Next time you buy ‘fashion’, look at how and where it is made.

 

Most Fashion items are made in third world countries. I have also been guilty of buying items and not looking at where they are made. Worse is, often we buy goods made using child labour. To add to the misery we end up choosing a Prime Minister who delights in locking up those that are trying to escape the misery. Even when Australia is finally turning a corner and most of us want the refugees freed from detention, Scott Morrison our PM, is going nuts and will do ‘Anything’ to prevent the legislation from changing that would alleviate their misery. He is a true hater of compassion and a fervent believer in his brand of Christianity!

The Ladies boudoir is just the Bloke’s cabinet

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Since our return with the Peugeot footrest to Brisbane our bedroom has been a hive of activity. Who would have thought that at our age? No, nothing of the sort. It's been a hive of a non-conjugal activity. It was all kept above the table, decent and no inappropriate behaviour. The bedroom is getting ready for summer while winter is being banished to spare upstairs lodgings. There has been a flurry of clothes being packed away with the new lighter, flimsier and whiter replacing the heavy woollen dark, sombre, winter wear.

An essential ritual seems to be that clothes can't just be taken out and packed away without trying them on again. I was at the same time struggling coping with a new computer that had a system called Windows 8. If you think a GPS is a magnet for trauma; you ain't seen nothing yet. The Windows 8 has a Metro and Apps and no more 'start button.' It take a real genius to make something simple complicated. Suffice to say, I nearly lost the will to keep going. Thank you Mr.Windows 8. You have created a real nightmare.

The theatre of dressing up is nowhere stronger than in the female sex. Trying on clothes by most males is a dread diabolically in contrast to the eagerness of females to 'dress up'. I would rather buy an ill fitting shirt untried than go through the motions of going into a cubicle to try it on. I often wonder what it is that I am so reluctant to shop for clothes. I like wearing nice clothes but the shopping for it sends me in a mood of yawns that, for the sake of my loving partner, I repress by pretending having a jaw dislocation.

I remember years ago an experience of a Unisex nature. Najee, Fashion-House for the discerning male, had a sale on in Sydney's George Street. I wanted to surprise Helvi with a complete new and different man. Well, not a different man, more a man different in clothes. Something just popped up about a 'tiger changing his spots together with someone hiding in wolves clothing.'

I went inside the store. There was utter chaos. Suits made of pure linen at 60% discount, shirts for less than a button. In one corner there was a whole contingent of men taking a break from office work , all in different kinds of undress. The fitting rooms had long been demolished and of course became out of the question. I soon joined the fray, grabbed a beige linen suit, imagined myself a la Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca for Helvi, and was hopping around on one leg just like the rest of them, trying to insert one leg at the time inside the linen pants.

Geez, I was agile then. Now, I am lucky to be able to hop around on both legs! The amazing thing was that the sales girls were just mingling in between the frenzied mob of male customers, all in underpants or even more exciting, sans underpants. No one blinked an eye lid despite the eyefuls that some of the girls must have inadvertently received. Anyway, that was the Unisex event, still fondly remembered.

In any case, and back to the story, our bedroom has had a rejuvenation at the same time as our winter garderobe has been banished upstairs. While at the Brisbane-River market a few days ago, Helvi picked up a beautiful snazzy bed cover. It has a very inviting warm Indian motif and colour about it. The photo above will give you some idea. I asked Helvi to pose (languidly) on the bed for the shot, but she refused. I offered to pose, but as with trying on clothes, males don't easily pose languidly, do they?

Here then is the Lady Boudoir which is not at all like the Man's Cabinet.

The Art of dressing fashionably with Pierre Cardin

Years ago, looking back at my old photos, I could not help but be impressed how people dressed. We left the boat in Fremantle in 1956; all dressed in Sunday’s best. It was a Sunday, so that might have been one reason! However, at that time, women dressed in flowing frocks, wore seamed nylons suspended from jarretels; men wore button down jackets, nicely creased pants and lovely shirts and ties. Both sexes wore hats as well. The public pulling up of a stocking that had slipped out of that little button higher up a female thigh’s girdle was then as erotic a sight as anything available staring for hours at shavedporn.com of today.

Presently, this has all changed into an astonishing fashion indicating a kind of hobo homelessness made cool- chique. The more worn out the cool people dress, the better and the more expensive it will be. At no stage during the history of fashion have holes in material cost that much. It has to be suitably threadbare. Isn’t there a fashion label by that name? On the train today there were many men and boys in singlets and thongs, coke in one hand, mobile or apps in other. Girls and women dressed in terribly worn out looking shorts or raggedly dresses, also some in singlets with bodily parts swinging hither and dither, as well as thongs and mobiles. I am informed that those shorts don’t come cheap and that the impoverished look is deliberate. There I was, thinking to get out needle and thread and offer to do some repairs. Mothers used to work their knuckles to the bare bone preventing kids to look like Charles Dickens’ urchins. Now it is high fashion to look poor, bare boned and homeless. They all utter and talk a kind of threadbare English as well, with, ‘and like, oh my god,’ or even better, a resolute ‘stuff like that’… it all falls into place, even makes some sense.

At the back of the railway line where we live is a huge Salvation Army shop. It is situated in a semi industrial zone next to a large rural produce store. It is so big one can hardly see the end of it. It has three huge industrial fans blowing circulating the air which has a barely concealed air of stale perfume. The very high corrugated ceiling and steel framed structure gives it all a rather theatrical feel, making browsing very pleasurable. On offer are all those fascinating items from glorious pasts donated for a good cause and hoping for a revival in a good home.

Here one can find the discarded and sometimes fashionable items from yesteryear. The second hand dresses are especially intriguing. Who wore this silk dark dress, size 46 with a single strand of long blonde hair still clinging forlornly at the back of it? Was she tall with that flaxen blond hair and did the tri-coloured sash next to it drape over it or did she tie it around the waste? Did she talk a lot and was she happily married? Where did she live and did she treat others with consideration? I would have thought that wearing this beautiful dark dress and sash could not have been worn by a fish curer from Woolloomooloo. You never get that sort of feeling of historical haute couture looking at the endless cloth racks of David Jones or Myers.

At The Salvos, ‘at the back of the railway line’, were many other items that would have cost a fortune in the sixties or even seventies. There were top fashion label lingerie frilly items including brassieres that would have cost a fortune new. I couldn’t help myself and felt inside the cups of a ruffled cashmere bralette made in Italy. The ticket said ‘new over $ 260.-. It was a steal for $5.-. What lovely breasts had nestled there, I reflected pensively? No one would ever do this with new items. There is just no point to it, is there? New clothes are sterile; no living has occurred in them yet, let alone warm breasts.

In my shared wardrobe and for many decades now hangs a pure woolen jacket I have worn many times in the past, especially weddings but lately more funerals… It is as good now as it was fifteen years ago. It is a dark blue-black colour and was given to me by my son who found the arms a bit short. It fits me still perfectly and even though I have not found much use for it lately, I’ll keep it forever. The jacket was first given to my son and rumored to have been originally bought by a well known lawyer. Inside the jacket at the back of it is the label: Designed by Pierre Cardin ‘Paris’. Another label pronounces in smaller letters, exclusively tailored in Australia, Berkeley apparel.

It will most likely end up at the Salvos as well…eventually. A steal for just $3.-