In: Polkadots. Out: Lace.

Sob. Another coveted belonging destroyed, this time by the elements.

Last year I was holidaying in Vietnam, the end of my trip coinciding with the start of the monsoon season.

Of course the rains started early and I have not a few memories of being caught out in them, most notably riding down a mountain through a dangerous rockslide on the back of a motorbike. A more pleasant recollection: sitting inside an icecream parlour, sipping on delicious lychee syrup with orange icecream, and watching Pasteur St become so flooded the water quite literally lapped at my toes.

[I was] sitting inside an icecream parlour … watching Pasteur St become so flooded the water quite literally lapped at my toes.

I had already bought and discarded one nasty umbrella, and in Saigon I realised I needed to purchase another. I found a pretty fold-up umbrella with a lace pattern in blue and beige – right up my alley – in MNG.

About a week after I returned home, there was a wild storm in Melbourne. I unfortunately chose that very afternoon for a jaunt into the city to replenish my art supplies. Foolishly I opened my new umbrella in the midst of a gale: a disastrous decision. One of the spokes immediately snapped.

In denial, (I hate it when souvenirs break), I repaired the damage by means of wire and some gaffa tape. Since then, a second spoke has snapped, and I was forced to admit it was done for.

A ludicrously frivolous replacement has been found: candy pink, with ruffles and polka dots. The label: Michiko Koshino; the source: a new boutique called Lion in Love. I am almost scared to use it; it is as fragile and light as its predecessor, and probably doomed to be as short-lived.

…sometimes I feel like Mary Poppins, about to take off in a high wind…

Ever opened a vintage umbrella? The spokes are made from steel, and there are always twice as many as their modern counterparts. Alright, so sometimes I feel like Mary Poppins, about to take off in a high wind, but they are robust.

They just don’t make them like they used to. Yet another example of the capitalist conspiracy against consumers: make ’em breakable, and replaceable. If it wasn’t for the fact we desperately need the rain, I’d be praying for good weather!

A Shoe Tragedy

Another tragedy involving red shoes: a pair of Gary Castles in a sublime wine red, with a heart that caught fire like Dorothy’s heels in the sunshine (more subtly than the stinky shoes), and a smooth patent finish like a glossy cherry.

High, yet not impossibly so, with a little strap adding a lick of mary-jane; they delighted me. Until the day the heel on one snapped in half.

Now, the very sight of them pains me. They have gathered dust, pining on a shoe rack, waiting for the day they would have the heels replaced. But I cannot bear to see the patent heels lopped off, with the ugly stacked versions (which would be the most a cobbler could offer me) put in their place.

So fare thee well, pretty shoes. You go to a far better place where you belong… No, not Shoetopia; that’s just a myth hard-hearted Russian cobblers made up to console bereaved fashionistas (she says with meaningful rancour, dwelling unlovingly on one particular stinging memory). I mean the trash can.

Newsflash! Princess Makes Shopping Error!

Once upon a time when I was poking around an old op shop on my way home from work, I came across this tote bag made from newspaper. Inside I found the original tag that declared it to be the work of some designer I’d never heard of, and its original cost to be $35.

I wondered who on earth would ever have paid that much for some plastic–coated stock market listings, but it amused me. I paid $2.50 for it and carried my groceries home in it.

That was the only time that bag was ever used. My amusement proved to be short-lived: it didn’t even possess the virtue of being an interesting read. Why hadn’t the designer at least used some sensational front page with lurid gossip-column pictures?

It hung for a while on a hook before I decided to photograph it for this journal as an object lesson in how not to shop. Even I make mistakes sometimes. After the photoshoot, the bag found its way to the floor.

Then a couple months ago, Melbourne experienced a violent storm during which my apartment was flooded. My walk-in robe was two inches underwater. In the aftermath of the cleanup, I found this bag was ruined (fortunately there were no other serious casualties). “What a pity,” I found myself thinking. The newspaper was not only yellowed, but now it was wet, with water seeping beneath the plastic.

Without compunction, I tossed it into the bin where it belonged with yesterday’s news. At least I had got a story out of it.

The End.

Boomearrings

I have an adventurous pair of classic silver hoops many years old. They are a kind of guest in my home, as on rare occasions they suddenly go AWOL, only to turn up again when least expected.

The first time I discovered – whilst travelling by train – that like Jack Sparrow, I was adorned with a single earring. The left had taken off. Sadly I removed its mate and put it away in my purse. I was sure I would never see the other again.

…like Jack Sparrow, I was adorned with a single earring.

Some time later, my then-boyfriend while lolling on a giant floor pillow, complained of a metallic object sticking into him. He felt about and withdrew the missing hoop! I was overjoyed, and kept a watchful eye on them after that. Five or six years passed quite peacefully.

Their last dereliction from duty took place a month or two ago, and it was some time before I noticed their absence. The fault was entirely my own. After taking them off in the changing room of my sports club, instead of dropping them into the bottom of my handbag, I put them in a ‘safe place’. Unfortunately, I completely forgot the location of said ‘safe place’.

Days passed before I remembered to retrieve them. The first of several ‘thorough’ searches took place. No joy. I became a little obsessed and ‘searched thoroughly’ for them at random times, still to no avail.

I gave them up for lost.

Weeks drifted by. Summer turned to autumn. I wore a raincoat* for the first time in months. I put my hand in the pocket, and pulled out – not a rabbit, but a hoop earring! I was crestfallen: only one hoop earring and a somewhat desiccated tissue. Ugh. I knew I would never see the missing hoop again, and allowed a moment of sadness to wash over me. It could have fallen out any time, anywhere I told myself. It would take a miracle, I sighed…

I knew I would never see the missing hoop again, and allowed a moment of sadness to wash over me.

That evening, when I returned home and inserted my key into the lock, I absently noted that my keyring seemed to have duplicated itself. I looked closer. What was this? My earring! It must have become entangled with my keys when I thrust them into the coat pocket that morning.

In awe, I carefully placed it with its twin. Yes, they’re scarred, beat up and bent out of shape, but their whimsical history doubles their value in my eyes. Now I’m too scared to take them out of the house – that would really be pressing my luck, boomearrings or not.

*NB. I had already searched the pockets of this coat twice before.

High-Low Shopping

In early spring last year – or perhaps even late winter – flicking through a shopping catalogue I spotted a completely frivolous and utterly fashionable garment that I had absolutely no need of. Of course that did not preclude my hankering for it.

The item in question was a pair of black sequin harem shorts by the label Bettina Liano, so needless to say they were exorbitantly priced (for a pair of shorts). I firmly put away this ridiculous passion and went on with my life, picking up various bargains in charity shops (my more usual milieu).

But as spring progressed, the Spring Racing Carnival drew closer and I began to ponder what to wear to the Caulfield Cup. Those dashing shorts returned to mind; I decided I would bedeck myself entirely in black and white. The clincher was a vintage black and white feather hat that I won at auction on eBay.

…I spotted a completely frivolous and utterly fashionable garment that I had absolutely no need of.

The cutest little sequinned harem shorts you ever did see… on the Bettina Liano catwalk at the MYER Spring Summer 2009/10 Collection Launch. (Ph: Gaye Gerard, from life.com. Click on image for larger version.) So I hied myself off to Bettina Liano in Little Collins St; made a beeline for the rack that held the shorts; tried them on; and immediately returned to the front counter, credit card held at the ready, and determinedly ignoring the fact that the shorts cost only $30 less than the ankle-length harem pants. The entire procedure took about seven minutes.

I was in an exceptionally buoyant mood as I pranced back up the street to my tramstop, swinging my bag. It was enormous, bright egg-yolk yellow with black trim, and extremely ostentatious considering the diminutive contents.

On the way, a print skirt caught my eye in the gaudy window of 7 Angels, a cheap and cheerful boutique positively jammed with racks from floor to ceiling, and barely enough space to squeeze between the circular racks on the floor. What the hey? I thought, and went inside. I wasn’t a snob – although my designer bag might be.

The skirt transpired to be rather nasty, and I lost interest after a closer look. Remarkably, however, I did find a nice little top: white, with a low back and a silver beaded halter-neck. It went perfectly with the shorts, and it was only $30. Bingo! I had my outfit sorted!

So I handed over the dosh and practically skipped all the way home, amused to have my designer tote flanked by a cheap plastic carry bag.

It was a pity after this that all my plans fell to ruin, with a tardy eBay seller not posting my hat in time, and the freezing weather both conspiring against me. They, however, are merely the slings and arrows of fashion fortune, and the shorts will have their day. But that’s another story.