to know about that carnival.

The night passed. Ger brought their breakfast to the wagon this morning. Ron was wearing a long red tartan nightshirt. Anne had slept well.

 

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Turns out Anne worked for a freak show in the carnival as the ‘Amazing  Elastic Lady’.  (Ger has less qualms asking personal stuff than me!)

Ger and I had an appointment at 10.a.m, so we said our goodbyes and drove off. We felt sad that we didn’t have more time to talk.

As luck would have it, we met them driving along our one track road on our way back home. Ger pulled into the verge to enable them to pass and wound down the window.

They said they were sad to go. They had enjoyed their stay.  We said that we had enjoyed having them. Then Ger asked Ron if he had worked for the carnival too.

No. He had done various things. Mostly followed where the Spirit led. The Spirit led him into a long stint of nursing. He had also also been a Cistercian Monk for twelve years.

After she finished with the freak show, the elastic lady had become a WARDROBE MISTRESS. So cool. I am blown away by this. It ranks as dream job number 7 on my list.

(more about dream job number one another time)

So there we have it. Anne and Ron. The Wardrobe Mistress and the Monk. This amazing couple who drifted briefly through our door and filled us with curiosity about the variousness of life.

The link between any of this and fashion is extremely tenuous.

Yes, there were two long nightdresses, some elastic and a lifetime of costume making. No more.

But, hey, fashion friday is like that.

See you all next week!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As if by magic, the shop assistant appeared

Superheroes. We’ve all seen the pictures. Muscly guys with overdeveloped torsos. Bright coloured body hugging lycra. Saving the world from baddies. Marvelous! You’ve got to love them.

Today, being fashion Friday, I want to talk about my favourite superhero; the ubiquitous Mr Ben. All round good guy, snazzy dresser and hero of my childhood, way back in the 1970’s.

First, I should tell you a little about myself.  I am the youngest of four; a happy accident as my mother used to say…The other three are 12, 15 and 16 years older than me.

So I grew up in a house of busy parents and angsty teenagers. Good job we had telly. I watched a lot of it.  In fact I spent some of my happiest hours in front of it.

It was there that I  encountered MR BEN.

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So, who was this Mr Ben?

Let’s just say he was a man who liked to dress up. Most of the time he was pretty understated, repressed even; a black suit, bowler hat sort of guy- then he discovered FANCY DRESS and met the fabulous fez wearing shopkeeper.

And MAGIC happened. Literally.  Any time Mr Ben went into the changing room, he exited through a magic door which led him into a costume appropriate world. IMAGINE THAT!

When he put on a pirate costume he automatically entered a world of pirates and so on and so forth for thirteen episodes.

And what did he do on arriving in the costume appropriate world?

Well, funnily enough there was always a problem which needed sorting out and Mr Ben proved himself pivotal in finding solutions.

The moral element was nice. We all knew where we stood. Mr Ben liked to dress up- and when he did, he would help someone with a pressing moral dilemna.  Not in a wham, bam… boom manner, but in a gentle, good sense must prevail sort of way.

So that was Mr Ben.  Do- gooder extraordinaire with a penchant for fancy dress. Perfect superhero for fashion friday. Check him out. The artwork alone merits a visit.

Many adults feel that telly is bad for kids.

I don’t know. It’s probably OK in moderation- as part of a balanced, healthy diet- like the occasional bar of chocolate. That’s me, as a parent speaking.

However, for the child that I was back in the 1970’s, telly was unquestionably brilliant.

I’ve meandered through subsequent decades with one abiding dream.

I want to write books for children. This has been fueled, in large part, by what I watched on telly as a small girl.

Who knows whether the stuff I write will ever make it into the commercial domain. It doesn’t really matter.   I do know that the desire to write is a good thing.  It’s a creative thing.  It’s the sort of thing that I would like my kids to do.

So thanks Mr Ben for beckoning me through the magic door into the fabulous land of pen and paper.  Thanks David Mc Kee- who invented Mr Ben.  And thanks to the BBC who broadcast Mr Ben- See you all next week!

 

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A Uniform U-Turn on Fashion Friday

 

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I used to hate school uniforms. I hated them so much that I refused to send my children to a school which had a uniform policy.

Why? Well, I had this thing about kids being square pegs and schools being round holes and there being a lack of fit, so to speak. I saw uniforms as symbols of a regimented and authoritarian system. Probably came from my own less than superlative school days.

Suffice to say, I carried some baggage…

The problem I faced was that most schools insist on uniforms. Undaunted, I found a school at the other side of town which ticked all the boxes. No uniform; non denominational; co-ed, small. Perfect! It did involve driving across town at rush hour, but what the heck. The smallies were worth it.

All that changed when we moved to the country. There was only one school in our locality. Thankfully, it was a very nice school and it didn’t require a uniform. No problem there.

As the children grew, something strange happened. I stopped  caring so much about uniforms and a whole host of other things too. i.e. Barbies and Action Men and whether or not they reinforced stereotypical gender roles.

You know the sort of thing.

Then my children got much bigger and moved on to Secondary school. Everything changed. There was a strict uniform policy. Grey pants, blue jumper, white polo shirt, black shoes. Very generic, very synthetic…. everything I hated.

Did I care? A little. I still believed that uniforms suppress individuality.

But, much of the fervour and passion had waned.

I DIDN’T CARE THAT MUCH.

So what about all that unique individuality? Those square pegs and round holes??

Well, the kids have their own take on that.

I’ve watched with interest as my kids symbolically deconstruct their uniforms. The new jumper I bought my daughter last September remains in her drawer, unworn. The jumper she chooses to wear is so ragged and tattered at the cuffs, that it is only fit for the bin. Strange, you might say, until you start looking at the jumpers other kids are wearing. All battered, ragged and threadbare. It’s the same with the shoe laces, which are left undone. It’s the same with the school jackets, which are never worn.

Then you realise, this is a collective statement. This is transgression en masse. It’s an, ‘us against them’ statement.  The kids know the deal. The school knows the deal. The parents know the deal. And it’s completely OK.

And with my  new-found insights into the teenage psyche, I now believe that school uniforms rock.  YES, ACTUALLY ROCK!  Bad enough for teens to cope with hair and makeup! The choice of finding something of their own to wear every day would completely overwhelm them. I don’t think my two oldest would even make it out of their bedrooms, never mind onto the school bus.

Being a teen is a complex and difficult thing. That’s why I believe that the generic, grey uniforms is a blessing in disguise. It’s bog standard, simple and reliable. Everybody else is wearing the same. And that is a good thing, because most teens don’t want to stand out too much.  Even better,  with a few  choice rips here and there, it is very transgressible.

So there you have it.  I have performed a complete  U Turn on uniforms. Ta dah!!

See you next week

 

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‘Come for your Clothes’ on Fashion Friday

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We’re big on funerals here in Ireland.  Attending funerals is an absolute moral obligation, EVEN if you didn’t actually know the person.

Maybe you knew of them?  Maybe your mother knew them?  At the end of the day, it’s all about paying your respects. That’s what matters.

Personally I find it a bit hard. I am an emotional sponge. If people are upset, then I’m upset. But even for a self-confessed sponge, some vestige of self control is necessary. A wobbly chin is understandable. All out blubbering is not.

Anyway, all this is a prelude to what I really want to share with you today. It is of a somewhat sombre nature, hence the sombre preamble.

This little excerpt from the memoirs of my late Uncle Sean details a ritual that was enacted following the death of his mother ( my grandmother).

‘On January 13, 1937, my mother died. She was 47. I was 16. Three weeks later, it was arranged to give clothes to my mother that she would have in the next world. We gathered together in the field west of the house in the evening. My sister, Breda had a chair.  On the chair were all my mother’s clothes. We said the fifteen decades of the rosary, the Joyful, Sorrowful and Glorious mysteries. We knelt on the wet grass. We each in turn had to say a decade. At the end of each decade, my sister would take a garment of my mother’s clothes, shake holy water on it and call aloud. 

‘Nora Jane, Norah Jane. Come for your clothes.’ 

Breda would then lay the garments on a bush near us. We were very lonesome and Teddy, who was eight years old, cried the most. My sister helped him to say ‘Hail Mary’.

My Aunt Hanna of Clogherann was selected to wear my mother’s clothes. We watched her for the three Sundays she would have to wear them. We were all pleased after Mass on the third Sunday. Mother would now have clothes to wear in heaven. She would be naked no more. The brown habit she wore in the box was for this world only.’ 

I find this account fascinating and not only because it is a slice of family history. It’s just that I have never come across any other reference to this particular custom.

My uncle describes a dress related ritual that seems to me to be reminiscent of a much earlier time.  There are elements of pre-christian ritual  pervading what is ostensibly a christian ceremony.  Funnily enough, this mingling of the two traditions is common enough in the history of the Irish Church. I’m sure such practices were never actually sanctioned by the church, but they were overlooked and that is part of the reason why the church flourished here.

I have thought long and hard about what it might mean.

For me, it’s about transition and how to bridge the gap into the great unknown.

Faced with the loss of a loved one, the bereaved then have to sift through that person’s various belongings.  And there is no more poignant reminder of a loved one, than the clothes that they formerly wore.

I had a little mantra when it came to letting go of some of my parents belongings…things like slippers, old shoes..the sort of things that lives are cluttered with.

‘It’s just a thing…it’s not them. Losing them was the hard bit…this is easy.’

And yet it still gave me a pang of sadness to move on stuff that my mother or father had worn.

Nowadays, we tend to keep one or two mementoes and bring the rest to a charity shop. The hope being that our donation would raise a little money for a good cause.

A couple of generations ago, it was different. My Uncle Sean was chronicling a time in which people just didn’t have the same amount of stuff that we now take for granted.

In the 1930’s, kids in our area went to school barefoot. They didn’t know they were living in poverty because everyone else in the neighbourhood was doing the same thing.

In a society which has very little material wealth, people can’t afford to waste. Things have to be reused.

And yet….there is all the same angst surrounding the possessions of a loved one. The dress, or hat, or shawl worn by a woman is saturated with their essence.  They are powerful emotive items.

I completely understand that it was necessary to symbolically defuse those items in order for them to be re-appropriated.

And there you have it. This sorrowful little ceremony down in the field was a way of saying …we love you mum …we miss you…. we want to do something very practical for you in the next world. We believe we are helping to sort out your wardrobe up there in heaven.

And then, knowing that we have done our best for you, it will be OK to redistribute your clothes amongst family and friends who need these things and will value them.

And that, my friends is it for fashion Friday!

See you next week.

 

 

The Gloved Hand on Fashion Friday!

I grew up believing there were two genders:

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My mother was a big fan of ladies, especially if they were old, or pregnant. We always gave them our seats on buses, and helped them across roads and things like that.

Why did we like ladies so much? Maybe it was because they had good manners and said, ‘thank you,’ when we helped them. They also looked nice; stood up straight; didn’t slouch, and  wore gloves. (I like gloves!)

All well and good. Harmless, you might say. But imagine my surprise when I went to university and discovered the lady was a thing of the past- the deeply patriarchal past, I may add!  I learned that ladies and gentlemen had been succeeded by:

 

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AND (shock, horror) that it was not ok to refer to a woman as a lady! Well, not if you were a student in the Department of Sociology and Gender Studies, in any case.

Now, thirty years later, I am free to say what I like! (Phew!)

So, on fashion friday, it is my pleasure to write a little retrospective about the lady of yesteryear and that quintessential element of ladylike dress, the GLOVE.

Why gloves? Well apart from the fact that I personally like gloves, the formidable Virginia Wolf has observed that:

“  …. a lady is known by
her shoes and her gloves.”

Mrs Dalloway

Let’s save shoes for another day. That’s a very big subject.

What do we know about the not so humble glove?  It certainly has a long history.  Up until the 1400’s, gloves were most commonly made from the skins of animals. No surprises there. What might surprise you is the range of animal skins that were used.

Historian S. Beck cites an example of dog skin gloves being sent to a certain Lady Knolles, with a letter saying:

‘These gloves, madam, are made of the skin of a dog, the animal most praised for its fidelity.’

Gloves were also made from such unlikely material as chicken skin. Chicken skin gloves being a big hit with the ladies between 1500 and 1700 as they were so light and delicate, they could fit inside the shell of a walnut!

Dogs, chickens and ladies across the country must have breathed a collective sigh of relief when glove makers discovered that they could use ‘normal’ materials like cotton, silk and linen.

A rather nice convention kicked off round about the 1500’s, with perfumed gloves becoming highly desirable.  And, if you didn’t have the wherewithal to buy perfumed gloves, our historian friend S Beck has given us a useful tip. Housewives could scent their own gloves by boiling them in a bath of angelica and rose water with cloves, ambergris, musk, and lignum aloes…. ! Sounds like an old fashioned forerunner of fabric conditioner.

You  might think the function of gloves is to protect our hands, keep them warm on cold days. And you’d be right. But there was more to it than that, back in the day.

In fact, there was a lot of etiquette governing when you could and couldn’t wear your gloves. For instance:

Ladies were  expected to wear gloves on the street, at church and other formal situations but they had to remove them when eating, drinking or playing cards.

When lunching out, a lady was expected to remove her gloves ONLY  when she  sat down at her table- UNLESS the said gloves were winter mittens, in which case they should be removed when she took off her coat.

A lady was expected to leave her gloves on when she shook hands with someone. However, if she happened to be wearing gardening gloves it was OK for her to refuse to shake hands!

Believe me, it was no joke being a lady. There was an awful lot of etiquette to fret over. A lot of potential faux pas to trip you up.

Today’s modern women wouldn’t have time for all stuff. She’s too busy multi-tasking- forging a career, running a home, caring for kids, grandchildren, elderly parents. As well as being an active member of her community, she’s expected to keep fit, improve her mind, meditate, cook, and fill in forms.

I wonder if she ever experiences a pang of regret when she recalls the conventions of yesteryear?

I don’t know. Maybe.

 

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Carer’s Lament

 

Check out this great blog for an in depth-history of gloves:

HISTORY OF GLOVES AND THEIR SIGNIFICANCE

And of course, there’s our historian friend who probably wrote the definitive text on the subject!!

(Beck, S. William, F.R.H.S. (1969). Gloves, their annals and associations: a chapter of trade and social history. London: Singing Tree Press, Book Tower)

 

What’s the Plan? Stan

 

I have an interest in fashion. It’s not fashion, so much that interests me, it’s more the idea of fashion. What we wear means different things to each and every one of us.

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So where does this interest  come from?  I’m not sure really. I spend most of my time slopping around in the most comfortable thing I can find.

Do I follow seasonal trends, celebrity dress, what’s in, what’s out?  NO, No and no.

I don’t even buy many clothes. When I do, they are mostly the vintage, pre-owned, pre-loved variety.

Yet, I have an endearing love of dress and all things to do with textiles. This love of dress has taken me in all sorts of directions in my life, and I suspect it may take me off in yet another path over the next few weeks.

It  blossomed in my late teens when I realised that I could in some way ‘express’ myself through what I wore. Throughout my early twenties I perfected an, ‘anti’ style  way of dressing , adopting all sorts of cast off’s from charity shops and combining them in the whackiest way I could conceive. The whole point of this was to show that I didn’t fit in. And it worked. At that time it all seemed to matter an awful lot.

At the same time, I learned a whole range of  textile crafts such as knitting, crochet, tie dying, batik, weaving, felting, embroidery and tapestry. I realised that I love the feel of fabric. Having wool in my hands and making something with it, is one of the great joys in my life.

As luck would have it,  I met a wonderful woman who has since become one of my oldest and firmest friends. Esther was disillusioned with her career in hairdressing and I was just plain disillusioned. Together we came up with the idea of opening a vintage clothes shop. We called it ‘Rip the Calico’ because we thought it was a cool name.

‘Rip the Calico.’ lasted for about eighteen months, before we conceded to the fact that it actually wasn’t making any money for us.

We paid off any debts remaining from the shop by crocheting hats and making bloomers and camisoles, then we moved on.

Esther went on to run a very successful vintage shop with the mega cool name of ‘Hale Bop.’

I meandered this way and that way. At a certain point I decided I would like to write about ‘dress.’ The only forum I knew to write within was academia. I proceeded to spend six years writing a Phd Thesis offering a sociological perspective on the meaning of dress in women’s lives.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a fascinating  subject. What constrained me was the fact that I was writing in the wrong groove, so to speak.

That’s not to say that it didn’t work. My PhD thesis  passed muster and I can claim the dubious title of Doctor.

But I found academia soul less. I love writing, and I can write to an academic brief, but personally,  I don’t find it satisfying. For me, it is too constrained, theory ridden and formal. Apart from anything else, it doesn’t enable me to communicate in the way I want, to the people I want.

And yet, sociology is an interesting discipline. It has it’s value. It just needs to work on making itself more comprehensible!!

So, that’s where I’m coming from. I want to use my blog space to return to that idea of dress and what it means. This time around, I intend to enjoy myself, have a little fun!!

So, here’s the plan, Stan. I’m going to write a regular Friday post about DRESS and all sorts of random things relating to it.

WHAT IT WON’T BE is a guide on how to dress, what to wear, where to shop- because I don’t have a clue about that sort of stuff!

IT WILL BE  a random assortment of dress related posts,  infused by fact, fiction, history, film, personal experience and, where it’s relevant  sociology.  I’d love to invite other bloggers over to write guest pieces for me. 

I’ll leave you with an important thought for the day.

as PJ.O’Rourke so famously said.

‘Women should never wear anything that panics a cat.’

 

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