Uggly Work Afoot

Just recently, I posted a piece on the difficulties inherent in buying ladies’ night attire. I’ve just been through another retail trauma, this time involving the purchase of ladies’ walking shoes – note the word walking. Judging by what was on offer in the normally sane Shoon outlet, you would end up believing that manufacturers live in a fantasy world as regards footwear for women – and think that we do, too.

All I wanted was a pair of shoes that looked good, felt comfortable and that one can actually walk in. There are plenty of shoes out there that look good, that is, if you lead the Jolie/Kidman lifestyle, tripping from chauffeur-driven car to movie set, and then home again. Mock-croc patent and suede ankle fringes over impossibly spindly heels are useless on rough, urban terrain, bedevilled by the elements.

And there were plenty that were no doubt comfortable, looking for all the world like cut-down Uggs. But what if you don’t want to negotiate the world in fleece-lined, slipper-like booties that flap around your ankles like toothless gums? After a while searching, I thankfully grasped a streamlined, leather walking shoe, only to be told: Those, Madam, are for men.

Aaasaagh! It was all I could do not to knock over the display. I finally found my quarry, a pair of quasi-boots that fitted my original criteria – and me. Great, but why do women have so little choice in footwear alongside the vast array available to men? Short of making our own, what can we do?

The Mystery of the Flying Ducks

Like the Black Death, we know not where it came from, or to where it has gone. But we do know that it afflicted at least half the population of the western world during the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. There was but one, definite symptom; the presence of a set of three, duck-shaped pieces of plaster or china - small, middle-sized and large - arranged in ascending order of size upon a living-room or entrance hall wall of the afflicted household.

Every household that I had access to had at least one set. Ours had two; a brightly-painted plaster, vaguely art deco-ish set in the hall, and a finer, more subtly crafted china set in the sitting room. Indeed, there were so many variations on the flying duck theme, you could judge the social standing and character of a household by the nuances of the set it had chosen.

What intrigued me, however, is why homeowners felt the need to bring this simulacrum of the wilderness into their dwellings? What atavistic longing did these pieces of glue and dust vicariously satisfy? At one level, it's quite apparent. We all long to stretch our wings, clipped by rents and mortgages, and fly into a metaphorical wilderness where we can fulfill our deepest desires and yearnings.

Transparent enough, but why ducks? Why identify with these commonplace animals, generally accepted as being rather stupid? Why not beautiful swans or mythical dragons? Maybe the craze died down when the population cottoned on to the true nature of the worship of these rather dubious household gods?

I can't remember at exactly what point on the calendar that our two sets of ducks were vanquished. But vanish they did, along with those of a myriad other households. No doubt they went, via cardboard box, into attics and second hand shops everywhere. And I'll bet many are out there still.

Shoe Box Paradox

'Don't need the box, do you?'

'Nah, I'll take 'em in the bag, thanks.'

Assistant puts shiny footwear pair in plastic carrier and hands it to hapless customer, who promptly hurries home with it. Such was the scenario throughout my youth and young adulthood. Indeed, for two decades at least, I don't think I ever carried a shoe box home. Then, half a decade or so ago, it all changed.

Somebody, somewhere realised that shoe boxes were desirable items because they are, quite simply, the best way of storing, er, shoes. As a result, the shoe box is no longer a despised lump of cardboard but a hi-tech, style item cocooning your precious collection of brogues and boots from dirt, dust, extremes of atmosphere and the myriad evils present in the average domestic dwelling.

All those mocking quips, e.g., 'living in a shoe box', have died a death. Now, certain folks are making a living out of shoe boxes, and a darned good one, judging from all those shoe box containers that suddenly appeared for sale in upmarket catalogues. It was all too obvious, of course, the sort of scenario that makes you want to gnash your teeth and groan I wish I had thought of that.

Consumers were not long to catch on. No-one ever throws away a shoe box now. Every dressing-room has its stack of shoe boxes, the upmarket end-labels lovingly on display.
The mind boggles with wondering what other common household items could be transformed into smart, sought-after, style icons - if Philippe Starck hasn't gotten his oar in first, that is.

The Demise of Woolworths

I've steered clear of the subject until now but, in the heat of the pre-Christmas shopping rush, I've succumbed to pressure to add my voice to the increasingly-clamouring chorus of discontent. I am not nostalgic. I have no memories of wooden floors, and barrels piled with goods for sale. My Woolworths was a quasi-department store with make-up and jewellery posited at the entrance.

Oh, the hours I spent as a gel, agonizing over sparkly eyeshadow and spangly hair barrettes. Over the years, my occasions of going into Woolworths declined and declined, until my forays were reduced to fewer than five per twelvemonth. I only went when all my efforts to find a vital item elsewhere had failed - and even then, I sometimes came out empty-handed. Which is why I'm not exactly screaming and tearing my now barrette-free hair out at the demise of the empire.

In these times of niche-retailing, Woolworths had quite simply lost the plot. Everything it sold; sweets, toys, household goods, CDs and DVDs, stationery, electricals and so on, could be gotten more easily/cheaply/ comfortably elsewhere. Woolies couldn't win on charm and atmosphere. Crude strip-lighting and plastic fixtures will never entice anyone. And forget the bargain-basement ethos they tried to engender. This was lost in the plethora of 'poundsaver' stores that now grace the high street.

There is talk of 'saving' Woolies but dosing a dying patient with aspirin never did work. If it is to survive, Woolies will simply have to decide what sort of animal it wants to be. It will have to log in to some niche market, hitherto untapped, and flog it for all it is worth. And how easy is that?

Theme Parks

Last week, the most extraordinary story broke in the media. Apparently, punters who had paid more than £25 each to visit Lapland were demanding their money back. This was not the town in remotest Finland, however, but a Lapland theme park in the New Forest.

Punters had arrived at the park to find it resembling a muddy building site, alongside some painted hustings and a Christmas bazaar that resembled a car boot sale. It didn’t stay open for long. What has astonished me, however, is that there are two other, more successful ‘Laplands’ in Great Britain, in Kent and in the West Midlands.

I do not knock ersatz experiences, generally. Most developed parts of the world are done up to look like someplace else. Pastiche is here to stay, and that is my point exactly. Christmas is defined by pastiche. At this time of year every department store and shopping mall has its tinsel-strewn, fairy grotto, complete with Santa Claus and elves.

Electronic carols jingle everywhere and there is no shortage of goods for sale. Instead of going to another theme park, why not just gather together any hard-saved cash and take the kids for a jolly fine, seasonal shopping spree? The only appeal, I suppose, is the remoteness of the Lapland venues, the fact of undergoing a journey to a place that is off the everyday beat?

But when I think of what the real Lapland must look like (sadly, never been there) – herds of reindeer in silhouette against a barely-risen sun, loads of real snow and everyone speaking authentic Finnish – I can’t help feeling that the Lapland theme park punters are missing the point.

Nightwear, nightmare!

One spends one third of one’s life in bed so, logically speaking, one third of one’s attire should be for the night. But in my wardrobe, at least, it aint so. I cast an eye over my worn and torn, jaded and faded heap of jammies and nighties, and decided to go shopping.

If you have ever gone shopping for night attire, you will know how difficult it is. Nightwear brings out the fantasist in designers, more than any other kind of attire, it seems. Although I steered well clear of Ann Summers, many of the nighties I viewed seemed to have been made for ladies with Personal Services Plc after their names. In some stores, the only alternatives to these sparkly, see-through itsy-bitsys were voluminous, Victorian, lace-trimmed behemoths with in-built chastity alarms.

Then there were those items in the sickliest of pastels, with cutesy appliqués on the front, their creators seeming to imagine that our brains turn to glop while we are asleep. Admittedly, there were some gorgeous creations; full-length nighties in lush fabrics, with negligees and wraps to match, all worthy of a Hollywood screen goddess. But if you don’t want to play out that fantasy, or any of the others I have mentioned, your only option seems to be to go naked in bed.

My ideal night attire would be a fine, cotton jersey shift in strong colours, that covers the bits, with a line of philosophy emblazoned across the front: Man, know thyself, or something like that. Finally, I caught my quarry; a darling knee-length number, neither stifling nor revealing, in a pretty-but-not-twee floral print. Designers, more of the same, please.

The language of clutter

Deyan Sudjic, director of the Design Museum, has just published a book, The Language Of Things (Allen Lane, £20). Fiona MacCarthy writes in her review: Deyan Sudjic presents us with a nightmare vision of a world drowning in things.

MacCarthy sums up exactly the claustrophobia I feel when opening gifts of a Christmas or other nature, that help-where-am-I-going-to-put-all-this-stuff? sensation. And I am not alone in being one of those souls who throw out one object when another comes in.

There are exceptions to this rule, of course, books, CDs and DVDs being three of them. But these 'experience' items most often stimulate the mind, rather than deaden and obfuscate. If I was an environmental physicist - is there such a thing? - I could numerically define how much energy is added to, or taken away from our lives by the objects we surround ourselves with. If there is such a practitioner out there, please do get in touch.

Until now, such science has been buried in the mysticism of Feng-shui, and in the possesion of new-age crystals. In the meantime, I continue my search for mentally stimulating and physically comfortable surroundings - are the two compatible?

I leave you with Deyan Sudjic's claim that the greatest form of luxury is the relief from the clutter of too many things.