If this season really is the one that boyfriends won't get - the time that sex forgot - and I think from the number of snowflake/Mark Darcy reindeer jumpers I saw seemingly uniting for a convention at a Chalk Farm cafe last weekend, it must be... then I am unusually on trend. I'll draw the line at chewbaccas (sorry, Chanel) but I have invested in some new winter footwear.
Nothing unusual about a pair of brogues, or so I thought, until I paid for them. I was in Paper Dress Vintage in Curtain Road, Shoreditch when I innocently asked if they were mens. I'm a size seven so stumbling across vintage shoes, especially women's flats is annoyingly rare. So it turns out they are, which is fine (it merely makes me a bit paranoid that they look kinda clumpy, which is silly but that's just me). Only in order to reassure me, Hannah the owner starts telling me about the other five pairs of brogues she had in that were also snapped up by girls. That she acquired from a lady whose husband had died.
Was he wearing these when he snuffed it? Cue more paranoia. And bad jokes from my friends that my new shoes are possessed and will start 'walking' me to places I'd not normally be seen dead in (scuse the pun), like Tiger Tiger in Piccadilly Circus.
It dawned on me that in all the years I've been wearing vintage, I've never once thought about wearing a dead person's clothes. I'm not sure why, because it's so bloody obvious. Possibly because of my irrational fear of death I've instead focused on the various people who could have worn that item. Seen it as a journey from person to person who loved it in equal measures and passed it on. Well it's a brighter way to look at things in this so very dark and dreary season, she says, listening to Smog.
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I don't think it's morbid - it means there's a story behind every one of your outfits (even if you don't know it!)
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