If your house was burning down what would you save? My mum
will the computer for all the family photos, my Dad will say us and nothing
else, you might say books or artwork or childhood teddies. I think I’d run to
my wardrobe, as shallow as that sounds.
I’ve written before about how attached I am to clothes, now
trying to clear out my wardrobe is never as simple as what fits and what does
when I’ve weaved too many memories into pieces I haven’t worn for months. But
even beyond that, while my mum saves the computer for the photos, I’ve got a
wardrobe full of the garments within them, lucky enough to have gifted
important hand-me-downs that come with a warning that should I ever lose or
damage them, there would be hell to pay.
I asked on Instagram what people wanted to read, and a lot
of people asked what my favourite pieces are. But talking about my H&M
jeans felt silly and temporary. In a couple of months, they’ll be worn through
and unwearable, in a fire I’d let them burn, holding no memory beyond that time
I went out for dinner and thought I looked nice. In the conversation around
sustainability we talk a lot about lifetime purchases, but how about 2
lifetimes, hopefully, 3 or 4 by the time the whole thing falls apart and is
retired to an attic. Garments you’d run into a burning building for, coats
you’d contemplate sacrifice to save.
They met in a nightclub down the road. My mum and her
friends have perms as was the trend of the time. They’d wear jumpsuits with
attached waistcoats, snowsuits in bright colours, polka dots and little gold
hoops. My mum’s friend had a habit of stealing men’s ties as a way of flirting.
One night she wore this jumpsuit, he was there too and they met. I wear it to
exams, to work, to galleries on weekends, it fits me perfectly.
My Aunty was incredible. I always knew it, grew up seeing medals framed in her house, but our times together were spent hunting down cats with my sisters and having barbeques on good days. In the days before the visit, we would go from shop to shop trying to find a treat to take her that she could eat, talk of our excitement to race her wheelchair around her home that felt like a mansion. One time I saw her cat press the button and go downstairs in her lift, it all felt like a dream. And she was a hero, brave and bold like in the books. She was world champion disabled water skier, she was an English literature and language graduate, she was kind and funny, and she wore this coat that I wear now.
Sometimes you have to slip into hedonism for self-protection.
I find it an extremely useful protector for the ego, just spending some time
caring about yourself to an almost disgusting level. Spend £20 a week on
coffees, smother your face nightly in an expensive facemask that’s doing pretty
much, nothing for your skin while you eat remarkable unhealthy but manage to
stay slim. Buy a lot, buy books, jewellery, theatre tickets, ridiculous shoes
and even more ridiculous clothes. Fill bin bags with them and run home happy
with new things to cling to, wrap your body in and treat like bubble wrap while
the surrounding air hands out punches. On the day that someone you love leaves;
you really only have two choices. You can wallow, call your mum and cry, wrap
yourself up in your bed and hope the world will reverse back to them being
there or back back back further to disappear back into itself. Or you can wrap
yourself in yellow snakeskin, in a one of a kind coat you got for £2 at your
dream internship, wear it even though it’s far too warm for a coat just to
cover yourself in the reminder that things are far better than okay right now.
On my left hand, I wear my Grandma, fished out of a jewellery
box as we all sat around a kitchen table reeling from the loss. It felt smaller than
it did back when I was 5 and was gravitate solely to the string of blue beads.
At 21 I gravitated to this ring of red, gold and crystal, the gems look like
stars and it felt selected for me, fits perfectly on my ring finger like a
marriage to a memory.
On my right hand, I wear my Nana and the tradition she
started. At 21, she fished it out of her own jewellery box, making damn sure of
remembrance as all the women in the family unwrap a piece of her life to adopt
into their own. She was sneaky and let me select my own, treating me to the
luxury of exploring a dressing table drawer that feels like an archive of old
coins and gold chains from first wedding anniversaries or shipped over from my
Grandad’s travels. She laughs that she can’t remember the story of this one,
but I wear it and it’s enough that it’s simply from her.
In the middle I wear a cheap circle of gold-coated metal
bought for £12; Camden market, summer 2018, matching the one I bought for my
mum; Camden market, summer 2019. I pattern it with cliché sentiments of being full
and complete, echoing the circle with the affirmations I leaned on. It’s cheap
and doesn’t fit perfectly, but it’s a piece of there and then, I circle it with
my thumb when I feel anxious and think of my mum, busy markets, Hampstead Heath and
the smell of fresh orange juice at the entrance.
I’ve always held certain images of what success and wealth
looks like; a gold drinks trolley stocked with branded gins and whiskeys, Agent
Provocateur lingerie worn casually, a home with a driveway you can turn your
car round in, a Burberry trench coat. Writing that sounds stupid, you learn
that all kind of means nothing when you’re given a hand-me-down drinks
trolley and find a vintage Burberry trench in a charity shop for £40. I’d
planned to save up for one, dedicate months of work all for the day I’d walk
into Harrods, pick my coat and hand over the money. I imagined I’d leave
feeling invincible, my life would be awash with fresh power and I would be
instantly more confident, more put together, bigger and better all because I
owned that coat that I’d worked for. But I found one in a charity shop, paid
£40 and got my mum to wrap it up for Christmas. I broke a button off under my
heel during a burlesque routine, which I’m reminded now that I need to replace,
but still, when I wear it I feel powerful. I cheated the image of success. When
I pass it down to my children, I’ll tell them the Harrods story, that sounds
far more impressive.
I don’t remember my Grandma wearing anything by black
trousers and a different coloured top; polo shirt in summer, a sweatshirt in
winter with her collar over the top, black shoes and a zip-up coat in a faded
bluey-lilac with a texture that felt like velvet. It was always that, sat in
the same chair, taking us to the same places, baking the same cakes and pies in
the loveliest cycle of delicate routine and regularity. When you see someone
always the same of course you’d never imagine any different. I think I assumed
she’d worn that same outfit forever, born in a pink jumper and raised in that
chair. But we found this coat, incredibly tailored sheepskin with fur lining
and collar, seemingly unworn in pristine condition. We found photos, of her and
my grandad and their penchant for wearing matching outfits, sat pre-night out
in those same chairs but lined with a material that screamed of the times. She
wore little dresses and pinafores, her hair was always done up, wearing the same
jewellery she always wore but gleaming in its newness and golden in its context
smiling next to the man that gave it to her. There are no pictures of her in
the coat, who know if she ever wore it, but I wear it a lot with mini skirt and
berets and heeled shoes, I like to think her younger self would approve of the
effort I put in.
I’d save it, I’d try and save them all, run away
from the flames with arms full of fabric.