the credit crisis stole my style

Trivial as it is considering tent cities, job losses and the very real possibility that we may have to rethink our whole financial and social structure... I’m concerned the credit crunch is cramping my style.

Not because I can no longer afford nice rags. I never frequent the kind of stores where hounds-tooth is forever snappy or where machine -washable is a dirty label – the places where fear of extreme laundry forces you to order the most anaemic thing on the menu...

The crunch is cramping my style because suddenly ‘second hand’ is in. It’s thrifty, eco-friendly, economic and possible ergonomic, if your predecessor has moulded your new pre-loved shoes, for instance. Preloved is the new high-style.

But I’ve always browsed charity shops, and it began long before plastic lost its fantastic and celebrities showed off their penny-pinching prowess. Oi - Winona, Sienna, Sadie – I was here first! I would enter these quiet establishments with an air of anticipation, passing the powdery old ladies raising brown glass and china to their myopia and gently swimming through the uniform sweet-stale fug of old wares, plucking out the mad-print shirts I so love but no one makes anymore, spurred by the potential discovery of kill-for cowboy boots with a price tag so miniscule it would make your lip twitch in near-hysteria. There were always disappointments like a vintage Viv Westwood top two sizes two small, but often huge victories like a Ralph Lauren skinnyrib boat-neck, a dress by Jigsaw, an old black buckled schoolbag. But you always knew that if not today, then tomorrow... tomorrow you’d find your bargain, the sort of thing no one else would have. The old treasure that new money couldn’t buy.

For a long time, there were those – parents and friends – who found my op-shop addiction repulsive. Somewhere between admiring my Ralph Lauren and discovering where it came from, their faces would acquire a snotty twisted look as if I’d just ordered Special Brew at the Ritz. As if I was trailer park trash fingering shellfish in Harrods' Food Hall – as if I were Vivienne cruising Rodeo Drive. The more I explained that really, we’re all made of carbon, and the odour, if not the particles, can be eradicated with a hot wash or two, usually made it worse. They’d shuffle down the bench or check my derriere for stains when they thought I wasn’t looking. Charity shops were the outlets for old man britches and unwanted prosthetics. Ralph Lauren had no place there; not even the serendipitous discovery of the rogue ‘premiere’ label lifted my choice of outlet from the mire of filth so engrained in their opinions. Charity shops were the pits.

But now? Now they’re the bees’ knees. You can hardly get in the door for the mill of opportunist shoppers hoping to find an accessory that won’t bust their budgets or stumble across a discarded item from a Knightsbridge lady’s clear-out. Not only does it make economical sense to check out the fashion slagheap, it’s apparently super for the image. I’ve seen middle-aged ladies – the sort who are still gym-fit, wearing white linen and discussing reservations at Aubergine – striding through the racks with ease; nay, an air of arrogance.

How dare they cast their coveting nets over the clothes they once poo-poo-ed! How dare these throngs descend on these once time-forgotten places where I passed peaceful moments flicking through ancient postcards and inscribed books before starting my style hunt, knowing that the tinkles of the cowbell on the door would be few and far between; there’d be no rush to buy, no competition for the valuable amid the scrap; no one else would find the cowl-ish Jaegar silk cross-over top – it was waiting for me. But everything’s changed. I’m lucky if I discover vintage Top Shop. Once the golly-gosh gulls have picked everything over, there’s little left for the honest ad-hoc bargain enthusiast.

Plundered and over-populated, the delight of the charity shop will soon be extinct, husks of their former selves, filled only with tat, tins, incomplete jigsaws and odd things made out of wicker. And my wardrobe will freeze in time. Why can’t I buy clothes from a shop? Well, I can. But I’m quite a hands-on mum... Well, no, I’m just insanely untidy and incapable of keeping any brand new item from the cyclone of my domestic filing system. Oddly, pre-loved items last an aeon; brand new treats perish almost instantly. For instance, I have an incredible evening dress covered in hand-sewn black sequins, it cost 250 pounds – I put my heal through the Miserable-style chiffon edging on its first ever outing and have never worn it again. So, being a mum of two and therefore exposed to paint, oil and snot on daily basis, coupled with my own innate deficiency in wardrobe maintenance, the charity shop makes sense – and creates a certain uncertainty; will I return triumphant or empty-handed? Much like shopping should be. We take everything for granted.

So, Lord of the Credit Crunch – if you’re listening – please stop. You may be teaching us a lesson, but I’m in a different class of spend. I don’t want to flex my Visa, AmEx and MasterCard once again – I just want to be left in peace, brass in pocket, to find honest treasure among others’ trash.

Comments

[Jill Brierley]

I need a thumbs up icon like on Face book, just to say I like this - and as you know, I identify with it xx

[Alice Martrin]

Good one Rachel! I gave up op-shopping a few months ago for the same reasons. There's a fabulous shop in Richmond, full of designer bargains but in recent times it's become like the fourth floor of David Jones. Not worth the hassle. Lately, I read an article about "shopping in your closet". The idea is to get everything out of your wardrobe and drawers, fling it on the bed and work out that some of the things you haven't worn for two years or more are actually worth wearing again, maybe with different accessories or sometihng. Other things need flinging straight to the op-shop. I have a quiet day tomorrow so plan to do this exercise. Who knows what I'll come up with?