Corsetry

In the words of Dan Beeston:

"It's like you were attacked by two space hoppers!"

Clotheshorse #3

I'm pleased to say that I managed to get through my February "Wear My Wardrobe" challenge - in fact, there are a bunch of clothes left over that I didn't get around to breaking out. They were mostly tops and dresses, and some sadly because they didn't fit.

However, due to general busy-ness and forgetfulness, I missed out on taking pictures of all of them.

So here's a few:

It became necessary to break out the jeans
once I'd exhausted all my skirt options.

You can't really see the black Cue dress I'm
wearing, but who cares? A cute puppy is
the best accessory.

I know this isn't an outfit, but I've become slightly
obsessed with my regrowth. Sure, I've been calling
it "targeted balayage", but it's actually my natural
hair colour. That's the most I've seen it in years.
It's so bland and devoid of personality.
It's like the Miranda Kerr of natural hair colours.

This was the outfit I wore on February 28,
the last day of the wardrobe challenge.

Now I have a confession to make about the final day of the challenge. You'll see I wore a smart green blouse with a fairly regulation black pencil skirt. The skirt was a relatively recent purchase; only worn two or three times before.

At some point during the day, the zip on the back of the skirt broke. Just busted clean apart. I only noticed around 3pm, so I could've been walking around for up to six hours with my underpants hanging out.

Not only that, but they weren't nice underpants. They were flesh-coloured underpants. So it may have appeared as if I was walking around with my bottom on display, like some sort of journalistic baboon.

The busted zip was such a complicated affair, I couldn't get the skirt off myself. I had to get The Wah to physically rip it off my person, and while that sounds a little bit saucy, it turns out it wasn't remotely erotic for anyone involved.

I'd like to lose mass so that the prospect of ripping clothes from my body was appealing, rather than a medical necessity.

So now it's March, I'm trying another challenge. I've put a blanket ban on crisps and lollies, and have ruled out eating any chocolate besides Red Tulip (it's Easter time, and it's just cruel to rule out Red Tulip, when it's not available the rest of the year).

We'll see how we go. I'm sure the exercise and nutrition experts among you will tsk-tsk, believing that a well-rounded holistic approach to mass reduction is the only way for true success.

But for some reason at the moment my only chance is to make a game out of this stuff.

Now I've just got to follow the rules...

Clotheshorse #2

Midway through the "Wear My Wardrobe" February challenge and it's already getting tougher. I'm dragging things out, trying them on, and finding out my weight gain has made them uncomfortable or even downright unwearable.

At this stage I'll be wearing a burlap sack by the end of the month. Well, I would be, except I don't currently own a burlap sack and I'm under a self-imposed ban on buying new things. My fluffy bathrobe it is, then.

Here's another wrap-up.

I got this skirt in Cambodia. I love its bright waistband
but it's oddly tight in places. The shirt is Cue. The day I wore
this I spilled sweet chilli sauce all over it.

This is a Peter Morrissey dress. Ooh yes, fancy.
Except it's Peter Morrissey for Big W, because I'm classy.
Like all surplice necklines, it gapes on me, so you
can see I've pinned it together using a Game of Thrones
House Stark badge. Because winter is coming.

This dress cost me $25 from Coles' Mix range.
I always wear it with this brown stretch belt.
However, it's a bit tight around the thighs now.

I'm never sure if I can pull off animal-style prints.
But I do love this beige Basque skirt, and wear
it often. It was a lot looser on me when I first got it.

I got this Zara top in Hong Kong airport last September.
I didn't try it on beforehand, I just loved the neckline & owl print.
However it rucks up over my bust a bit.

FASHION! IT'S FRUSTRATING AND CONFRONTING!

Clotheshorse #1

The February diet/fashion/clothes-wearing/whatever challenge is proving interesting.

There has been no weight loss, and no discernable upping of exercise levels. But we carry on, stiff upper lip, chin chin and all that.

Here are some photographs from the week that was:

A peplum dress. This is about as peplum as
I'll go. The peplum craze has gone too far.

I'm putting this pic up because I forgot to take a solo one. Also because
I'm insecure and I met Mick Foley and I want you to be impressed.

This is a Stella skirt I rescued from a friend.
It has an elasticated waist and is still a bit
tight.  Always makes you feel good.

This is just a mess. A mess.

I love this Basque dress. It's actually a size 12, but
I'm not sure I can get away with it anymore. I've helpfully
pointed out the problem areas that show why.

You can see my bust is really too big for this top.
The navy Review skirt is actually quite shiny.
I can't get bigger because it's already too tight at
the waist. And this was the first night I'd worn it. Sigh!
Love the shoes, but again, they cut my heels to pieces.

All of these clothes have now been hung up at the back of my wardrobe rack, with everything else being shunted forward. The experiment continues!

Labelling the Joke

Has anybody else noticed clothing is becoming increasingly self-aware?

I'm referring to the phenomenon of the faux-comedic label, or in some cases, the hipster-ironic label.

I first noticed this trend about 10 years ago when I got my first Crumpler bag. The label went into humourously ranty details about how the bags were so tough, they'd survive monster trucks, or space, or your little brother etc etc.

It was amusing at the time, but I get the feeling the urge to offer opinion and commentary on labels is getting out of control. Here are a few recent examples I've come across:

This was attached to a pair of jeans, but reads more like an eHarmony profile than a description of pants. I guess they're trying to cash in on the endless search for a perfect pair of jeans with a plaintative appeal to your vanity. It's love at first trite.

I would've been tempted to put back the sneakers had I read this label before purchase. I mean, it's great you have confidence in your product, Puma, but does the word "humility" mean anything to you? It's basically saying "Hey, you're some office lackey who's bought joggers because, let's face it, you've stacked on a bit. Most of the people who wear our shoes are the complete opposite of you - they're good looking celebrities with sexy bodies, unlike that doughy bag of misshapen lumps you're planning to haul around the park in our sneakers. So our products are not only good enough for you, to be honest, they're better than you, and you should feel a little bit grateful we've decided to accept your cash."

Also, I'm yet to understand the equation:  Somebody wearing these shoes in a magazine = They Work. I've seen pictures of Katy Perry attempting to wear clothes in a magazine, doesn't mean it works.

This is the label from a geeky t-shirt, sold through one of many online retailers specialising in short-run geeky t-shirts. Packages of this sort regularly turn up at Chez Clumsy. They're usually for The Wah. Science-based geeky t-shirts must form a vital part of his Zombie Apocalypse Survival Plan, because I've never seen someone so dedicated to accumulating them.

This label is more your out-and-out cheeky comedy. "One shirt, no shoes, no service"? Ha! That's just like that thing they say outside pubs except you can't wear a t-shirt into a pub, get it? And at the bottom "Not to be used as pants" - because it's a shirt! Who'd wear a t-shirt as pants? No one, that's who, because your testes would dangle out the neckhole, and wouldn't that be embarrassing/erotic?

Now, it's not that I don't appreciate the little label jokes. But it makes me think about the people who are employed to come up with this stuff. Is is carefully market-researched? Or is is just the demented ravings of someone in the production design department? I'd like to think the latter, but in this day and age, it's likely to be the former. At least for the big multi-national corporates - they'd hire a bunch of PR graduates to sit around and brainstorm brand-appropriate "humour".

I'd love to know if there is any efficacy data behind all these cheeky labels. I'd imagine most people only read the label after they've purchased the item, and are removing it, or looking for washing instructions. But do the labels have any impact on the purchase decision? Is anyone out there looking at jeans and thinking "These really represent the vapid narcissistic values I hold dear"?

Do you have any examples of cheeky labels on products you've bought?

Tattoos: Art or Ugly?

The Skype connection was a bit scratchy, but my father's delight was clear.

"There are no TATTS here, Bert," he exclaimed, using one of the more simple of my childhood nicknames. "They're not COVERED in TATTS."

My father was in Prague at the time, no doubt spending my inheritance on clay Golems and absinthe. Aside from the castle, Karlov Most and the astronomical clock, the chief attraction of the Czech capital seemed to be ink-free skin.

Now that would make a great design for a .... no, wait!

It was something of coincidental timing.

You know that moment in The Simpsons when Ned Flanders, smothered by his neighbour's sudden affection, wakes in a sweat and exclaims "I hate Homer Simpson!"? I had one of those just days before my father skyped me from across the globe. There was no reason for it, I hadn't just been menaced by a gang of *insert controversial bikie gang here* - just a simple realisation: I don't like tattoos.

Now this doesn't mean I think they should be banned, or people shouldn't get them. I'm not advocating a tattoo-free nanny state (or even, for that matter, a tattoo-free nanny).

But personally, aesthetically - I don't like them.

It may be something I've inherited from my aforementioned father. He's spent his life in the merchant navy, yet has always had a strong aversion to tattoos. I don't think my sea-faring grandfather had one either; considering my Gran refused to allow him to even grow a beard, I daresay a big Polish eagle across his back was out of the question.

But family views aside, my prudishness when it comes to tattoos is mostly my own. There's no doubt tattoos have become much more mainstream than even 10 or 15 years ago. We seem to be at a tipping point - many employers will still demand tattoos be covered up in the workplace, but as tribal stripes peek out from under shirt sleeves, and bits of cursive text wind their way through collars up necks, how long before ink saturation has hit 50 per cent of the population or more?

So here are my top three reasons for disliking tattoos.

1. Future planning. 

There's no doubt some tattoos are trends just as much as any fashion item. Designs on the small of a lady's back, tantalisingly visible between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt, were once all the rage. But their repositioning as "Tramp Stamps" or "Slag Tags" has seen them attract the same derision as "leggings as pants".

So many butt-erflies...

I get sick of clothes after just a few months - how on Earth could I work out a design for a tattoo that I'd be happy with (ostensibly) forever?

2. They make you look.... kinda ...dirty.

Again, a personal view. I find many tattoos make the person look like they've been attacked by a 3-year-old with a Sharpie. Up close perhaps you can see the individual designs, but I find the Gestalt image unappealing.

3. Putting it out there.

I feel like many tattoos are the more expensive and more permanent version of bumper stickers. I can have thoughts, dreams, visions, memories - without needing to sear them into my skin. But that works in reverse; those "My Family" stickers are quite possibly just the simpler version of David Beckham-style family name tattoos.

And he has *such* a pretty face...

But I felt I couldn't write a anti-tatt rant without actually consulting someone who likes them, to get the other point of view.

I met Chris, aka @selga55, a few weeks ago, when he very kindly offered me a steam mop, free of charge. That's just the way Twitter works sometimes: one day you're asking for advice on floor-cleaning, the next you're picking up an as-new Bissell from (until then) a stranger.

I couldn't help but notice Chris' impressive set of tattoos, across his arms and legs. I didn't mention them at the time, because I'm not totally rude, and also, I didn't want to jeopardise attainment of the steam mop (I have quite dirty floors). But a few days ago I shot him an email, and he very kindly answered my questions about why a person might put so much stuff on their skin.

Chris was 42 when he got his first tattoo, Che Guevara's face, on his left shoulder. He has numerous others, including Japanese 17th century samurai on his left leg, and the legendary Koi on his right leg.

"I get more when I forget how much it hurts," he told me. "I have always strived for art over motif... I have a lot of dragons, and the Koi legend is about the carp that swims upstream, up into a waterfall and becomes a dragon."

For Chris, his tattoos are very personal, and while he admits they wouldn't be to everyone's taste, he did put a lot of thought into them. He likes the growing widespread acceptance of tattoos in the community, but wishes people would put more thought into their designs.

"My beef about a lot of the ‘art’ is people just wanting to get something and move on. I mean if I see one more set of poker machine cherries on someone’s foot I’ll scream!"

Chris also believes if you don't think carefully about your design, you could wind up with one off the shelf.

"When you don’t know what to get and the artist wants a quick buck = Southern Cross tattoo," he said.

I asked Chris if he regretted any of his tattoos.

"Not any I regret  - I'm old enough to know better - but some I like more than others," he replied. Sometimes wish I had more of a plan for the arms but still, I'm not unhappy with results."

Now I'm interested in what you think. What are your experiences with tattoos? Have you had one you regret, or put thought into the art of it? And do you like how they look on others?

The Sacha Drake Dress

A strange series of almost-events happened to me during the final week of the election campaign.

A few days out from polling day, I was approached about being a panelist on a weekend news/lifestyle program the morning of March 24. The discussion would be, predictably, state election focused. I believe the criteria had been "female, from radio, not the ABC", so there wasn't a whole lot of choice, but still, it was lovely to be asked.

I grew a little nervous as I don't have much television experience, and to be honest with you, my brain was in such a campaign-induced fugue I doubted my ability to contribute in any constructive way. Plus I'd have to arrive at 6am.

I was pondering this impending date with a live camera on the second-to-last day of campaigning. It was Thursday morning, the realisation that I would be working until 2am Friday had yet to set in, and I'd bought a delicious sausage roll, so was happy enough hanging out while politicians talked to school-kiddies and parents and whatnot.

Then I noticed one of the mothers was wearing a stunningly smart navy blue dress with white trim. It was dead simple, but beautifully cut, and perfectly captured a "professional yet fun" style. All of a sudden I realised the answer to my TV conundrum. A DRESS. If I wore a great dress, then at least I'd look confident and put-together, even if I didn't feel it.

"Excuse me, I'm really sorry, but can I ask where you got your dress?"

"Oh!" the lady laughed at my ambush. "It's a Sacha Drake. I used to do PR for her, and look, I still am!"

Sacha Drake?

"Is it a Brisbane design?" I asked.

"Oh yes!" the lady replied. "She's fantastic. Makes clothes to fit normal women. They hide everything."

I explained my reasons for asking.

"You know she dresses people for TV all the time," the lady replied. "I can give her a call if you like. She'd probably arrange a loaner for you."

Within 15 minutes, this lady (whose name I frustratingly cannot recall, blame campaign brain) had taken my name and details. Before the bus had even left the school precinct to head to the next electorate stop, Sacha Drake herself rang me.

"No problem!" she said cheerfully, when I relayed the story about the TV, and the random dress-related approach to this lovely stranger.

"Are you sure?" I said. "I don't want to inconvenience you, it is just for a brief appearance."

"I'm always happy to see my clothes on TV!" she said. "I'll get my PR girl to give you a call, and work out some options. What size are you?"

"A 14," I said sheepishly.

"So am I!" she replied. "I've got lots of styles that will suit."

Back on the campaign bus another 15 minutes later, and I received a call from Sacha's PR girl. She took down my email address, and promised to send me pictures of size 14 dresses they had easily accessible, so I could choose one and then pick it up from their Brisbane store.

By the time I received the email, I'd googled Sacha Drake and discovered that she was, in fact, quite well-known and much-beloved for her glamourous yet practical designs.

At this point, I got Very. Excited. For the first time in my life, I was going to be Dressed. I'd approached a random lady, and the universe being what it is, somehow found myself being happily offered a dress to wear by an Actual Fashion Designer.

Of course, the universe being what it is, the excitement would only last a few hours.

Later that Thursday afternoon, I checked my emails again to discover a message from the weekend news/lifestyle program. They'd decided to "change tack" with their segment, and didn't have space for me anymore.

But.... but... but... I was getting Dressed! By a Designer! I'd gotten excited! I'D EVEN TOLD MY PARENTS TO WATCH.

It almost broke my heart to write back to Sacha's PR girl and tell them I was very sorry but I wouldn't be needing the dress after all. TV had rejected me. Well, they hadn't rejected me, they'd just changed their format, but still, sleep-deprived and surrounded by politicians, I felt entitled to feel a bit sorry for myself.

These ladies had been so generous to me, without knowing who the hell I was, and I felt like I'd let them down. I resolved I would go to the Sacha Drake boutique in Paddington and damn well buy myself one of her lovely dresses. It took me a while, but I finally managed to get there last weekend.

I spent close to an hour trying on frocks, with the enthusiastic help of a kind assistant. I was so overwhelmed by the time I finally bought something, that when she asked me to input my PIN into the Eftpos machine, I actually just looked up and TOLD HER THE NUMBER. I have never done that before in my life. Obviously I subconsciously wanted Sacha Drake to have all of my money.

Thankfully, she only took enough to allow me to take home this:

This is my Sacha Drake dress. It's called Iris and I love it. I'm probably never going to have the discipline to lose the weight I probably should, but it's reassuring to know that I can still wear nice things that fit the "professional yet fun" category.

I also developed a bit of a crush on this dress:

It's called the Maddison, and while it comes in several different colours, this sapphire is the best. I tried it on and it was heavenly. But I just don't know where I would wear it! Perhaps if I was invited to more special events? Or maybe I could do some sort of challenge where I wear the dress in a bunch of places you wouldn't actually wear a dress like that. Until I come up with a good justification/sufficient cash it will remain a "one day" purchase.

So that's the story of my close encounter with TV and my Sacha Drake dress. Do you have a tale about an item of clothing that gives you a confidence boost?

The Tyranny of Long Hair

Vidal Sassoon died this week, and it made me think of practical hair cuts.

I didn't realise Vidal was credited for inventing "wash-and-wear" hair styles - the idea that you don't need to subject your locks to hours of primping, perming, pinning and shellacking, just comb it and go. Vidal supposedly set us free from oppressive hair.

But I would argue that many women still labour unnecessarily with their locks - because fashion remains in favour of long hair for women. And I would like to start a movement encouraging women who are living with long hair - but, importantly, not doing anything with it - to lop it off, and try life with lighter, shorter tresses.

I've always had tricky hair - thick and bothersome. As a girl, it was blonde and straight. Pubescent hormones saw it grow thicker and darker, and a 1993 haircut saw the surprise appearance of tight curls, and led to me being dubbed "Afro" for a year at school. I worked with the curls as best I could until my late teens, when I decided to try to grow it long and luxurious. I imagined all the beautiful ornate hairstyles I would wear - the cute high ponytails, the braids, the chignons.

What I ended up with was this:

This is me on my 21st birthday, with a ratty, poorly-cut, badly-coloured, brassed-out curtain of hair. You can see the curl from my teens still in there - a curl that disappeared somewhere in my mid-twenties, along with my cheekbones. But you can also get a sense of how thick and heavy my hair is - it pulls down so much the top half is virtually straight.

I couldn't bear to put it in a high ponytail: the super-tight hairband would give me a headache. Wearing it out was annoying in the wind or the heat. So I would end up pulling it back in a low ponytail at the nape of my neck. It looked boring. It was boring.

It was also a pain in the arse to manage. Every wash was torture, as I combed out the knots that would build as I slept. Complicated hairdos were virtually impossible - no amount of bobby pins would hold those suckers up.

Eventually I realised I would never achieve the beautiful tresses I admired in magazines. I had the hair, but without the money or patience - what was the point?

Around a year after the above picture was taken, I went to an expensive hairdresser and had much of it lopped off. Throughout the 2000s, I went shorter and shorter. Before our big world trip in 2006, I got an ill-advised pixie cut, and while it was good for travelling, I realised my hair is too thick and puffy and my face too round for it to work well.

And so now I've found the general length and style that seems to work - and you know what? It's great. On rare occasions, I wonder if I could grow it again. I have more money and better hair care products now than I did at 21 - perhaps it would be a different story? But then I think... oh, I can't be bothered. I am lazy. And I don't want my head to be weighed down all the time.

Lovely photo taken by Heath C, who wanted a guinea pig for his new lighting rig.
Being a camera 'ho, I happily obliged. You can see more of Heath's work here.

I know many women who keep long hair because of what I consider to be slightly dodgy reasons, and I'd like to offer some simple rebuttal arguments, to see if my position does in fact have any credibility.

1) It's feminine.

Answer: it's one idea of femininity. Not the only one. If you're worried about not looking enough like what you think a woman should look like, may I suggest a push-up bra and some red lipstick?

2) It's fashionable.

It's hard to deny Hollywood and the fashion and music industries tends to prefer long-hair in their ladies. But remember, these women have stylists, and money, and helpers, and money, and time, and money. Their hair becomes part of their job. But even they resort to help - Beyonce and Lady Gaga love a wig. And also, long hair seems to be a de facto term for "beautiful". She must be pretty, she has long hair. Think Kardashian for a moment. Take away the long hair, and what have they got? Weird teeth, that's what.

3) I'm getting married.

Apparently long hair works better for "up dos", which are apparently better for weddings and wedding photos. I'm not sure why this attitude still exists, but then I know very little about weddings in general. If this is your preference, I don't see why a hairpiece or hair extensions couldn't work just as well - they might be slightly more expensive, but then, it's a wedding. They cost money. Just ditch an unwanted guest or two, or forego a band for a karaoke machine. I'm an ideas woman.

4) I like it.

And that is entirely fair enough. I'm not trying to hassle people for their appearance. I really believe you can do whatever the hell you want with your body. But my argument is aimed at women who have long hair, but don't do anything with it. Maybe it's a hassle, maybe they just don't have time, and always end up tying it up, or back. I know one woman who keeps it long because she sweats around her hairline. She thinks short hair would make her sweat more. But I always think of her as a short-haired woman precisely because she always wears her hair tightly pulled back in a bun. I've never seen it out. So what's the point? Chop it off, get a crop, rock it. You'll be sweat-free, you'll get time back, you can get out of the shower, rub on some pomade and go.

Long hair is a tyranny. It's time we realised it, and started freeing ourselves. Use it or lose it. It won't be the end of the world.

Scissors semper tyrannus!

Fashion Cents - Big Reveal

I'll keep this introduction short, as I know people aren't interested in what I think right now, only what the hell those dresses were.

Thank you ALL so much for taking the time to comment. This has been endlessly fascinating, and everyone has been so remarkably positive and enthusiastic about it! Keep reading, as there are PIE CHARTS and explanatory notes to come.

But first, pictures!

Fashion Cents

Something has been happening to me over recent months. I've started... buying clothes.

Not just any clothes. Non-cheap clothes. Clothes with... brand names.

I've always enjoyed shopping, and particularly snaring a bargain. But over the past year, I've become more and more drawn to the nicer clothes, the better quality stuff. In the fashion world, they don't call them clothes. They call them "pieces".

Don't get me wrong, I still love a bargain. I can't afford most stuff at full price (even if it's "worth it"). But I've started taking true advantage of sales and discounts at places like Myer. 30% off, 40% off, 50% off, even 60% off. Buying clothes that will be practical and stylish for work or play, and not fall apart after a few wears.

Myer is like crack for that s**t.

Fun with a Harpsichord

Agatha Holmes Ahoy! enters its final week tonight. We have three more shows in this incredibly fun and stoically British murder mystery comedy, set on the high seas.

Last Saturday night saw the death of a regular character - SS Snobbington leisure manager and all around snivelling toady Antony Thatcher. It was a surprise for everyone, but not necessarily in a bad way. In the video, you'll see the cast's hymn of "mourning", as well as Agatha Holmes' unique method of playing the harpsichord.

Our wonderful musician Kris Anderson supplies the notes for the harpsichord, making us all look much more musically competent than we are.

Kris also takes amazing photographs, and I wanted to share this particularly spectacular one:

The show plays Thursday 11 August, Friday 12 August and Saturday 13 August. Tickets are $17 adults and $12 concession. The Brisbane Arts Theatre is 210 Petrie Terrace, and the show starts at 8pm!

A Hat Person

The last time I wore a hat on anything resembling a regular basis was at high school. Wide-brim, white straw, ribboned - it made you look as if you were balancing a small Scottish microwave on your noggin.

Once I left the cosy confines of the Anglican education system (our school even had its own paedophile! That no one talked about! We thought he was the nice, if slightly eccentric, school counsellor! Top stuff, carers of children!), hat-wearing joined Maths B in the pile of "Things I Won't Be Bothering With Again".

Apart from the odd baseball cap on sunny days outdoors, I don't wear hats. But I'm not alone.

When was it last the done thing to wear a hat?

I'm going to say the 1960s.

I am guided in this - as I am guided in so many ways - by the James Bond films. Sean Connery's opening gunbarrel shot sees the actor clearly wearing a hat. Possibly a fedora, maybe a trilby. But by the time Roger Moore assumed the role in the early 1970s, the hat was consigned to the history books. And it makes sense - can you imagine Roger Moore in a hat?

.....Ladies.

It's somewhat sad that hats are no longer an integral part of a daily outfit. These days, hats are confined to protective duty, such as the aforementioned baseball caps, or "special occasion" - such as going to the races, or attending a Royal Wedding. And I think it's a bit of a shame that hats have lost their ubiquity.

With certain exceptions, obviously.

I say all of this because at the Brisbane Arts Theatre's recent Winter Wardrobe Sale, I picked myself up a number of vintage hats.

Nice Beaver

Is fur still bad? If so, I'm going to hell - wrapped up nice and warm.

That's a genuine beaver fur wrap right there, my friends - the kind of dead animal that would make Priscilla Presley proud.

I had a fairly ordinary day yesterday; so it was wonderful to get to the Brisbane Arts Theatre in the evening and muck in ahead of our big Winter Wardrobe Sale tomorrow.

There are SO many costumes and vintage/retro clothes to be sold - and hats! Boxes and boxes of hats! I got told off for gasping too much at various beautiful items being tagged at just $5 or $10. I think I'm going to go a bit wild tomorrow.

At one point, the temptation became too great, and things deteriorated into what can only be described as a Pretty Woman-style dress-up montage. The furs got a good run.

Now is it wrong of me to admit that I quite... like... furs?

I had a beautiful beaver, and frankly, I couldn't stop stroking it.

I know it's terribly politically incorrect to say that. These days we shudder at the thought of little animals being bred just to die for fashion. Of course historically the wearing of dead animals was more a necessary barrier against the elements; but in the age of nylon and poly-cotton and lycra, we don't need it anymore. No more gore for us, thanks, we've got Gore-Tex.

But furs are just so... luxurious. So... olde-worlde, reminiscent of a bygone age of glamour. So... naughty. I find myself drawn to them. Drawn like a carefree beaver towards a baited trap.

Ouch.

So confess, ladies and gentlemen, as you ready your wallets for the assault on the BAT Winter Wardrobe Sale - what (suitable for work) things are you drawn to that you know you really shouldn't be?

In the Mood

My parents recently returned from another one of their mysterious overseas trips.

My father would tell you they can afford these extravagant jaunts due to a lifetime of hard work and prudential investments, but I suspect they've established a gun-running operation to the more "unhinged" parts of the Niger Delta. I mean, they've got to fund their chronic pokies addiction somehow.

This time round, they spent time in my mother's birthplace, Ireland - no doubt to finally shoot the gasping Celtic Tiger and add its skin to their collection of ghoulish objets d'art. As they were whisked out of the Republic by burly chaps with Fields of Athenry lyrics tattooed on their foreheads, they bought me some commemorative jewellery.

BAT Winter Wardrobe Sale

The Brisbane Arts Theatre is holding another one of its massive Costume Department sales on Saturday 25 June. If you love vintage and retro fashion, op-shopping - or you're looking for costumes for work or play - write it in your diaries. It's going to be bargains galore.

The BAT Costume Department is one of my favourite places in the world. It's just so full of... stuff. Of course, that happens with the accumulation of years and creations and donations. It's the reason for the sale too - the department is going to be shifted into a smaller building at the theatre complex, so it needs to shed about one-third of its stock.

I've been up there snapping a few photos - both to capture the charm and anarchic disorder of the place, and to promote the sale. Hope you enjoy my little compilation video (and thanks to Robyn, Frances and Trevor for their help).

Saturday 25 June

8am to 2pm

Prices start from just ONE dollar.

Cash preferred but credit cards/Eftpos accepted.

But This Worries Me

After the triumph of the SLEEVES, Kate Middleton - sorry, the Duchess of Cambridge - changed into this dress for the royal wedding reception at Buckingham Palace.

I guess it could be explained by the angle of the photo, and Kate - sorry, Her Royal Highness - was probably still wearing a tight bodice - but geez. Her waist seems awfully tiny, at least relative to her head. She's reasonably tall too - about my height. Just existing in about 20 kilograms less space.

I know, I know. It's a stupid brain pattern to get into.

All I know is when you look at a photo, and the fact that Camilla is in it worries you the least, something is amiss.

Also, I was a bit disappointed this secondary gown was strapless. At least Kate - sorry, Supreme Leader of the Universe - teamed it with a Fuzzy Bolero. Which, incidentally, is a fantastic name for a character in a blacksploitation film, if anybody happens to be making one.

F*** YEAH SLEEVES

Wave goodbye to bare shoulders and arms!

Up Her Sleeve

So the Royal Wedding is bearing down on humble residents of Planet Earth with more relentless certainty than either death or taxes.

My patriotic British grandmother - known affectionately as "Queen Pat" in her hometown of Port Vila - arrives in town tomorrow, and has informed my parents (by means of some sort of decree, read out by a pageboy), that she will require full access to the HD widescreen television for the day. Properly chilled Moet & Chandon should also be within easy reach.

For me? Well, it's a nice thing for sure, and I wish Wills & Kate all the best, but I've been avoiding the majority of media about it because I don't want to turn into a hater.

I've realised there is only ONE thing that I want out of the Royal Wedding. ONE thing.

Sleeves.

That's right, sleeves. On Kate Middleton's wedding gown.

That's all I want. I'll tell you why.

Shopping: Its Own Reward

The Colorado chain of retailers is the latest big corporation seemingly set to crumble in the wake of the Global Financial Crisis. Remember that? It was going to be the End of the World before 2011 decided to rain some "for realz" apocalyptic nastiness down upon us. Oh, for the simple days of mortgage stress.

Without wanting to upset any of the group's 3800 staff - whose entitlements hopefully remain secure as administrators are appointed - to be honest, I'm not that surprised.

Sure, Mathers and Williams sell reasonably nice shoes, and Diana Ferrari has some lovely dresses, but Colorado itself remains a puzzling mix of what I like to call "Adventure Dad Wear" - chunky sandals, excessively pocketed shorts and coral-coloured chambray shirts. And that's just the women. Honestly, there can't be that many pockets of undiscovered country out back of North Lakes or Forest Lake or Springfield Lakes or any of those other 'burby developments that throw in a "lake" to make the scream of your neighbour's bratty toddlers seem altogether more "tranquil".

This man is wearing Colorado,
so we can't show you his face.

Look, it's unfair of me to bag out Colorado. I have actually shopped there on occasion - mainly due to the often fantastical discounts that they constantly seem to be offering.

Now I know why.

Remember November: Reebok Pumps

My brother and I got into basketball for a short time. I think it 1991, possible around August, when our family began a two-month overseas travel-a-thon. It was great. We did assignments as we travelled through the US, UK, Ireland, Germany and Poland, and I missed a fair whack of Mr Topping's Year Six class.

For some reason the NBA seemed to undergo a surge of popularity back then, possibly due to the emergence of the Australian basketball competition, the NBL. All of a sudden, my brother and I were collecting cards featuring people called "Michael Jordan", "Charles Barkeley" and "Shaquille O'Neal".

I was not particularly competent at basketball. But it was never really about playing basketball. Come to think of it, it wasn't even about watching basketball. It was more about the footwear. Specifically, Reebok Pumps:

Big chunky high-top sneakers with a built-in inflation device, Reebok Pumps were the first shoes to feature an in-built inflation device. The tongue contained a big round orange squeezy button - reminiscent, coincidentally, of a basketball - that you would press to inflate something in the base of the shoe, giving you ....well, air. I guess. It was like strapping a blood pressure tester around each foot - you got a not-unpleasant feeling of firmness, enough to go shoot a three-pointer or something.

I picked up my pair of much sought-after Reebok Pumps in Los Angeles, on the aforementioned trip. My brother wound up forsaking the Reebok Pumps for the equally gimmicky LA Lights, the sneaker with LED lights IN THE HEEL. There's nothing like a couple of privileged white kids getting 'round Disneyland in sub-culturally misappropriated sportswear.

Reebok Pumps reached their pinnacle the next year, when they featured in Mel Brooks' parody Robin Hood: Men in Tights.* Then they faded from popularity. I can't remember how long my Pumps lasted, but it wouldn't have been more than a year. That fancy inflation device had a habit, like many gimmicks, of breaking a bit too easily.

*Yeah, it was Dave Chappelle! Who knew? I must go back and watch that film again.