Right, vintage clothes...
Well, I can safely say I know nothing. Nada. Sweet feck all. To me vintage fashion means old Gap jeans and a skanky misshapen t-shirt. Yep, holey, stained, and out-of-date, that's Amanda. Classy vintage, I am not. I spent an hour rummaging through drawers and wardrobes yesterday afternoon, and managed, eventually, to find three things to write about. NB: my bedroom still looks like a war-zone, so thank you Fivefingersonly for that... (It was he who tagged me. Little so-and-so).
1) My old rowing top. Twenty years ago, on arriving at Cambridge, a new friend and I signed up to row. That's what everyone did, didn't they? Rowed. Like Hugh Laurie, and...um...well, others. Anyway, they shove newbies on the river at five am in the morning, in the winter, in sub-zero darkness, presumably to weed out the pansies who can't cope (I lasted a pathetic term). After our first training session my friend and I went for a restorative hot chocolate and then, when we'd thawed enough to move, went shopping to buy the college rowing hoodie (which, incidentally, cost our entire Liebfraumilch budget for the year). We wore them out of the shop and it felt gooooood - we'd frozen our ample boobs off and now we had our badge of honour. When we got back to college we were met by a mob of oar-wielding boaties from the third year. They approached us, whites of their eyes rolling, and in no uncertain terms told us to remove the tops immediately. Why had we bought them? We were merely first year scum. You had to earn the right to wear the top. You had to be in the First VIII, the top boat, to wear the top. For the love of all that is right in the world, you had to have cried tears of BLOOD into the Cam itself before you were worthy of this Divine Garment... When they finally stomped away, huffing and puffing, incredulous at our blatant disregard for the Law, we sat and laughed 'til tears poured down our cheeks. I will never throw this hoodie away. Despite it being old and saggy I wear it all the time, and every time I do it reminds me never to take the small things too seriously...
2) My rug. Rug was my world from birth. He - for he has gender - was the only thing I cared about for the first seven years of my life. When I was about five I noticed a small rip in his seam. It grew and grew. I was pretty cut up about it at first - watching your best friend gradually tearing in half is traumatic to say the least. But as the rip grew I discovered I could wear him. From that moment, if possible, I loved him even more. Suffice it to say, I wore him A LOT. Rug is as old as I am. Rug is Vintage.
|My five year old modelling Rug|
3) My necklace. It isn't strictly vintage. It's new. But as I'll still be wearing it in fifty years (I intend to wear it forever) it's Prospective Vintage, so makes the list. My husband gave it to me. He chose it all by himself. I love that he knows how dark I really am. It's bling, it's whimsical, and it's deeply twisted. I HEART IT.
Right, I'm tagging Janet (who writes about pregnancy and childbirth) and Chrissie (Mediocre Mum)... Over to you ladies!