The Black Onyx Bangle That Went Astray
Although I don’t go in for black clothes much, I do have a black bangle that I adore. A few weeks ago while holidaying with my sisters in Sorrento (Victoria, not Italy, alas), we spent a delightful hour or so browsing in Rosebud’s Vintage Bazaar. I took an armload of garments into the changing room to try on, chief among them a divine black lace 1930s dress. (Yes black, in spite of the fact I opened this story talking about my indifference to black, but 1930s black lace is quite another matter. However, that’s a tale for another time.)
The buttoned cuffs on the blouson sleeves of this dress were quite narrow, and the fabric delicate, so I had to remove the bangle to withdraw my hand from the sleeve (I was too lazy to undo all the buttons). I put it down on a side table in the large dressing room. There was much deliberation and discussion of my proposed purchase of the dress with my talented seamstress sister Blossom, because it needed quite a bit of repair work; and hemming and hawing on the part of the owner who was reluctant to name a price because she didn’t really want to sell it because she hoped to one day fit into it. (But I fit into it now!) Finally I flounced out (with the dress).
It wasn’t until the next afternoon when I was packing my bags prior to our departure for Melbourne that I suddenly thought,
WHERE IS MY BLACK BANGLE?
I could not remember the last time I saw it. Frantically I scrabbled through my bags, searching all the pockets, the bathroom, the closet, my coat pocket, the bag, the tallboy drawers, my handbag … before I had to face the gruesome fact: my bangle was nowhere to be found.
Did I mention that I really love this bangle? It was a souvenir from a holiday in Vietnam four years ago. I wore it nearly every day, even though it drove me bonkers, clattering on my desk whenever I used my keyboard. It was so nice and shiny and glossy and perfectly symmetrical and smooth. I loved this bangle. Some cogitation dredged up the memory of removing it from my wrist in the bazaar. How could I have been so stupid as to LEAVE IT BEHIND IN A CHANGING ROOM of a VINTAGE STORE with no inventory of its stock?
… I had to face the gruesome fact: my bangle was nowhere to be found.
Correct hand position for prayers of fashionLuckily I had kept their business card, and fortuitously we would be passing through Rosebud on our way home. There was no answer to my phonecall the first time, but I left a slightly panicked message on the machine. When I rang back later I spoke to a woman who said she would try to contact the girls who’d been working the previous day to find out if they knew anything. I lamented to my sisters that I had already successfully smashed two onyx rings, and Lily suggested perhaps that I was not meant to own any onyx jewellery. I instantly eschewed this infamous notion.
Many anxious, nail-biting moments later we arrived in Rosebud, and whilst Lily callously elected to go for a stroll along the beach, Blossom and I walked to the bazaar. During that long walk, I prayed that my bangle would be found, like the lost sheep.
… I prayed that my bangle would be found, like the lost sheep.
I raced to the changing room, and threw myself to my knees (not to pray this time, but to search the floor under the sundry furnishings in the changing room). All I found for my trouble was dustballs.
Disconsolately, I made my way back to the front desk, where I could see Blossom talking to a salesperson. The woman had her hand in the air.
JOY TO THE WORLD! She was waving my black bangle, and tearfully I claimed it, pressing kisses … No, I exaggerate. (But only slightly.) It was dear, dear Blossom in fact, who had rifled through a box of junk by the register and found it. I was so happy to have my bangle return to the fold. And this tragedy all came about through my laziness to undo buttons. Let that be a lesson to me.
But all’s well that end’s well, eh?