In the loft of my
house is a battered old tan plastic suitcase full of clothing which
would never fit me now, assuming it was not hopelessly out of
fashion, too short for my shape and age, or too tattered and torn for
public decency. My children would ponder whether the charity shop or
the recycling box was its most appropriate destination, but they can
make that decision when the time comes, because I could never dispose
of any of it. To me, it is a time capsule and a treasure trove, a
repository of memories, a miniature museum of my earlier life.
Take this pelmet of a skirt. We didn't have much money when I was growing up, and I had few clothes apart from my deeply uncool school uniform. When puberty made dressmaking for dolls less than appealing, my mother refused to let me use her treadle sewing machine to sew for myself. My friend's older sister was going stir-crazy, due to a prolongued period of house arrest following a bout of rheumatic fever) and offered to teach me how to use a machine and supervise this project. I spent a birthday ten shilling note (50p) on a short length of tweed in London's Walthamstow street market. The style required a lining too, but I had run out of cash. We improvised by plundering the lining of an outgrown dressing gown – an early example of the now-trendy upcycling – and in due course my very trendy mini skirt was complete. I can still see my parents' faces when I showed them my creation. They seemed stunned and surprised by my subterfuge, though now I suspect they might have been shocked by the fashionable distance between my knees and the carefully sewn hem. I know the lining isn't there any more – it ripped and rotted until I tore it out as easily as if it was tissue paper. But this skirt marked my first mini skirt, my first home-sewn garment (even if the home was in the next street to ours) and my first (but not last) big parental deception.
As the result of my subterfuge, my father took me shopping to the local departmental store in Leytonstone – two bus rides away, we had no car – and let me choose two lengths of fabric and two dressmaking patterns. They were both soon finished and both even shorter than the skirt. Fortunately, tights had become affordably available and I had to practice sitting and reaching down without revealing the colour of my underwear. One dress was made of a psychedelic print in purple, navy, yellow and tan and was pronounced by my Dad as too bright for church. The other was a groovily dowdy brown and turquoise tiny floral print shirt dress with a zip front. My boyfriend thought that was rather wonderful, for reasons my parents would not have approved of, and which led to a lot of wrestling.
Take this pelmet of a skirt. We didn't have much money when I was growing up, and I had few clothes apart from my deeply uncool school uniform. When puberty made dressmaking for dolls less than appealing, my mother refused to let me use her treadle sewing machine to sew for myself. My friend's older sister was going stir-crazy, due to a prolongued period of house arrest following a bout of rheumatic fever) and offered to teach me how to use a machine and supervise this project. I spent a birthday ten shilling note (50p) on a short length of tweed in London's Walthamstow street market. The style required a lining too, but I had run out of cash. We improvised by plundering the lining of an outgrown dressing gown – an early example of the now-trendy upcycling – and in due course my very trendy mini skirt was complete. I can still see my parents' faces when I showed them my creation. They seemed stunned and surprised by my subterfuge, though now I suspect they might have been shocked by the fashionable distance between my knees and the carefully sewn hem. I know the lining isn't there any more – it ripped and rotted until I tore it out as easily as if it was tissue paper. But this skirt marked my first mini skirt, my first home-sewn garment (even if the home was in the next street to ours) and my first (but not last) big parental deception.
As the result of my subterfuge, my father took me shopping to the local departmental store in Leytonstone – two bus rides away, we had no car – and let me choose two lengths of fabric and two dressmaking patterns. They were both soon finished and both even shorter than the skirt. Fortunately, tights had become affordably available and I had to practice sitting and reaching down without revealing the colour of my underwear. One dress was made of a psychedelic print in purple, navy, yellow and tan and was pronounced by my Dad as too bright for church. The other was a groovily dowdy brown and turquoise tiny floral print shirt dress with a zip front. My boyfriend thought that was rather wonderful, for reasons my parents would not have approved of, and which led to a lot of wrestling.
