Evil and hungry moths ate my cardigan

One cold day recently I entered my walk-in robe in search of a favourite cardigan to cosy up into. It is the sartorial equivalent of huddling under the doona on a winter night, listening to the patter of raindrops on the roof.

Imagine my horror when I pulled it out and discovered that evil and hungry moths had lasciviously dined upon it! This was no small hole either: the greedy insects had ravaged an enormous wound upon the silk-and-wool-mix yarn as the garment hung blamelessly on the rail. Couldn’t they have gone for some lesser item? The cardigan had been rendered completely unwearable. I am no darner either – who is these days?

I had to instantly bundle up the lovely wrap-around Obüs cardie and stuff it into a bag full of other items designated for the charity bin. I couldn’t even look upon it any longer: the sight was too painful.

…the greedy insects had ravaged an enormous wound upon the silk-and-wool-mix yarn as the garment hung blamelessly on the rail.

I suppose I had only myself to blame: the moth repellent had run out. The little cage swinging on its hook was lamentably empty. In my drawers I keep cedar balls (see figure 1); they can be renewed with cedar oil when the wooden balls dry out.

Failing prevention, I am rather fond of the cure (see figures 2–4). The illustrations are rather graphic, so I urge all tender-hearted mothologists not to scroll down.

(N.B. No actual insects were harmed during the making of these illustrations.)

Insect spray: also useful for the immediate eradication of huntsmen spiders and blowfiles, spray does have the potential drawback of asphyxiation. Recommended for serious infestations only.

The makeshift swatter: any reading material ready to hand can be swiftly rolled up and applied with a quick thwack to remove the offending insect.

The used tissue: my personal favourite, for the obvious benefit of recycling. Additionally, one can immediately wipe away any residue from the scene.

Extremes of fashion

Melbourne is one Australian city that truly has four seasons. Sometimes all of them in one day. That is why many residents – and I count myself as one of them – are obsessed with the weather forecast. We know full well that on a hot day we can be surprised by a sudden change and plunge into winter. Usually this weather sense translates merely into bringing with us a light jacket and/or umbrella.

However, I have observed the manifestation of a disturbing trend amongst the younger generation in the past few years.

Most of us – while we keep a close and suspicious eye on the weather and meteorologists alike – dress according to the season: in summer (when it is hot) we wear light, flimsy clothing; in winter (when it is cold) we bundle up in warm layers. Spring and autumn can blend these two extremes. So far, this rule sounds quite sensible and easy to remember, does it not?

Many fashion magazines and other arbiters of style would agree that winter clothing is usually accompanied tastefully by matching accessories: wool felt hats, gloves, boots etc. Yet what do we see tramping gleefully through the puddles of inner Melbourne in the depths of winter? Girls parading in thongs; flip-flops; call them what-you-will. They usually have blue, chilblained toes too. “But they’re so comfy!” I’ve heard these girls protest. How comfortable are they with feet that are freezing, wet, and covered in the mud and pollution of a city street?

Most of us – while we keep a close and suspicious eye on the weather and meteorologists alike – dress according to the season…

This summer saw the reverse of this stylish ensemble. On a day of 39°C – and I do not exaggerate – I actually saw a girl with an enormous blanket… I mean scarf bundled around her neck. Behind my dark sunglasses I goggled at her. What had she been thinking that morning? “Oh lovely, 39°! The ideal day to wear my new scarf swaddled as tightly as possible around my neck. It matches perfectly with my spaghetti-strapped camisole! That will surely help me beat the heat!”

This is when ‘fashionable’ transmogrifies into ‘fashion victim’. I’m not an advocate of conservative, bourgeois dressing by any means, but why don’t we pay the elements the respect they deserve – and do ourselves a stylish favour at the same time? There’s nothing wrong with a seasonally appropriate light silk scarf, or a pair of patent leather boots. And you won’t look extremely silly in them either.

Little satin doodad thingies

I have always had a minor, yet tiresome, figure problem that has caused more irritation than angst over the years.

In the fortunate possession of a sister who sewed, I found myself as a teen visiting her with armfuls of clothing that required alteration. Between pinning and muttering how much work I was giving her, she informed me that my shoulders were too narrow.

That had me nonplussed. Too narrow? So that was why the shoulder straps of dresses and tops always slipped off, putting me in danger of major wardrobe malfunctions on the odd occasion. Secretly, I was rather pleased that any part of my figure was smaller than the average. (Of course, I could have wished I was taller, with long legs, but I suppose I drew comfort from the fact that those defects were a common dilemma worldwide.)

When I was a little older and started buying vintage clothing, I made an interesting discovery: there were other women out there who had this annoying problem. I found sewn into the straps of one 60s dress a pair of little satin doodad thingies! Their function was obvious: one slipped the ribbon under the bra strap and snapped it shut, thereby holding the sleeve securely on one’s shoulder. It was an epiphany. One glorious day I found a pair that were attached only by safety pins, so I was even able to swap them at need.

…the shoulder straps of dresses and tops always slipped off, putting me in danger of major wardrobe malfunctions

Recently this problem returned to aggravate me for an entire day in the office. I became so exasperated I resorted to sticky tape. One of my colleagues, amused, told me about a little thing called Hollywood Tape. I can do better than that! I thought to myself, recalling the doodads. They at least had the virtue of being recyclable.

The tragedy was that I could not find them! I searched my lingerie drawers; my sewing box (an old, vintage biscuit tin that I had recently organised); the catch-all dish on top of my tallboy, but they were nowhere to be found. Then I remembered during a recent trip to a haberdasher, I had absently noted that these anachronistic items were still being manufactured. I hied myself back to Clegg’s just yesterday and purchased some. I discovered they even have an official title: Shoulder Strap Retainers.

Now I just need to sit down and sew them into my cute sleeveless top so that I can actually wear it. Or maybe I’ll just lazily pin them in and leave them to be serendipitously discovered by someone else in forty years' time.

Style over suitcase

My most recent sartorially-related dilemma was over which luggage I should take on holiday with me.

Should I take the red suitcase (Fig. 1), with its wheels and retractable handle? Or should I take the tan leather bag (Fig. 2) that looks good but is harder to carry? It's a case of Practicality vs Romance.

Other important points to consider:

• the suitcase is much bigger, thereby giving me more room for party dresses; however, the smaller size of the leather bag will prevent me from overpacking;
• the suitcase expands, creating space for holiday purchases, but this only gives me the excuse to buy things I don’t really need in a consumerist frenzy;
• any temptations crooked airport staff may feel at the sight of the two exterior pockets on the suitcase do not apply to the bag: its single opening is easily secured against tampering.

But the most important point of all is that the red suitcase has no character. It is undeniably ugly and unstylish.

The only thing lacking in my handsome leather bag is the patina of age and long use, something that should be remedied at the earliest opportunity. One day it will accompany me to Venice and Rome … to Paris … from Russia with love … and it will carry all its adventure stories in its creases and scuffs.

Romance wins.

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.