..... I went to the vintage market at Spitalfields today. What is it with vintage? I've been to many stores branded as such and all I've ever discovered is old tat. Is my old tat now on trend? The only person I've ever seen who looks good in vintage is a colleague at work, but you could give her a bin liner and she'd turn it into something stylish. Not everyone is like her, though. Mostly, when I see people wearing a shapeless, heavily patterned, polyester dress, all they're telling me is that they've stolen my elderly aunt's wardrobe and I should call the police.
And what is it with old costume jewellery? The market was full of it. Old brooches that were so heavy, you'd be carrying twice your own body weight if you managed to pin them on your lapel. And old handbags that must once have been stuffed full of dirty linen hankies, half-eaten foxes glacier mints and a china tea cup taken on journeys to the seaside so you could have tea in a proper cup. And old hats that had been surgically removed with a chisel from hair permed and sprayed so tightly, it was virtually transmuted to rock. And scarves; the place was full of bins of old scarves. The remnants, no doubt, of a retired magician who donated his supply of scarves to the old scarves home after they'd made their last appearance from up his sleeve. Or scarves that had spent their lives keeping out the chill from the necks of church-going ladies at Sunday morning service, the knot tightening every time they made moon eyes at the 'lovely' vicar. And fur coats - loads of them - hanging on rails looking forlorn; everybody a little awkward about overtly admiring them for fear of having a tin of Dulux One Coat Satin tipped over their head.
You may be thinking I'm displaying overly negative views on 'vintage'. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, if I hadn't slipped away from the vintage to look in 'Jigsaw'. The moment I stepped through the doorway, I was told it was a very exciting time in there because the new collection was in. At first I thought she meant they were collecting for a new lifeboat, but then I realised she meant the clothes. The shop assistant approached me twice to say that other sizes were available. I admit I like a dessert, but, reading between the lines of her barely disguised assumption that there wouldn't be anything in my size on display, I deduced it was because my size would take up too much room in the store. I wanted to tell her that I had bought a course of Power Plates classes, I planned to attend those pilates classes I'd avoided, I was a new recruit to Zumba and was trying hard to give up my morning cheese bagel. I wanted to assure her that there was hope for me. I wanted to say that I'd seen collections come and go and to ask her if a group of children in India were busy sewing something in my size from disused parachutes. But, I didn't. Why do we let these assistants judge us so openly? I went back outside to the vintage market and decided to go and have a full English Breakfast. For Lunch. Let 'em think what they want. For me a full English Breakfast is truly and satisfyingly vintage.
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