The Strange Dichotomy of the Super-Jumper

In these dark and dreary days in the depths of winter’s dreadful grasp … when the chill winds nip at your noses and fingertips … when frostbite steadily climbs from feet frozen in the icy tundra of the city streets … when one puff of breath solidifies from one moment to the next in the arctic air — Oh, very well, I exaggerate slightly. It’s not the depths of winter yet; it’s not even July after all.

I’m like the Little Match Girl at work … “Please,” I beg the Fierce Guardian of the Thermostat, “please let me turn the heater on again!”

To continue: What, I ask you, what will save us from turning into lumps of solid ice overnight? I’m like the Little Match Girl at work (except that striking matches is inadvisable because of the extremely sensitive smoke alarms (did you know that it costs $3000 to pay for the firetrucks which come in response to alarms, which is expensive if it’s a case of burnt toast)): “Please,” I beg the Fierce Guardian of the Thermostat, “please let me turn the heater on again!” (The FGT is in direct line of fire (pun intended) of the heating vents, so she gets too hot, while I shiver miserably at my desk.)

But wait! All is not lost. Super-Jumper comes to the rescue! (Or Super-Sweater if you’re American; Super-Jersey if you’re a Brit.)

Meet my Super-Jumper. It’s from MNG. Actually, I bought it from a charity shop for a few dollars because I liked its enormous funnel neck (clothes-as-sculpture) and the cable knit, and the charcoal grey colour. And the three-quarter sleeves.

I quickly discovered why it had those: because if you wear the jumper on your way to work under a coat, you need to have an air-vent somewhere. I usually arrive at the office with an over-heated bosom (I was really tempted to chuck in another literary cliché here and say ‘heaving bosom’, but you can see I managed to resist), and frozen arms.

The funnel neck’s secondary purpose, and a more stylish alternative to the balaclavaAfter I cool down/defrost, the jumper keeps me at an even keel until the afternoon, when the office finally begins to lose its frosty edge and we can see people on the other side of the room – and I start to steam a little again. (This strange dichotomy might possibly be why the jumper was relegated to the charity bin in the first place.) But I still really love the jumper. It’s just so cool. And yet it’s hot.

The funnel neck is also good for casting shifty-eyed glances at the FGT over the top of …

A Stitch in Line

Last year – literally a year ago – on my last night in Barcelona around 10pm after a Spanish guitar concert in a medieval church, I managed to squeeze in some last minute shopping before I left for Lisbon the next day. It was a cool and rainy night, and as I was slowly making my way back to my hostel in L’Eixample, I found one little boutique still open. I slipped in, and determined to find something to buy.

I saw little that interested me except for this one sweet shirred dress that reminded me of the floral frocks I wore as a child. Impulsively, I decided to buy it – it was only €30 or so, and it made me feel nostalgic, honestly. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that deep down I felt I had not bought enough souvenirs from Barcelona. In fact, I was doing my bit to help the flailing Spanish economy.

A day dress from 1836–40, Victoria & Albert MuseumAnyway, I am rather partial to shirring – or smocking, if you prefer to call it that. It’s a popular decorative technique for children and women’s clothing (and maybe men’s clothing in the 1970s) that involves the creation of a multitude of tiny gathers in the fabric in parallel rows. It works best on soft fabrics. Today elastic thread is usually used, but once upon a time it was painstakingly sewn by hand using ordinary thread.

Check out Make It and Love it for a tutorial if you want to try your hand at it. I won’t be – I’ve two left thumbs when it comes to the sewing machine. I’ll just be buying mine. 

Beribboned

In honour of Eurovision, I bring you the epaulet. Mine are yet another frivolous rendition, concocted from fur, velvet ribbon and sequins. But this is not so far from the origins of the epaulet as you might imagine.

Louis the XIVEpaulets bear some relation to the tooled leather ‘pteruges’ of ancient Roman military uniforms. However, it was towards the end of the 17th century that bunches of ribbons were worn on the shoulder of the military coat. Men were far more frivolous about fashion in those days, even the military gentlemen, for these shoulder ribbons were in part a decorative trim. Just take a look Louis the XIV’s over-the-top numbers. They did serve a practical purpose too, preventing the shoulder belts from slipping.

It was only after the 18th century that epaulets denoted rank, whether worn on right or left shoulders, or both. Officers were distinguished by more ornate gold or silver epaulets. They came fringed, or winged, or balled, depending upon a man’s division.

Today epaulets have been largely replaced by shoulder straps made from cloth and sewn into the shoulder seam. How boring. 

Not a Love Knot

One evening last week I was standing at a tram stop chatting to a friend when the necklace around my neck slithered off like a snake. A jump ring had opened, unfastening the two ends. I coolly slipped the beads into my handbag. (I wouldn’t have been so calm if it had actually been a snake, I assure you.)

The repair was the work of a moment, and simply required a pair of jewellery pliers to open and close the jump ring. It was only afterwards that I saw the beads had entangled themselves into a knot. It looked a bit like a Celtic knot, I thought – a love knot perhaps?

A quick Google and I discovered a love knot is a more complicated affair (much like a love triangle). Celtic knots are intricately interwoven braids, and are perceived to be endless, symbolising eternity – hence the connection to lovers.

Celtic love knot ring from Beyond The Rockz on Etsy (sold)Celtic knot ceramic tile

Originally, interwoven patterns appeared in Roman handcrafts and mosaics, and knotted patterns appeared in the third and fourth centuries AD. The art form spread to the Byzantine, Coptic, Islamic and Celtic cultures, but it was the Celts who truly made the style their own. Knots, spirals, braid, step and key patterns took on rich symbolism, representing the seven creations: man, mammal, plant, insect, bird, fish and reptile.

Now here’s an appealing application: gladiator sandals interwoven with Celtic knots cleverly combine the two cultures from which knot patterns originated From North Italy it was a short hop to Southern Gaul. By the seventh century the braided patterns spread to all of Europe – and Ireland, where the broken and reconnected plaits formed the genuine Celtic knot style. Today it is predominantly associated with the Irish, Welsh and Scottish territories.

Not the kind of knot in my necklace however – that was a silly error. Much like some love affairs, on reflection.

Here’s what the necklace is meant to look like.

Morticia’s Little Sister

Many years ago I owned a 1940s black lace frock with a swirly skirt perfect for dancing. It fitted me exactly. For some reason unbeknownst to man (or woman, namely: me), I culled it from my wardrobe. Ever since I came to my senses, I have been trying to find a replacement.

Dresses of that vintage aren’t easy to come by, especially relatively inexpensive, well-fitting ones. I would periodically trawl online vintage boutiques without much luck. Then this past March in Rosebud, a little Victorian seaside town, I visited a vintage store called Broadway Bazaar.

Hanging high on a wall, I espied what was surely a 1930s black lace dress. I asked to have it taken down, and tried it on. There were a few damaged areas where the lace netting was torn, and I discussed with my sister Blossom how best to repair them.

But then we discovered another catch. Several catches actually. The salesgirls on duty that day did not know the price, and the owner of that particular stall was not in, and couldn’t be reached. We agreed they would hold the dress for me, since I was on the Peninsula for the weekend, and they would let me know the outcome as soon as possible. The salesgirl bundled up the fragile dress and placed it on the floor behind the counter, which nearly drew forth a horrified burst of protest from me. (That’s my dress you’re manhandling there!) I barely managed to contain my emotions and tottered away.

The salesgirl bundled up the fragile dress and placed it on the floor behind the counter …

My three sisters and I continued to browse the store, and before we left I learned that the owner had returned the call. But she couldn’t name her price, and wasn’t sure she wanted to sell the dress. “But … but …” I wanted to stammer, “why on earth had she hung the dress up in full tempting view of potential buyers?!” The salesgirl perceived my speechless astonishment and prevaricated.

Some time later she returned and informed me that the owner had been talked into selling the dress, for she’d had it on display (fading in the sunlight) for several months and she should grab this opportunity. She had named her price, and had been further convinced she should slash it in half (the price, that is – the dress was already in tatters). “Done!” I declared, and rescued it from the floor.

Lace netting is torn along the neckline, and in several areas around the hipsIt transpired that we had to return to the bazaar the next day to make an additional rescue: my black onyx bangle had been left behind. Chatting to the salesgirl – a different one this time – we chanced to discover she was the prior owner of my new acquisition. She told me she had been so torn over the decision to sell it because she had hoped to lose enough weight to fit into it one day. (It fits me now, I wanted to reassure her it was going to a good home, but I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound.)

Blossom and I hurried away, before she could wrest it back from me – not that I was carrying it with me this time, but she could have chased us down to the car and rampaged through my luggage to find it. Who knows with these deranged and desperate vintage dealers.

A rare find, a black lace dress – especially of 1930s vintage – is an icon amongst black dresses …

And now, how to explain how after all I’ve said against black, here I am showing off yet another black garment? It is partly nostalgia for that long-ago lace dress I once owned, but it is special in itself – despite its flaws. A rare find, a black lace dress – especially of 1930s vintage – is an icon amongst black dresses, even if it is a Long Black Dress rather than a Little one.

It is, I think, made entirely from silk, and with such lovely details: pintucked panels between the lace sections, blouson sleeves, and a gorgeous mermaid hem that swirls when I twirl. It’s made for dancing, even if at present I feel like Morticia’s little sister dressed in cobwebs. But one day I shall take it to the ball.