Some gorgeous new listings over at Vintage-a-Peel, including two pairs of amazing original late Sixties boots; one white pvc and one dark blue canvas. Both have been prised from my hands by dint of being just a smidge too small for me. Curses!!
I was aghast to read recently that Old England was being ‘relaunched’ as a brand. This isn’t entirely surprising, given my usual reaction to such endeavours, but I was particularly cheesed off because I was still awaiting my very own original Old England timepiece. Ever since I knew about their collaboration with The Avengers, in the Alun Hughes-era rather than John Bates, I have been wanting one of my very own. I have extremely skinny wrists, and I either need something very delicate and barely there or I need some ridiculously big statement. Old England watches are perfect for the latter…
So imagine my delight when I peered into a cabinet in a delightfully ramshackle antiques shop in Bexhill and spied this acid green confection. A wind and a few gentle shakes by the shop owner got it started after goodness knows how many years in the cabinet. It’s missing one of the strap bars across the back, but for £10 how could I say no?
Peregrine, my love, you make me feel quite naked when you look at me like that. I know my all in one is only a wisp of see-through Lycra, but a girl must have protection from such ardour. Now et out of the bath quickly: my husband may return any minute now.
Sometimes I just can’t help chuckling at the copy in vintage magazines. It’s also a helpful reminder that meaningless guff is not confined to the modern fashion press, but is a speciality of the genre. Although I don’t think most modern fashion writers would write such creative twaddle as this, which I think is another very disappointing aspect of modern life.
Aside from that, I love these photos. I want the flat, I want the lifestyle, I want the half-naked gentleman named Peregrine hanging around…
Peregrine my darling, you’ve made wet footprints all over the Aubusson. Just because you find me irresistible in my virgin-white control garment is no reason to abandon all self-control and respect for the decencies of civilised life. And besides, Edward’s Rolls will draw up before the front door at any second.
Peregrine, my angel, thank you for mopping up the bathwater, but a face towel just isn’t enough to confront the world in. I sppose I do look rather distracting in my near-transparent nude-look body-stocking, but then you, my lamb, are very distractable.
Peregrine, my precious, one kiss and then farewell; if we don’t get dressed soon, I shall be late for the Embassy reception and you will miss your bus. I know how you feel, but you must keep your hands away from my lace-trimmed pantie-girdle, however delectable it looks.
Peregrine, my treasure, you look divine with the light behind you in that ravishing Art Deco shirt, but I don’t think you are being quite serious enough about getting dressed. You are absolutely right of course; I look a work of art in my sexy satin undies, but I don’t plan to get hung by Edward just yet.
Peregrine, my beloved, all is over between us. Do up your shirt and depart. I hear the purr of my husband’s Rolls, and I must grab my mink and fly. Take a tender last look at my lissom loveliness clad in nothing but my slinky satin slip, and pop round and paint my portrait again next week.
A wonderful Valentine’s Day trip to the NFT to see François Truffaut’s La Peau Douce has really done nothing constructive to abate my current hair dissatisfaction. I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it many times more, I want Françoise Dorléac’s hair. I know she must have had assistance from clever stylists and plenty of extra hair added, it’s a continuity nightmare, but still. I want.
Doing what I do, I’m in a good position to find and gift some [what I think are] beautiful clothes to my boyfriend. But I’m always hyper-aware that I don’t want to be the kind of girlfriend who tries to mould or change, in style or in any sense. And while I certainly enjoy dressing well for his delectation, I’m not the kind of girl who is ever really going to dress just to please a man. I consider it a happy accident that we have very similar sensibilities, so it’s not something I really have to worry about these days.
It’s a hard balance to strike, because our notions of sex-appeal and prettiness are invariably influenced by what we know men find appealing. Even the ‘anti fashion’ brigade dress in a way which they know will appeal to a similarly ‘anti fashion’ kind of man they might fancy. They may deny it, but it’s hard to separate style and sex-appeal on any level. An unwearably bonkers couture dress still reeks of money and power, which are alluring to many a man.
I’ve always had a slightly Good Cop/Bad Cop approach to dressing for my previous boyfriends. Rarely have they ever truly appreciated everything I’ve owned. On a good day, for them, I would shove ‘that top I don’t like’ to the back of my closet. On a bad day, for them, I would wear the exact opposite of what I knew they liked. I enjoyed knowing that it reflected badly on their taste, and well on mine of course.
I had been holding this back for no apparent reason, other than that I already have piles of scanning which are probably, cumulatively, as high as the ceiling. Then comes the sad news that the beautiful Susannah York has passed away. It seems as good a time as any…
I’m thinking of turning Wednesdays into Menswear days; something tasty to cure the midweek blues. But I can’t decide if ‘Mensday’ is just too cheesy, even for me? Regardless, here is Mr [Michael] Fish wearing one of his own pieces, alongside one of Rupert Lycett Green’s flamboyant creations for Blades. Dribble….