I would love to be starting this post writing about autumn fashion and transitional styles, but I’m sorry to say that I don’t have the presence of mind for that just now. I will turn my mind to it in time, but, in the meantime, here is a story from current life - the packing diaries, if you will.
I have a pair of black leather Mary Jane shoes that I adore. I was ahead of that curve, thank you very much, having purchased them before Mary Janes became cool again. The first time I wore them was to after work drinks in Soho, and they created a blood bath like there had been massacre of tiny carrying bodies housed in my shoe. But after that, we never looked back, these Mary Janes and I. Many’s a good time we have had together. But all good things must come to an end, it is time for an upgrade, and with the the move and all I am ruthlessly downsizing all of my life’s accumulations, so I figured it was time to let them go.
I presented them to Oxfam, polished and tissued papered up, in an unbranded shoe box. I had a vision of some new owner gleefully pouncing upon them, delighted to give them a happy new home, skipping down the street and probably with a heel click for good measure. Imagine how I felt when Ms Oxfam Lady surveyed them and said “We can’t resell THOSE”. “But it’s Second hand September!” I almost cry. “This is their time to shine!” But I don’t. I spare her the account of how much joy they have brought me, how they make any outfit look polished in a way that most flat shoes can’t, how I wore them in Tokyo one day, walked 20K steps and not even a blister. Instead I thank her profusely, purchase a bar of Tony’s Chocolony and skulk off, offended on behalf of my shoes, feeling on their behalf like the dog in the pound that never gets picked to be re-homed. I gave the box a pat and muttered reassurances that I still loved them, even if Ms Oxfam Lady didn’t.
So I’m keeping them. I will wear them until they fall apart. I will consider every wear an unnecessary and undeserved two fingers to Ms Oxfam Lady who was polite and lovely - but a little over zealous when discerning stock.
Which brings me onto other items, that I have encountered while packing that I cannot part with - not because no-one will actually accept them from me, but because fondness dictates that I just can’t.
The Dress
Once upon a time (circa 2008) there was a rubbish TV make over show called “Ten Years Younger”. The show worked under the assumption that all women both want to and would benefit from looking ten years younger - questionable by today’s standards. Anyway, the mighty Lisa Eldridge, (who is FABULOUS) was the make up artist charged with shaving ten years off the subjects faces. In one episode she wore this dress and I was immediately obsessed. I left no nook of the world wide web unscoured until I found out the label (Marc Jacobs) and sourced it…on sale, may I add. I believe I have worn it twice, in the intervening years, and I also believe it doesn’t really suit me, but I still absolutely adore it.
The Card
You might think that a stereotypical Irish mother would be disappointed by divorce. You might also think that she would urge her only daughter to stay well away from that there London place. I am pleased to say my mother championed my choices and this was the first mail that I received on my doormat when I moved into the flat. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it, as I’m forever grateful that she just gets it.
The Furniture
These bits were my first, and cheapest, furniture for my new home. The first few weeks here I had nothing but these, and a bed and I couldn’t have been happier curling into one with a glass of wine and a book. The chairs were such a bargain (£50 each!) and where would anyone ever get such a steal again? And the tables (I have two) are H&M’s finest - I still really like them.
The T Shirt
This is my favourite T-shirt, now relegated to Pyjama status, faded and complete with bleach stains, but wearing it and playing the Don McLean song which is for sure one of my top ten ever (it’s not depressing, it’s moving) while making my coffee on a slow Sunday is my happy place.
Before I go, thanks for the love on Sunday’s post about wakes, grief and dead fathers. I haven’t told that story in its entirety, or even its constituent parts, many times over the years and it is lovely to have space to tell it, and I’m pleased that it resonated with some of you.
Back Sunday with more packing diaries - and a note on the phenomenon of ghosting which, as it turns out, is not confined to dating.
Until then
Big love
Una
x
Late edit - I found a “new with tags” pair of the Mary Janes on a second hand site, so now I have two excellent pairs. Double the nonsense to Ms Oxfam Lady.