When does eccentricity segue into costume?

In theory, I love polka-dots. They are so graphic and playful. I have many fond memories of them. Once, when I was about thirteen and on a summer holiday in the company of two cousins, we all bought matching multi-coloured polka-dot tank tops. We thought we looked ace. In fact, we must have looked ridiculous. (What a pity; I don’t think any of these photos still exist.)

In practice … I am uneasy.

I wore the dress above out once. I felt conspicuous. On reflection, I think it was its prettiness that unnerved me rather than the fact I resembled a walking optical illusion. I am uncertain that orange sunglasses, silver sandals and metallic turquoise nail polish edgify it quite enough. The outfit on the right is obviously pure costume: amusing to look at but utterly absurd as street wear (blue nail polish notwithstanding). The shirt is not only polka-dotted, but it is accordion-pleated!

On reflection, I think it was its prettiness that unnerved me rather than the fact I resembled a walking optical illusion.

Years ago I saw an amazing-looking girl on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy. She wore a long, slim-fitting black dress. Halter-necked, it clung to the waist and then flowed into a long, swishy skirt that fell to the calf. On her head was a floppy straw hat with an enormous, sky-blue ribbon that tied under the chin (somewhat reminiscent of Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story). She walked with her eyes fixed ahead, gazing into the distance, completely and complacently conscious of the stares. They were her due.

While she did look extraordinary – I had to admire her guts, and I wear hats aplenty – she also looked like an escapee from the set of a bosom-heaving costume drama. All that was missing was a basket of cherries dangling from her fingertips. What she should have done is wear that hat with high-waisted, wide-legged pants in 40s style via the 70s. Maybe some mirror sunglasses. And sharp cheekbones. Offset the sweet and pretty with something defiant or daring.

As suspicious as I am of this dress however, I am not quite ready to say ‘out, damned spot!’ – I just need to find the right scene to wear it in.

You give me fever (or not)

One might think this a perfect outfit for Spring Racing Carnival: pink, flimsy, frivolous.

But it's a babydoll, a sartorial staple of wannabe little girls the world over.

It should not come as a surprise, then, that I stand resolutely against its pernicious infiltration into grown women's wardrobes. 

And yet – I found myself buying one! Why?

I told myself it would be very suitable as a holiday party dress (overseas, where no-one I know will see me). In fact, it bears a striking resemblance to one of those purchases made in error, under holiday-induced temporary insanity. I console myself that it was secondhand; cheap; and can therefore toss it in the bin without a qualm when I come to my senses. 

So, odds are strongly against you seeing me gamboling about town in this getup, Cup Fever notwithstanding.

Chocolate Box

You would not guess it from the image above, but I am not a chocaholic. That is why you can glimpse two additional, half-eaten blocks of chocolate nestling amongst the fabric. They get lost in my pantry. Recently I even found a block of chocolate on a very high bookshelf that I believe I hid from a boyfriend sometime in the last two years. It was a strange colour and didn’t taste very nice.

There is no risk of losing this skirt in my wardrobe, however. I call it my chocolate box skirt.

I clearly remember the moment I saw it. I was looking for something special to wear to a friend’s wedding when I was walking down Chapel St with another friend, and spied it through an op-shop window. “That’s it!” I squealed. “Quick!” I made my friend take her life into her hands and run through the traffic lest someone else snap it up.

It is Indian-made from lovely fabric, like crinkled gold foil. The three tiers of ruffles flounce out and remind me of a flapper’s evening gown. It belonged with a very ugly, quilted vest that I was forced to purchase owing to the manager’s shortsightedness. “But no-one in their right mind would ever wear them together,” I argued in vain. “You’ll get more if you sell them as separates.” No dice. I paid my $25 and immediately donated the sleeveless vest back. It is still there for all I know.

On its first outing I wore the skirt with this – aptly – chocolate-coloured top from Monsoon and turquoise snakeskin pumps. I have also worn it to an eighties-themed party (it is a rah-rah skirt, after all) and an Arabian Nights dinner party. And I have no doubt I will wear it again on the next suitable occasion.

I was quite chuffed when a year or two ago I saw Burberry did a very similar skirt – at ten times the price! Mine is worth its weight in gold.

Who Remembers the Skipping Girl?

This is my homage to a Melbourne icon, the Skipping Girl, a neon sign advertising vinegar, and originally known as Little Audrey. How I loved to see her skipping away against the dark of the night! She always seemed so merry to me. I used to beg dad to drive home along Victoria St just so I could see her, and he always indulged me. 

I was rather chuffed when I opened my pantry yesterday and found a bottle of Cornwell’s wine vinegar – and there was Audrey prominent on the label!  

In May this year the National Trust launched an appeal for public donations so that the sign could be restored to its former glory. Let’s hope Audrey skips again.

Below is an extract of a poem I wrote years ago about her…

Driving in the rainy dark
recalls memories of childhood
cocooned in a small capsule,
gliding through the night,
surrounded by the city yellow
of the lights in an alien street.

Who remembers the skipping girl?
she’s pink and green and red,
jumping up and down
advertising vinegar.

And who remembers
sweeping down the silent roads,
with golden light filling the air
like a haze, the black sky overlaid
so the stars disappeared?

Who remembers tipping their head back
against the seat and looking
at the lights flashing past
on the back windscreen
flashing past like shooting stars,
leaving trails of white and
neon pink and green and blue?

Who remembers the lights
multiplied in every raindrop,
shimmering on the window,
and trickling down the glass
in rivers like colored paint?

I remember, I remember.

Out of black, into the pink

Melbourne, it’s spring! It’s time to shed those dark layers and wear something pretty and light. It doesn’t have to be girly, or frivolous and frilly. It doesn’t have to be this colourful, and you don’t have to be that brave! But for goodness sake, let’s put an end to this tiresome rumour that Melburnians wear black all the time!

If wearing top-to-toe colour seems a trifle frightening to you, why don’t you try swapping the black for dark grey, or even – gasp! – light grey? In fact, I think this lovely neutral looks even better teamed with colours than does black, which seems a very eighties combination to me.

I know! I have a wonderful idea… why don’t we start a fashion revolution and give Sydney a run for its money?

(And if a pink sash is not enough for you, try a pink coat on for size…)