The mass exodus of Primark-esque tat has begun. I have filled several bin liners with clothes and shoes for charity shops (I’m sure someone will like this stuff – after all, I did, once). And after briefly shopping for a decent white shirt, I actually found a very nice Thomas Pink shirt amongst the stuff in my wardrobe. It is a little too large for me, but a couple of well-placed darts and a few seam adjustments will sort that out. I have left myself with gorgeous pairs of black trousers, simple, short black dresses, day-wear corsets and some really good accessories. (And some pretty summery tea dresses which I am very fond of, and have no intention of getting rid of.)
I still don’t know what to do with some pieces (for example, stuff I’ve actually made myself, but don’t wear anymore – what a dilemma! Do I give them away or keep them because they are my own work, lopsided stitches, silly colours, badly placed zips and all?)
Last week, while window-shopping in Mayfair with a friend, I inadvertently came across Dover Street Market. Not market as in Camden’s Electric Ballroom, more market as in Bond Street strategically spread over four floors. Having read about the infamous quirky designer chaos contained within, I ventured inside, and I loved it – especially the black octopus art in the window and the velvet covered display cabinets (forget the if-you-need-to-ask-you-can’t-afford-it jewellery contained within them; the cabinets themselves were gorgeous, and an absolutely brilliant idea – I definitely plan to have a go at transforming an old cabinet in the same way).
The little coffee shop on the fourth floor was lovely and even the staff were refreshingly pleasant; one friendly assistant appeared from nowhere to help me when I managed to knock a £3500 skirt off a hanger, swiftly declaring with a smile that the hanger was useless and he should have binned it earlier, before flipping the skirt over his shoulder and striding away in all his Comme des Garçons glory to find another one.
The experience of savouring the beauty and structure of these handfuls of absolutely lovely clothes really filled me with an overwhelming desire to create, create, create – a buzz which lasted until I noticed the groups of fashion students; the little Peaches Geldof clones, dotted around the shop – watching everyone with the desperate air of disdain and envy, wanting for all the world to be noticed. If I am ever going to study fashion, now is the time. I’m only in my late twenties, but these girls made feel utterly depressed and the thought of studying alongside them made my stomach lurch. The feeling of not knowing what to do with oneself is the worst feeling in the world.
Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything in DSM (although, had I found the Daphne Guinness shirts, I may well have found my pockets considerably lighter) but I kind of wished I worked there so I could gawp at lovely clothes all day.
