I’ve always loved clothes. They are immensely personal, a big part of my identity. The authentic me – the frustrated creative.
Despite being the youngest child in the family, I was also the only one of my siblings to have brand new rather than hand-me-downs. It was a point of contention for my brother and one of the many reasons why he’s never understood me.
Primary collection
It all started at Hucknall’s weekly Friday market in 1980. Gilets, or ‘body warmers’ as we called them in our region were IN. I pestered Mum for one. She finally broke, and off we went to spend her hard-earned cash on my selection.
All of the boys in my year opted for navy or dark green, however I’d just witnessed Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes video on Top of the Pops so I desired something slightly more, well, me.
I gazed with awe as the stalls' hanging delights danced in the breeze, and spotted a bright orange number. It was thinner in texture than the others, more streamlined in design. Love at first sight. My poor Mum eventually conceded. It caused quite a stir on the streets of Hucknall. Literal head turner. It felt daring, louche, a little blonde dandy in a mining town.
A powder blue Adam & the Ants transfer t-shirt followed and I’d re-enact the Prince Charming dance or jump off the sofa to Stand and Deliver.
Other cherished market hauls included a blue ‘tea bag’ (netted) sleeveless t-shirt; navy drainpipe jeans – red piping down the side that resembled the local bus company uniform; and a bizarre navy plastic belt complete with gender symbol and first name.
Some items crossed into craze, so had to be deployed with discretion. Things like my glittery deely boppers and blue roller boots complete with daring rainbow stripes were swiftly removed if I saw groups of lads who just didn’t get them.
I lost my shit when I saw a TV advert for Dunlop Dodgems trainers, I wanted to join the cool kids pogoing in that fictitious disco. Mum was subjected to purchasing a pair from Great Universal catalogue, and paid weekly.
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I’ve always loved clothes. They are immensely personal, a big part of my identity. The authentic me – the frustrated creative.
Despite being the youngest child in the family, I was also the only one of my siblings to have brand new rather than hand-me-downs. It was a point of contention for my brother and one of the many reasons why he’s never understood me.
Primary collection
It all started at Hucknall’s weekly Friday market in 1980. Gilets, or ‘body warmers’ as we called them in our region were IN. I pestered Mum for one. She finally broke, and off we went to spend her hard-earned cash on my selection.
All of the boys in my year opted for navy or dark green, however I’d just witnessed Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes video on Top of the Pops so I desired something slightly more, well, me.
I gazed with awe as the stalls' hanging delights danced in the breeze, and spotted a bright orange number. It was thinner in texture than the others, more streamlined in design. Love at first sight. My poor Mum eventually conceded. It caused quite a stir on the streets of Hucknall. Literal head turner. It felt daring, louche, a little blonde dandy in a mining town.
A powder blue Adam & the Ants transfer t-shirt followed and I’d re-enact the Prince Charming dance or jump off the sofa to Stand and Deliver.
Other cherished market hauls included a blue ‘tea bag’ (netted) sleeveless t-shirt; navy drainpipe jeans – red piping down the side that resembled the local bus company uniform; and a bizarre navy plastic belt complete with gender symbol and first name.
Some items crossed into craze, so had to be deployed with discretion. Things like my glittery deely boppers and blue roller boots complete with daring rainbow stripes were swiftly removed if I saw groups of lads who just didn’t get them.
I lost my shit when I saw a TV advert for Dunlop Dodgems trainers, I wanted to join the cool kids pogoing in that fictitious disco. Mum was subjected to purchasing a pair from Great Universal catalogue, and paid weekly.
I gazed with awe as the stalls' hanging delights danced in the breeze, and spotted a bright orange number. Love at first sight. My poor Mum eventually conceded. It caused quite a stir on the streets of Hucknall. Literal head turner. It felt daring, louche, a little blonde dandy in a mining town.
Teen scene
Boys at my secondary school weren’t allowed to study CSE textiles. Coerced into opting for metalwork, I spent my time hammering stuff sporting grey Farah slacks and Adidas Samba trainers. I teamed them with an electric blue and grey Brugi ski jacket purchased from Fashion Floor which sadly never travelled further than my hometown as my parents couldn’t afford the school ski trip. I looked on-point though.
This concluded my brief frisson with eighties casual sportswear.
Clear out
I’ve moved house in the past year, and was instructed by my partner to declutter, parting with most of the beloved clothes that no longer fit me. A mountain of material. I am no Marie Kondo.
Please don’t assume I’m a clothes snob. Admittedly I have boundaries, but I love thinking about colour, shape and texture. How things might fit together in my head in visual form. And that hasn’t changed with age. Maybe I’ll be a clothes designer in the next life.
My love of clothes also helped others. I once ran a mini male makeover service for colleagues wanting date attire, my fee? Pints or Meal Deals. I’ve supported female friends and love buying clothes as gifts for people – with varying results. I once jokingly voiced an employment recruitment strategy idea that tasked potential candidates to walk up and down a huge catwalk placed in the centre of the office, complete with scorecards. That bombed.
Vinted – the online marketplace for second-hand clothing – is a strange space.
I’ve developed a system, everything is carefully photographed in good light and uploaded at reasonable prices. The ladies in the Post Office try to conceal their dread when I hand over even more items, yet compliment my coded parcels.
Some buyers are an absolute joy. Others think I am both a chat facility and an Evri delivery driver coordinator, oblivious to my day job.
Others are just rude. One haggler hassled me with ridiculous offers, and followed them with homophobic abuse. He either had an aversion to my profile picture (mid-century sculpture) or my banal username. Or maybe it was my correct use of grammar that pissed him off.
Regardless, blocked.
Messages from those who haven’t bothered to read my crafted sales copy, and send one-word questions about my wares that remind me of my time on dating apps: “Length?” And, “size?”
Some buyers are an absolute joy. Others think I am both a chat facility and an Evri delivery coordinator, oblivious to my day job. There are those who haven’t bothered to read my crafted sales copy, and send one-word questions about my wares that remind me of my time on dating apps: “Length?” And, “size?”
Barbour nailbomb
I listed a Barbour jacket and hoped for a speedy sale. It was the jacket Mum bought me for Christmas in 2013, so cherished.
The jacket was left on my doorstep by the person I cheated on my ex with. It had witnessed me not functioning as the main character in my own life for 10 years afterwards, and had watched it play out from the top of a bin liner.
Its fabric is encased with secrets, lies, disclosure, and eventual renewal.
Now reborn, I hope it brings joy to its new owner, miles away from here.
This is the first one!
Published tomorrow!