If the lady cats in Top Cat had dressing tables they would have looked like this. Lady Penelope and Truly Scrumptious too. I’m sure Liz Taylor had one in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Equally, Zsa Zsa Gabor in Beverly Hillbillies and not forgetting Madame Zsa Zsa in Hector’s House. If the illustrated lady on the Elnett hairspray can had a dressing table it would look like mine.
And these were the icons of female glamour of my childhood. Not just for their beauty (those lady cats were total babes), but for their über-femininity. They seemed to me to be real women (especially the cats) and now I have the dressing table, I feel more like a proper woman too. Which means a lot, because most of the time I really don’t.
Maybe it’s because I live in jeans, T-shirts and flat shoes. When I think about it, most of the clothes I wear (including the new Armani jacket) could be worn by a (small) man. I have short practical fingernails for typing and wear minimal make-up and jewellery. I carry my handbag slung across my chest like a postman’s. I don’t wiggle, I walk.
I don’t aspire to repressive feminine stereotypes in the Stepford Wives mode, but there has always been a core of true womanliness that I deeply admire and feel eludes me. Some women seem to have it naturally and instinctively in a way I don’t. But I’m sure having the dressing table will help me tune in. Certainly, every time I have sat at it so far combing my hair and putting on lipstick has been absolutely thrilling.
I think it might be the same urge to be in touch with a fundamental maleness that sees middle-aged men buying the motorbikes they have dreamed of since boyhood. So I am acting out my mid-life crisis with a Barbie dressing table. And just as they buy the full sets of leathers I just might have to have a marabou-trimmed negligee.
I’m back to the vintage shop tomorrow.
Five Weeks Later
Compacter’s Log, Week Five – or is it 55? And is that weeks or years? I don’t know any more, I feel like I’ve been living this way forever. When I look at all the stuff in my house I can’t believe how it all got there. Apart from the larger items of furniture, all brought in by me in some form of shopping bag.
In case you missed my previous postings on this subject and are wondering what I am going on about, in January, I committed to a month as a ‘Compacter’.
This is a new movement of people who for ecological and spiritual reasons swear off buying anything new apart from food, toiletries and essential undies.
So have I stuck to it? Well, yes. And was it a nightmare? Well, no … That’s the amazing thing, it really hasn’t been hard and even now I am officially through the month I signed up for I don’t feel like going back to my old ways. Which is extraordinary for a hardcore shopaholic like me.
So what, apart from food and toiletries, have I bought over the past four weeks? The only major purchase was two front tyres for the car. Very boring, but hardly negotiable. I’m sure even the original Compacters in San Francisco buy new tyres for their bicycles when they are bald.
A pair of new trainers and one pair of sports socks for my growing daughter. Again, non-negotiable, although I suppose I could have searched charity shops for some second-hand socks, but I really don’t fancy someone else’s old socks, so I’ve decided they count as underwear. And I only bought her one pair. The former me would have snapped up five pairs to be on the safe side. Wherever that is.
I have also bought a few envelopes. But I think that stationery comes under the same heading as essential toiletries and my conscience is clear anyway, because I have been re-using any padded envelopes that are sent to me for years.
I probably have one of the finest collections of Jiffy bags in the world, actually. Some of them have been to and fro between the UK and Australia several times. And I made my husband’s Valentine card myself.
The only properly luxury new item I bought was a tube of moisturiser. It’s a toiletry, but I did have a pang of guilt and wonder whether I shouldn’t be buying Ponds rather than a more bespoke product.
It does get a bit confusing at times whether you are Compacting to save the planet, or yourself from debt. But it’s not supposed to be primarily about hair-shirt thrift – having a lot more money left over at the end of the month is just a happy side-effect of it.
So using that as my rationale I bought the overpriced organic moisturiser I normally use, rather than a cheap one made from possibly carcinogenic petrochemicals.
I have bought just one other new thing – this is over a whole month, remember – which was a book, for a friend’s sixtieth birthday. I think, in all honesty, that was an infringement of the Compacters’ Code. If I’d made the effort I could have found her an even better present in a second-hand bookshop.
Oh, and there was something I had to get for another friend, which I had promised to do before I ever heard about Compacting. That was just keeping my word, so I think it’s OK.
So that makes one misdemeanour in a month, which I call amazing.
Maybe it’s going cold turkey like this that makes the difference. And like an alcoholic avoiding the pub, I have been staying out of favourite shops when possible to avoid temptation. But even when I had to go in, knowing I wasn’t going to buy anything else was strangely freeing.
I felt an absence of the vague anxiety I usually have in gorgeous shops. A sort of excited terror that I could do something terrible with my credit card at any moment. When you’re a Compacter, shops become more like museums.
You can look and appreciate the merch – you just don’t take it home.
Jean Genius
I have sworn on this page on more than one occasion that I am not going to wear jeans every day any more. I have this good intention at least once a year and then after about a week of faffing about with dresses, which can be complicated with shoes, and mixy-matchy skirts and tops and other kinds of pants which just look weird, I find myself back in jeans. And once I’m in them that tends to be it, jeans are back on the menu every day.
It would be different if I worked in an office – or any other workplace really, apart from the room where I sit alone and stare at a screen all day. Then I might have to adhere to a dress code, or I’d have a reason to make an effort, even if just to entertain my workmates. But as my only colleagues are my beloved iPod and my darling kettle, there isn’t much point in getting witty with the outfits. Comfort is all.
Except it’s clearly not. If it were really just about com-fort I would always wear track pants. I have them in every weight from light cotton through towelling to quite rich velour, so there’s not a season where I couldn’t be trackie-dackie-clad, but while they may be mighty comfortable around the waist and butt, they don’t make me feel so easy in the head area.
With the trackies on I feel like a slacker; in jeans I feel like a hip cat swinger. I just do. Which is extraordinary really when you think how universal a garment the denim trouser has become. They’re not exactly a rebel statement any more. I’ve been wearing them myself in earnest since I was eleven, so you’d think I would be over it by now. But I’m not. I still think jeans are cool.
They’re also super-practical. With my preference for very dark denim, I can wear the same pair for days without having to wash them. In fact, I wash them as infrequently as possible to preserve the indigo intensity. I don’t think I smell.
Jeans are also hardwearing like nothing else and any wear and tear that does start to show just adds to their char-acterful allure. When I wear my cropped tailored pants for more than a couple of days in a row they go all wiggy and wonky on me. Real clothes look tired and disappointed with too much wear; jeans look chilled.
They are also remarkably easygoing when it comes to shoes. I really can’t think of a shoe style that doesn’t go with jeans. Birkenstocks, Havaianas, ballerinas, boots, loafers, the pointiest stilettos, crazy drag queen platforms, Christian Louboutin heels; they’re all perfect with jeans.
For my own use, I would probably draw a line only at brand-new white trainers – but that very combo looks great with denim on Snoop D
og and his ilk. (And I loved seeing his new white trainers on Twitter the other week.)
Then, of course, there is the simply joyous truth that you can wear them with so many different tops, catering for every shade of formality from campfire to a smart cocktail party.
But the thing I am really adoring about my jeans at the moment is that for the second time in a few weeks I have just packed to go away for five days and all I’m taking with me for the lower area is one pair of jeans.
I’ve an assortment of T-shirts, cardigans and silky smart tops at the ready for the upper storey, but I know from the last time I did it that one simple pair of jeans is all I need for my legs. I can go to the gym in my pyjama trousers.
You might think I’m gross, but I feel totally liberated by this discovery. It’s jean genius.
Chewing the Fat
Have you ever lost a piece of toast? It’s a mystery that has often befallen me. You’re chomping happily on your Vegemite delight and you reach out for the next piece only to find empty space where luscious crunchiness should be.
You take your eyes off the computer screen/telly/road ahead for a moment to look and there’s nothing there. Gutted. Robbed. Outraged. I want my tooooooast! Mummy!
Then comes the moment of horrible realisation: the toast isn’t there because you’ve already eaten it. Stuffed it in, chomped it up and swallowed without really registering the process.
This, my friend, is what they call ‘mindless eating’ and if you want to lose weight – and keep it off – it is something you absolutely have to train yourself not to do.
It’s the guiding inspiration behind that classic piece of dieting advice: never eat standing up. Add to that, never eat while reading the paper, watching TV, driving (which is also dangerous), downloading dance tracks you haven’t heard since 1989, or writing this column.
Or to put it simply, when you eat – eat. Don’t treat it as a subsidiary activity that can be bolted on to any other. Respect it and give it your full attention. Otherwise you will eat a lot of food without really noticing you are doing it – and you get fat without even having enjoyed the benefit of the yummy food, which is robbing yourself twice.
And if you like food – which presumably you do if you’re carrying a bit of heft – it seems such a waste not to savour it. I’m always struck by that when I watch my sister’s black labrador, Paddy, have his dinner.
Like all his breed, Paddy lives for food. All right, food and sticks, but mainly food. Every crumb of edible matter that is touched by human hand in that house is done so under Paddy’s agonised gaze. ‘Don’t forget me! I like food! Look, I’m wagging my tail! Please? Just one little bit? I’ll be good forever … you know how I love bacon rind … you know how I love you…’ It breaks your heart.
Then comes the big moment. Dinner time! Down goes the bowl, down goes Paddy’s head and within milliseconds it’s gone. He doesn’t so much eat it as inhale it. Then he’s back on patrol in case someone drops an apple pip.
‘Paddy, my boy,’ I always say to him. ‘Take time to enjoy your food. Look at it, smell it, savour each mouthful, make it last,’ but it’s no good, he’s got to eat it as quickly as possible in case another dog steals it.
Which is exactly why I used to eat like a labrador. If I didn’t clear my plate quickly as a child, my big brothers would help me out. So I learned to stuff my dinner in quickly like Paddy and the habit stuck into adulthood.
Until now. I have re-trained myself and here’s the secret: put your knife and fork down between every mouthful. Take time to taste what you’re eating, chew slowly, and don’t pick your cutlery up again until you’ve swallowed.
If you want some encouragement in this, next time you eat out, watch your fellow diners. Most of them are intent on assembling the next crammed forkful, while their jaws are still working on the one they just stuffed in. Apart from anything else, it doesn’t look very attractive. Many of them never take their eyes off their plate.
Now I have learned it is a much more enjoyable experience to sit back in your chair while you chew, look around the room, take in the scene. Breathe out occasionally.
Eating this way, you also become aware of getting full as you go and will never again find yourself transformed into the human zeppelin. (That’s the feeling, five minutes after leaving the table, that you have been forcibly inflated to bursting point.)
And from time to time, you will even find that you can’t finish your dinner.
Ageing Gratefully
A little over ten years ago I came across a nice old armchair that had been restored back to basic calico by an upholsterer. It had neat proportions, it was a good price and I bought it.
At the time the fashionable thing in soft furnishing was loose covers, so I had some made, at the usual painful expense of anything to do with home refurbishment. It was an investment, I told myself, in a piece of furniture I planned to keep for the rest of my life.
I didn’t stint on the fabric either, choosing a large-scale rose print on linen by Cath Kidston, who was just coming to be well known. At the time I couldn’t have had a more fashionable covering for that chair. I loved it to bits.
Since then, of course, Ms Kidston has become an international household name and I don’t mind telling you, I might puke if I see her cheesy bright colours and oversized polka dots ever again. Be they on a water pitcher, a notebook, a duvet cover, or a box of chocolate truffles. I’m surprised she hasn’t done a car and a new uniform for British Airways.
In short, she has become an overexposed gift store staple to the point of being a hideous cliché. She hasn’t so much developed her brand signature as thrashed it to death. I pretty much walk straight out of any shop that has her stuff on display these days because it immediately signals nought originality in the management. Ooh look, scented candles! A money box in the shape of a shoe! And a big rack of Cath Kidston.
So where does that leave my chair? It lives in the bedroom so it’s pretty much the first thing I scope on waking and there was a time not long ago when I couldn’t really stand the sight of it.
Why, oh why, I would wonder every morning, had I fallen into the trap of that overly fashionable cover? It’s so hopelessly dated now the roses might as well be 1997! 1997! 1997! as a pattern repeat.
For a while, I seriously considered forking out for a new loose cover. Or proper upholstery in bright pink velvet, or elephant cord, with a very expensive pom pom trim.
But, of course, in five years’ time that look would have been as dated as the rose-print linen covers are now, so perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to get loose covers made in a neutral slub kind of material which could never offend. Except they would offend me by their very safeness.
Think about it: when has your heartbeat ever been quickened in a junk shop, or at an auction, by someone’s earlier safe choice of homewares? Never. The things that get the pulse racing are the bold statements. Be they quirky bits of Sixties Danish furniture, or that fab old Fifties dinner service with black-and-white scenes of Paris on it.
Both go for a fortune now, but back in the Eighties you could buy what we now consider design classics, like those, for nothing. I feel physically ill when I think of how my mother practically gave away her marble-topped Saarinen tulip dining table and Harry Bertoia basket chairs to a local dealer. Nobody wanted them, including her – including me, I regret to say.
If only she’d braved out those bleak years before mid-century returned to its place beneath taste’s spotlight, she’d still have them – or rather, I would. She should have trusted her inner taste guru, the one who had made her shell out for such radical furniture back in the day, but she didn’t. So learning from that error of judgement, I am going to.
I’m not going to touch my chair. OK, it looks a bit sad and over at the moment, but if I leave it be, it will age right back into style.
Malcolm McLaren
I’m writing this at 12 noon GMT (so 9 p.m. in Sydney and Melbourne) on Thursday 22 April 20
10 with ‘God Save the Queen’ playing at full volume on three different sound systems in my house. It sounds insane.
I’m not having a monarchist moment – it’s the Sex Pistols’version and coming up next is ‘Anarchy in the UK’, to be followed by Sid Vicious’s very special rendering of ‘My Way’.
I’m doing this as requested by the family of Malcolm McLaren, who have asked for a ‘minute of mayhem’ – as opposed to a minute of silence – with as many people as possible playing their favourite tracks at maximum decibels, as a tribute to ‘the godfather of punk’.
I hope my neighbours are enjoying the concert, as I’ve opened all the doors and windows, for maximum Malcolm McLaren mayhem mileage. I’m loving it, but it’s also making me well up and I’m not ashamed to tell you that I stood for a moment, with my hand on my heart, facing in the direction of London, and thanking the late Mr McLaren, who died on 8 April from cancer, for everything he did for me. He did a lot.
I can still remember the first moment I heard ‘Anarchy in the UK’. It was November 1976, I was seventeen years old and round at my boyfriend’s house. He worked in a record shop and had brought the new single home to play me. I listened and my first words when it finished were: ‘Play that again.’ We played it for the rest of the night and I bought it the next day.
Very shortly after, I’d cut my long hair off into a spiky crop, thrown away my denim dress and embraced the whole punk landscape with the greatest feeling of homecoming.
Just the week before I heard the Sex Pistols – and, really, isn’t that the best name for a band ever? – for the first time, I’d been to see The Eagles in a huge venue.
I can vividly remember sitting on the floor (in my denim dress) while some old men warbled on about California and cowboys on a stage about half a mile away, sounding exactly the same as their records. And I was thinking, what the feck has this got to do with me?
Style Notes Page 14
