Primark Killed The Charity Shop

Image from inspiredesignblog.co.uk

Let's put something out there straight away: I ain't no fashionista. Rifling about for floaty calf length skirts that channel thy inner vintage just isn't my thing.

I also hate fancy dress. It makes me feel awkward. At a push, and in a situation where everyone else in the whole entire world was dressing up and I wanted to fit in, I'd go for a full bear outfit for maximum coverage. No "is she? Isn't she?" ambiguity. It'd be "Yes, she is. And she is clearly a bear".

So what use do I have for a charity shop, if not to see 1970s potential in dated floral blouses or finding braces for Laurel and Hardy themed nights out?

To be honest, it's rarely clothing. Accessories tend to win it: functional belts that look a bit like the one I refused to pay £50 for in Urban Outfitters. Or cut price nearly-new books, especially in my local one where I'm pretty sure someone who works for a publisher just dumps all their freebies every week (Grace Dent's How to Leave Twitter and a hardback copy of one of my favourite books, A.A.Gill is Away in one haul this weekend. Score.)

I'd love to buy clothes from a charity shop, I really would. Because as much as I'm not a vintage lovin' fashion fiend, I do love a good bargain. With rent now a fixture in my banking calendar, and in need of a big Autumn-y cardigan, this weekend I took myself home and trawled the abundance of local second hand shops for just that. But sadly, I never did get one of the big cosy grandma cardigans I imagined would be in abundance.

Instead, I got a healthy dose of disdain.

Disdain for the sheer amount of average, worn-looking, generic gumpf from Primark lining the rails.

Not the nice dresses and catwalk cast-offs you see in the magazines, or adorning the backs of fashion conscious festival goers, either. The other stuff. The guilty stuff. You know, the bits you buy in bulk, purely because of the price.

Oh, it seems like such a bargain when you get home with 30 vest tops for a fiver, doesn't it? And when you've worn it, washed it and it now resembles more a tent than a top - well, you feel a bit bad shoving it in the bin. What a waste. Nah, let's put it in a black bag and give it to those in need; the grateful receivers of refuse they can't refuse - charity.

Looking at the rails, the tell-tale Atmosphere label was everywhere. I'm not sure what your non-UK equivalent would be, but here's a 101. Think cheap, miserable, sorry looking excuses for clothes which have travelled from third world slum to first world city, only to be slapped with a £1.50 price tag for the trouble. Disposable clothing worn once, replaced, and now donated in the hope that someone else might pay for it again.

Except they're not going to, are they? Would you? No. Because it's crap. And ironically, it'll probably be more expensive in the charity shop than it was to begin with.

Like this article says: "where something’s too cheap, someone, somewhere along the line is paying"

And despite what your conscience tells you, as long as Primark's in your donation bag,  it's not going to be the person rifling through the rails in a charity shop.

Probably the worst sale in the world

Oh look! It's that day after Boxing Day when all the shops sell you your Christmas presents for half the price they were three days ago!

Still, it's nice to see some online retailers bucking the trend.

Oh - I'm looking at you, Kurt Geiger.com.

Wow! Check out those reductions!

Quick everyone, get over to the Kurt Geiger online sale to pick up some bargains!

You too can get a pair of shoes, that were originally £250 reduced to £260.

What a deal.

Prep work

With the Boyfriend’s arrival now just two weeks away, there are serious preparations happening on this side of the world. There’s the requisite trimming, waxing, shaving and plucking, the hard skin and nail filing, moisturising and tan optimising and of course, planning on when to do what. Red patches thanks to a last minute wax / stubble legs will not be a goer. Most importantly, there's the ‘what to wear’ debate, currently a hot topic with my recent travel buddies.

“Lingerie!” piped up Miss Nashville, “Just a coat with some hot lingerie underneath!”

“Love, the only coat-like clothing I currently own is a hoody. I’m not wearing just a hoody.”

“Ok, well underneath everything then. Look! There’s Adult World! Come on!” she replied, dragging me towards a cracked, seedy looking place across the road.

“Nashville!” I said, disengaging from her grip, “Crotchless panties are not flight friendly underwear, and suspenders will set the metal detectors off. I’m not getting frisked at the airport with a basque on.”

See, my plane arrives into Sydney airport half an hour after his. Therefore, my outfit will have to be Boyfriend and three-hour-flight appropriate. Basically, I can't risk getting caught in my trackkies by the baggage claim. I want to breeze through arrivals and into his arms looking…relaxed (a few G&Ts courtesy of Emirates should see to that), refreshed and most of all, ‘God damn, that girl who I haven’t seen for 5 months is soooo bloody’ sexy. It’s a shame I’ve only got a backpack full of grubby jeans, flip flops and beach dresses to work with.

And so the preparation continues. A list of things to collect from home has been issued (“Any letters. But nothing from the bank”), a nice boutique hotel has been booked our first two nights. Excitement abounds, although nervous thoughts tinker on the edge of my mind when I wonder what lies ahead. But as an email containing a link to the Kurt Geiger online sale popped into my inbox, along with the words ‘You’re missing out. Let me know if you want anything x’, I know that one thing’s for sure:

After five months of pining, longing and waiting; there will be high heels.

The Problem with Primark Hold ups

Yesterday I was late into work. And for the first time since London got born, it wasn’t because TFL was having special funtime with a failing signal. It wasn’t because I woke up late. It wasn’t even because I forgot my wallet and had to go back to the house, although if anyone asks, that’s my official cover story.

The truth is, I had a wardrobe malfunction.

Ladies and gents, when you think of the words “hold ups”, you’ll either imagine bank robbers, that irritating person who talks to you while you’re trying to leave the office, or ladies in stockings. For clarity, I’m on about the last one. The type of “hold up” with the rubbery stuff round the top, which stops these nifty items of hosiery – essentially thigh high socks - slipping down your leg while you’re walking to the station.

You know the ones?

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to surreptitiously yank up a rebel stocking leg whilst walking down a busy road in front of passing traffic and morning commuters. But if you have, then you’ll know that there is no elegant way to do it. Your skirt could be Reiss, your shoes Paul Smith. Your hair might be glossy, and your nails neatly filed. But all that is guaranteed to mean absolutely nish all when one of your black Primark hold ups is gravitating towards the pavement at a rate of “Oh, fack”.

And because turning back is the last thing you want to do when you’re already two roads away from your house and running late, (‘there must be a way to solve this’, you think, as you try taking lighter steps, slowing your pace, holding the wayward stocking up through your jacket pocket lining), you carry on walking. You carry on until you get further away from the quiet seclusion of your cul-de-sac and into the realm of people who have managed to dress themselves appropriately that morning. You’ll be literally round the corner from the tube station before, red faced and sweating, it dawns on you that if this is embarrassing in your quiet London suburb, it’s definitely going to be worse when you get to Baker Street.

I think the highlight of my uncomfortable waddle to the station came when the rogue Primark stocking, complete with fancy trim, bagged down around my knee right in front of a mother and her two children. At that point, after another futile upwards yank, I admitted defeat. I hid behind a bush in the park like some sordid female incarnation of George Michael, hitched up the stocking and repeated the whole process back home.

Pretty Polly – you’ve got a lot to answer for. There are some things I shouldn't have to do, and a school child should never have to witness, at 8:20am in the morning.

"I'm getting my colours done"

You're getting your what done?
"My colours"
What you on about, colours? Hair?
"No, clothes"

Up in my mum's room at the moment is an immacualtely dressed 40-something woman, clutching a piece of paper with different coloured squares on it. I can hear the words "Geranium", "wishy washy", "ever worn it?" and most worryingly, "have you got any bin bags?" flying about the place. There's a mountain of clothes heaped on the bed, we're talking 3 ft high, and they haven't even started on the drawers yet.

I stuck my head round the door about five minutes ago and surveyed the process. I think I finally understand the term "shock and awe". My mum's hired the female equivalent of Gok Wan for the afternoon to work her magic all over her vast, overflowing wardrobe. By the end of it, every item of clothing left in those cupboards will be there because it suits her skin tone and she's likely to wear it: they will have survived the great clothing cull of 2009.

"Have you had your colours done?" Mrs Gok demanded, seeing me staring open mouthed at the door.
"N-n-o..." I stuttered before backing away, slowly, and shutting the door to my room.

I'm already panicking about what she might do to my collection of Karen Millen dresses and that body hugging size 6 Miss Selfridge number that I haven't worn since I was 14.

Somehow, I don't think Mrs Gok would understand the concept of "I keep it, you know, just in case".

Early start to the weekend

See, now this is why I love blogging. Every time I click publish on a post like yesterdays, where I'm usually in tears as I'm writing it, the comments are always just spot on. This morning as I sat in bed at a mates house, I retrieved the emails on my phone and read them all, thinking how they all just made so much sense. All the advise and 'that happened to me' stories have really sorted me out. Thank you!

Clearly, yesterday did not start out well. Between crying and sorting out the cat, who seems to be spiralling into a feline form of dementia, I realised I hadn't really been making the most of half term. Yet with London on my doorstep and an afternoon to kill, I couldn't think of one place I wanted to go. I felt almost agoraphobic about leaving the house but knew I had to get out for a few hours, so I shoved on a dress, some boots, and headed to Oxford Street.

Within half an hour I was worrying about how I was going to get from Bond Street station to Selfridges without killing someone, The Ex demoted to back of brain once again. Then, an amazing thing happened. I went to the French Connection concession and saw a dress I've been lusting after for a while but couldn't justify spending £75 on. I stared at the ticket price. £25? I checked with the sales assistant. The dress was indeed in my size, my ideal colour, and £25 - limited edition for Fashion Week. I grabbed it, headed to the changing rooms, tried it on and decided that for £25, I'd buy it and get it altered to fit. As I was standing at the till, the girl next to me was also buying it, but she had the size down. "Oh, thats a shame. I needed the 6 really. Never mind". She looked up and replied "Well, I wanted the 8. We can swap?" and just like that, I got my dress...and my smile back.

Then my Partner in Breakup / Make up / Break up again called, her and a friend were heading out to a few bars, did I want to come? Off home to get some heels on, then back into town again. Two bars and a taxi ride later and we're at the doors of Whisky Mist in Mayfair. Now usually, I'd avoid this kind of place like the plague. But last night, spurred on by my need to get out, do something I normally wouldn't and get out of the hole I was in, we wormed our way past the clipboards and into what can only be described as the strangest place I've been for a while. With no sign of any A-Listers (thank god), we danced, drank extortionately priced drinks, and got spun around by random men underneath the mirrored ceiling.

With no work the next day and no money to get even close to home, I hopped into a black cab and headed back to my Partner's house for a 3am bowl of Shreddies and burnt toast.

This morning, dressed in last night's clothes with unbrushed hair and bleary eyes, still drunk and giggling, we walked to the tube and I headed home to bed.

The moral of the story? When in doubt, go out. I think this is the first hangover which has ever actually perked me up.