Twice Vintage Bag

Three years ago, on June 1st, I bought a vintage 70s handbag made from stripes of genuine snakeskin from some op shop – I don’t remember where now. But I do remember I fell in love with it, as much for the plastic tortoiseshell frame and link strap as the patent leather.

I immediately began using it, but alas, tragedy struck exactly four weeks later, and one of the plastic links that attached the strap to the bag snapped in half! I was very disappointed, but at least it would be relatively easy to repair with a new strap.

I sourced some new and very similar chain link on Etsy, but there were quite a few different styles, and I could never decide which ones to buy. Then while I dithered, they would sell out, and I’d have to conduct a new search. I put the bag aside for a while, and forgot about it. I have no shortage of other bags after all.

Then nearly exactly three years later – on June 3rd – in a different op shop entirely, I found a scrap of chain link with a few little wooden, leather and mother-of-pearl doodads attached. Immediately I saw the possibilities of repurposing this remnant as a bag strap. It would be easy to take off the charms.

In the end, after reattaching the new strap, I decided I liked the dingle-dangles – they add a touch of whimsy. It’s quite possible it was actually a strap in a former life, as the charms are all quite low so that they don’t impede the shoulder. The bag is now a shoulder bag rather than hand-held, and looks quite jaunty.

Prêt-a-Porter

Over two years ago, one blissful Saturday afternoon I was shopping in a Sacred Heart Opportunity Shop and unexpectedly hit the jackpot. Against the rules, I had taken so many promising garments into the change room (only four were ostensibly allowed) and was frantically shedding clothing as speedily as possible in case there were impatient customers waiting outside and champing at the bit.

One of the items I was excited to find was this silk pleated dress by Parisian brand Suncoo. (At least the label boldly states Paris.) It had never been worn, for the label was still dangling attached. It was priced at a pittance, a mere $10. I adored the colour, and I adored the flouncing pleats, the pin tucking, the details on the cuffs – everything about this dress I adored! I wore hearts for eyes. That’s probably why I didn’t notice one important detail …

THE ANTI-THEFT SECURITY DEVICE WAS STILL ATTACHED AT THE WAIST.

I did not notice this frivolous circumstance until the day I desired to wear it to work for the first time. There it was, a little innocuous white bowling-pin-shaped receptacle of indelible ink obstinately attached. I wore something else.

Some time passed before it occurred to me that the lovely and clever ladies and gentlemen of the Wardrobe department at work might be able to assist in ridding me of this embarrassment. I took it with me one day and sheepishly explained the situation while they grinned at me. Another colleague walked past at that moment and scoffed at my protestations of innocence.

The learned costumiers scratched their heads and confessed they had never seen this particular style of device before. So probably it was from France, and I was forced to wonder whether the original owner had liberated the dress from a store (they are excessively fond of liberté in gay Paree, after all). Wardrobe declared confidently, “Leave it with us.”

Happily for me, one brilliant seamstress had the idea to unpick the stitches at the waist, ease off the device, and then sew the seams back together. It was lucky the device was attached to a seam, for miraculously this shifty operation worked! Voila! they said triumphantly.

But the story does not end here. I took the dress home, and the next time I decided to wear it, I discovered that some of the stitching on the back had torn, and the concertina effect was ruined. What next! I despaired, and I repaired the stitches.

What next! I despaired, and I repaired the stitches.

What next indeed … Pleased, a couple of years later I finally got around to photographing the dress in order to write this story, and after the shoot as I was lifting it over my head, what should I do but smear scarlet lipstick on the front?! Hélas! What a series of unfortunate events! Was the dress hand-washable? Would I ruin the pleats (as I have done before) by willy-nilly ignoring a ‘dry clean only’ instruction?

Hélas! What a series of unfortunate events!

But the dress was indeed hand-washable. After applying an oil-free make-up removing tissue to the stain, removing as much as possible, and leaving a large oval-shaped mark on the panel of buttons, I hopefully washed the dress. (This useful tip I gleaned from a make-up artist once upon a time.) I cringed a little as I immersed it into water.

But hey presto! The stain came out, the pleats did not, and finally, finally, the dress is prêt-a-porter!

Photos: February 2016

When Time Stood Still

It’s no surprise to anyone that we in the Western world live in a throwaway culture – it’s much easier to replace broken or torn things than repair them. It’s especially convenient because it gives us the excuse to buy something new, something more up to the minute, because we were bored with that old thing anyway.

Of course, treasure-hunters and thrift shop thrill seekers are very grateful for this rampant consumerism! I was very pleased to find this Anne Klein watch in a Salvos Store. It wasn’t working, but the sales staff assured me that if it wasn’t easily fixable with the replacement of a battery, then I could bring it back. It was only $10, so I took the risk. Fortunately, a new battery (which cost $15) had it going like clockwork.

I do wonder why someone donated it to charity. Were they really just too lazy to visit a jeweller? I think it’s quite pretty, with its bracelet band and the row of diamantes around the rectangular dial – it’s a nice watch to wear when I’m going out in the evening. Still, their loss is my gain.

Photo: August 2016

Twin-Set-Match!

Many years ago I had a red and white beaded cardigan in my Etsy wishlist. My wishlist there has always been enormous, and I can’t possibly by all the items, especially with the exorbitant postage rates to Australia. Even when an item itself is quite cheap, the postage and handling on top makes it insanely expensive to purchase online from individual sellers. (This is less of an issue when buying from huge retailers, who through sheer volume can keep their postage rates low.)

I really liked that cardigan (I love red and white together), but it was priced around $90 or more so I was content to admire it from a distance. Eventually, it graduated to unavailable status, and I mourned my double inability to buy it.

Years later while browsing in a Salvation Army thrift store, I came upon a soft red wool cardigan, silk-lined, with white beading. I pounced on it, unable to believe my eyes. It was amazingly similar to that one I had sighed over so long ago! Admittedly, large patches of the beading were unravelled on the sleeve cuffs, but it was priced at $4.

The original cardigan came from Etsy store Vanity Fashion Boutique, since closed.I took it home with me and removed the remnants of beading that were beyond my skill and patience to repair. There are still a few dangling pieces as you can see that need a little fixing up, but for its price, this was a Real Find! And now that I look again at these old Fashion Holy Grails (FHGs), I see that the beading forms a different pattern, but for all that, I seem to have serendipitously happened upon fraternal twin-sets (I couldn’t resist that pun). These beaded cardigans of the 1950s were mostly made in Hong Kong, probably the products of enormous factories and sweat-shops (another pun), so such similar colours and designs are only to be expected.

In a side-note, that red fish-scale patterned sequinned tank (classic 1960s, also out of Hong Kong) was another item that I missed out on, and subsequently managed to duplicate years later, albeit with one featuring a diamond pattern.

All good things come to those that wait! I’m keeping my fingers crossed for those other FHGs.

Photo: July 2016

A Little Lunchtime Miracle

A couple months ago I was attending an Opening Night during the week, and as I usually do on these occasions, I wore something a little special to work: a favourite red sequinned vintage 60s top. (Of course, I could have carried it and worn more conventional daywear in the office, but I can get away with this kind of outrageousness working at a theatre.) By mid-morning however, I realised I had forgotten to bring an evening bag with me, and I certainly did not want to spend the night carrying my unmatching giant tote bag around.

I decided to make a quick trip to the local thrift store at lunchtime in search of a evening bag. I didn’t have high expectations – I just wanted something respectable and inexpensive, as I already own so many evening bags I didn’t care to spend a lot so unnecessarily. I intended to donate it right back, or give it away to some lucky recipient. My work colleagues, hearing about this hopeful mission, scoffed humorously and wished me luck.

I decided to make a quick trip to the local thrift store at lunchtime in search of a evening bag.

In due course I ventured off on the trail of this unholy grail, and upon a thorough search of a Sacred Heart Opportunity Shop, by divine miracle I came upon a quite inoffensive pleated-look black satin clutch bag. And amazingly the ticket price stated a mere $6 – what luck! (Or it could even have been $4; I can’t quite recall.)

But that was not all: not only was it a completely innocuous clutch bag, there was a convenient cord strap curled up inside. I don’t actually like little bags on very long straps, so I carried it as a clutch that evening. I was extremely glad to cloak my heavy tote, and my colleagues were all very impressed with my thrifting prowess. Truly, a last-minute lunchtime miracle – saved by the bell, as it were. Now … whom can I fob it off on?

Photos: July 2016