I grew up believing that the egalitarian, fashion-free, gender-equal utopia aboard the Starship Enterprise was a microcosm of the real world. Long before that vision was dashed, I received a rude awakening of the sartorial kind. When I was a little ‘un, our family went weekly to a local shopping precinct. One Saturday, we were strolling up and down, enjoying the day and gathering our purchases when a ripple of laughter running through the crowd caught our attention.
It was almost a medieval scene, the shoppers pausing in their business to stare at and lampoon a young man. Nothing remarkable about him except that the trousers he wore consisted of one navy-blue leg and one white leg. Young children, matrons, adult men, all tittered and wondered at this sight. The wonder of this story is, of course, our wonder, our sheer lack of sophistication. We really had never seen anything like it before. I remember thinking that maybe the tailor hadn’t enough of either navy or white fabric, and had cobbled together a garment made of left over pieces – in which case, the trousers were very innovative indeed. This is the same mindset with which my Mum regards those tops and dresses that have one shoulder cut away: it looks like they hadn’t enough cloth to finish the garment.
The Day of the Trousers pitched me into a lifetime of conservative dressing, a state from which I have never emerged. Over the years, I have bemusedly observed the procession of fads and fashions that contribute to the montage of life; the ripped and torn, the faded and distressed, the uneven hemlines and faux patches, without so much as a pang of longing - or a missing shoulder.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Colour me unconcerned
During the 1980s a whole rash of businesses arose, based on assisting members of the populace to find their ‘true colours’. I believe it worked something like this. You went to an office where a consultant with undisclosed qualifications looked at you underneath different lights, asked a number of questions about your likes and dislikes and then, after due consideration, drew forth a palette of colours that she (usually) decided were for you.
Only in these colours, went the claim, would you look and feel your brightest and best to the point where those who got their colour scheme ‘wrong’ were likely to crash cars and fail exams. Most curious of all were those consultants who grouped their clients into one of the four seasons. The town was alive with springs talking to summers, and autumns arguing with winters. Now, it’s all rather passé.
In these days of throwaway clothes, there is much less angst expended over the tint of a shirt than when we (gasp!) saved up and bought a garment that might hang in our wardrobes for (double gasp!) years. I never bought into this colour thing simply because I couldn’t bear the thought of a total stranger telling me – who has very definite colour likes and dislikes – that my choice of clothing was all wrong.
Instead, I contented myself with filling in those pop psychology quizzes in magazines, indicating favoured colours in various circumstances, then reading the analyses afterwards.
I have long forgotten what sort of animal I am supposed to be, but the colours of that decade still resonate: midnight blue, fuchsia pink, pillar-box red, canary yellow and black, black, black – and I have never moved on from wearing combos of these glorious shades. Fashion aside, there are definite psychological responses to colour in certain situations, and often with beneficial results – but that is another column.
Only in these colours, went the claim, would you look and feel your brightest and best to the point where those who got their colour scheme ‘wrong’ were likely to crash cars and fail exams. Most curious of all were those consultants who grouped their clients into one of the four seasons. The town was alive with springs talking to summers, and autumns arguing with winters. Now, it’s all rather passé.
In these days of throwaway clothes, there is much less angst expended over the tint of a shirt than when we (gasp!) saved up and bought a garment that might hang in our wardrobes for (double gasp!) years. I never bought into this colour thing simply because I couldn’t bear the thought of a total stranger telling me – who has very definite colour likes and dislikes – that my choice of clothing was all wrong.
Instead, I contented myself with filling in those pop psychology quizzes in magazines, indicating favoured colours in various circumstances, then reading the analyses afterwards.
I have long forgotten what sort of animal I am supposed to be, but the colours of that decade still resonate: midnight blue, fuchsia pink, pillar-box red, canary yellow and black, black, black – and I have never moved on from wearing combos of these glorious shades. Fashion aside, there are definite psychological responses to colour in certain situations, and often with beneficial results – but that is another column.
Friday, 19 March 2010
The Importance of being Spotted
Spots and dots, what do they do? Leap, walk, march and polka over yards and yards of fabric, breaking up po-faced planes of plain colour into exuberant labyrinths that evoke fun, innocence and happiness. Their expounders range in type and temperament from Damien Hirst to Cath Kidston, to Pudsey Bear. The more brightly-coloured the spots are, the better, bringing to mind Smarties, those mouth-watering candies of childhood.
Coloured spots evoke long, sunny, salad-filled days; flowers, rainbows, babies, nursery walls and cuddly toys. No wonder there is a dessert called Spotted Dick. And how can you not love a critter that is covered in spots? Just look at the adorable Dalmatian. Spots denote nobility too, witness the invincible cheetah. Any successful actor/singer/writer will tell you how they went from nowt to acclaim the day they were spotted – har!
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Why I love ducks!
The duck has been getting a bad press lately, especially when the media uncovered a number of them living in Westminster-subsidised housing. Indeed, our ire has been such that we are in danger of throwing away the meat with the left-over sauce. After all, the duck has contributed to so many arenas of life, from the arts to the dinner table, that it deserves a sound-out now and again.
Throughout the ages, the duck has inspired creativity, from those wonderful dog-and-duck public house signboards, to the flocks of flying ornaments that grace the walls of household halls up and down the country, to the Marx Brothers movie of 1933, Duck Soup. The duck has contributed to the English language with words like ‘duckboard’ and ‘duckweed’. The duck has provided a word that means a female bird, a way of avoiding things, a type of cloth, and an indispensable bathroom-furniture cleaning thingummy.
So let’s not begrudge our feathered friend his subsidised home. After all, the taxpayer provides housing for humans. Instead, on this fine spring day, let’s sound for this web-footed wonder, one great, resounding quack….
Saturday, 6 March 2010
When men wore tights...
Some time ago, I pronounced on the extraordinary cult of the female leg and how, in order to get anywhere in this world, a girl has to have hers eternally on display. It wasn’t always thus. In the Middle Ages, it was the male leg that endowed a man with status, while drawing orgasmic gasps from many a young maid. Just look at all those medieval images of men in tights. No wonder Robin and his merry men led such a successful Sherwood Forest campaign.
A few centuries down the line and Renaissance ladies swooned at the sight of illustrious alpha males such as Henry VIII prancing about in court dances devised especially to show off their pins – no wonder the Monarch drew six wives! The cult of the male leg continued until the eighteenth century although by now the appeal, like the leg, had been halved. Knee breeches covered the top half of the shank while the calf and foot were resplendent in silk stocking and buckled shoe.
By the nineteenth century, the cult of the male leg was on the wane, what with the advent of long trousers. However, there is in existence a painting of the young Queen Victoria in company with her beloved Albert, (name of the artist escapes me). The bright, red boots that encase his legs signal dangerously his most (to Queen Vic) erogenous zone. The curtain rises on the twentieth century and along with it, the hem of the female skirt. The male leg is dead forever. Methinks, what irony? Just as woman is freed from her whalebone corset, she is handed another zone to maintain. Ah me, if I could go back in time, it would be to when knights were bold and maidens young and old could conceal their less than perfect pins under full-length skirts. I’ll bet it was much warmer, too.
A few centuries down the line and Renaissance ladies swooned at the sight of illustrious alpha males such as Henry VIII prancing about in court dances devised especially to show off their pins – no wonder the Monarch drew six wives! The cult of the male leg continued until the eighteenth century although by now the appeal, like the leg, had been halved. Knee breeches covered the top half of the shank while the calf and foot were resplendent in silk stocking and buckled shoe.
By the nineteenth century, the cult of the male leg was on the wane, what with the advent of long trousers. However, there is in existence a painting of the young Queen Victoria in company with her beloved Albert, (name of the artist escapes me). The bright, red boots that encase his legs signal dangerously his most (to Queen Vic) erogenous zone. The curtain rises on the twentieth century and along with it, the hem of the female skirt. The male leg is dead forever. Methinks, what irony? Just as woman is freed from her whalebone corset, she is handed another zone to maintain. Ah me, if I could go back in time, it would be to when knights were bold and maidens young and old could conceal their less than perfect pins under full-length skirts. I’ll bet it was much warmer, too.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Dolls, dolls and their little molls.
Over the years, dolls have become increasingly sophisticated. In my day, it was enough for a doll to be dressable and have glorious long hair to tease into different styles. Since then, we have seen dolls that walk, talk, cry, feed from bottles, perform bodily functions, sing, dance…maybe I go too far? But I foresee a time when a doll will have to be in possession of a PHD if it is to attract the love of a little girl. On that note, am I alone in finding very sophisticated dolls kind of creepy?
But maybe the little ‘uns are wiser than the toy pundits? Among her Christmas presents, my little niece received the simplest, silliest doll you ever did see, its only claim to sophistication being a pair of eyes that open and shut. Doll has a bald, plastic head and a soft, non-jointed body dressed in the daftest baby outfit since they made high heels for the little ‘uns. But friend, my little niece loves that doll. You only have to say: Baby, bring out your baby and Little Niece totters away, then returns with toy buggy bearing doll. For a short while, Little Niece totters around with buggy, proud as a Victorian matron on a seaside promenade. Then, she takes doll from buggy, hugs and kisses her. It brings tears to my eyes, really it does. I say again, the toddlers are wiser than the toy technologists. Long may simplicity – and simple dolls – reign.
But maybe the little ‘uns are wiser than the toy pundits? Among her Christmas presents, my little niece received the simplest, silliest doll you ever did see, its only claim to sophistication being a pair of eyes that open and shut. Doll has a bald, plastic head and a soft, non-jointed body dressed in the daftest baby outfit since they made high heels for the little ‘uns. But friend, my little niece loves that doll. You only have to say: Baby, bring out your baby and Little Niece totters away, then returns with toy buggy bearing doll. For a short while, Little Niece totters around with buggy, proud as a Victorian matron on a seaside promenade. Then, she takes doll from buggy, hugs and kisses her. It brings tears to my eyes, really it does. I say again, the toddlers are wiser than the toy technologists. Long may simplicity – and simple dolls – reign.
Monday, 28 December 2009
The Brickmaker's Arms
I am not one for Christmas television but I have to make mention of BBC's Victorian Farm. I could have done without their cracker-making and bon-bon pressing, and as for their marbled wrapping paper, if a body wants to cover their gifts in layers of Jackson Pollock-had-a-nightmare type stuff, then I can think of easier ways to bag it then by filling a vat with expensive, coloured dyes. Nor can I see me stitching flannel underwear or making pots of frightful goo to rub on chilblains. Outside was better. I adored Clumper the horse, loved their exploration of early farm technology, and the scenes of their choosing a ram to impregnate breeding ewes had me rolling in hysterics. The most intriguing item, however, was their demonstration of Victorian brick-making.
Farmers generally didn't make bricks but the team wanted to restore a derelict forge with authentic brickwork, so they called in experts in historical brick-making. Their techniques were a revelation; the preparation of the clay, the moulding of the bricks in wooden frames, their drying out and firing. The last process was the most captivating of all. There is nothing spookier than a kiln filled with items for firing being sealed with spade-loads of clay, then being lit and fed with fuel for days to keep the furnace at the required temperature.
There was another method, more fuel-efficient than kiln firing but taking longer to complete. It involved building rectangular pyres of thousands of bricks, covering the outside layers with clay and then firing with furnaces lit beneath the stacks. According to their firing expert, entire suburbs were built this way, millions of bricks at a time fired on pyres a quarter of a mile long. The one big advantage of this method was that the bricks could be fired, then used on site, rather than relying on the mass-transportation needed for industrially-fired bricks.
It makes my hair stand on end, the thought of suburban skies alight at night with the glow of millions of baking bricks.
The VF team had, of course, great fun during it all, throwing about bits of building history along with potatoes they baked in the ashes of their pyres. It was all very comfortable, filled with camaraderie and self-congratulations - and totally belie-ing the conditions that brickmakers actually lived in. Readers of Bleak House (Charles Dickens) will recall the squalor and misery of the brick-making family, a strand in the complex plot of the story. This family was lost to that Victorian scourge, alcohol, but in reality all brick-makers lived short lives, succumbing to lung disease from ingesting dust, fumes and other byproducts of their trade. Or they simply dropped dead from years of punishing, unrelenting labour, the average of death being forty. They say civilization was built on sacrifice, a sobering thought on looking about the average, Victorian-built suburb.
Farmers generally didn't make bricks but the team wanted to restore a derelict forge with authentic brickwork, so they called in experts in historical brick-making. Their techniques were a revelation; the preparation of the clay, the moulding of the bricks in wooden frames, their drying out and firing. The last process was the most captivating of all. There is nothing spookier than a kiln filled with items for firing being sealed with spade-loads of clay, then being lit and fed with fuel for days to keep the furnace at the required temperature.
There was another method, more fuel-efficient than kiln firing but taking longer to complete. It involved building rectangular pyres of thousands of bricks, covering the outside layers with clay and then firing with furnaces lit beneath the stacks. According to their firing expert, entire suburbs were built this way, millions of bricks at a time fired on pyres a quarter of a mile long. The one big advantage of this method was that the bricks could be fired, then used on site, rather than relying on the mass-transportation needed for industrially-fired bricks.
It makes my hair stand on end, the thought of suburban skies alight at night with the glow of millions of baking bricks.
The VF team had, of course, great fun during it all, throwing about bits of building history along with potatoes they baked in the ashes of their pyres. It was all very comfortable, filled with camaraderie and self-congratulations - and totally belie-ing the conditions that brickmakers actually lived in. Readers of Bleak House (Charles Dickens) will recall the squalor and misery of the brick-making family, a strand in the complex plot of the story. This family was lost to that Victorian scourge, alcohol, but in reality all brick-makers lived short lives, succumbing to lung disease from ingesting dust, fumes and other byproducts of their trade. Or they simply dropped dead from years of punishing, unrelenting labour, the average of death being forty. They say civilization was built on sacrifice, a sobering thought on looking about the average, Victorian-built suburb.
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