wendy house

I have old lady

• shoes (ecco)
• no-sholderpads (apparently the 80’s are back)
•  bras -because banana bras are back in fashion
• wrinkles
• natural arctic blonde highlights
• smile at babies reflex
• living arrangements (with two cats)

I wonder what comes next…

In the 80’s I used to cut the shoulderpads out from new clothes.  This fashion-subversive act enabled me to avoid looking like a cast extra from Dynasty, Falconcrest, Dallas, or an aspiring  USA football team member.   

Apparantly the shoulder-pad look is returning.  There are rumours that The John Lewis Partnership (JLP) haberdashery department has recently sold-out of shoulder pads.  

I didn’t purchase them.

Words of wisdom from an almost stranger*. in this case a girl on the commuter train to London Paddington:

“don’t wear Ecco shoes,  they’ll make you look like a really boring old person”

I would have followed this advice

except 

Ooops!  it’s toooooo late

I picked up these little green dudes in a sale,  as preparation for my upcoming HOLIDAY in CAIRO.  They have the phrase ‘pat pending’ on the sole.  Just like the wacky races character.  I love that!  The garish green is pretty darn cool too,  for a wrinkly, if this is what boring old people wear,  then so be it.

* Past tips provided by Alan the hairdresser.  Lucia the hairdresser, an anonymous manicurist, a Jackson’s sales assistant, a bus stop philanthropist, a mini salesman, Windows Network Diagnostics, Flat Eric and Reading Police.

Wendy:  I want Oxblood red please!

Conkers footwear facilitator (CFF): You can have any of these colours, you can have different colours for different feet, different colours for different sections of the boot, what would you like?

Wendy: Oh, Oh, OH,  purple, no green, no this electric blue,  no brown.  Oh!  …  um,  Oxblood red please..

I discovered Conkers shoes in the summer of 1986.  discovered after having been sent there by a bouncy student friend from Newton Abbot who’s boots I couldn’t help but admire.  By the time I found Conkers they were 9 years old and had a small shop at the top of Totnes High street. 

They now have a larger shop half way up Totnes High street. As a student I couldn’t afford the luxury of a well made, durable, easy to repair, natural tree-rubber soled, funky coloured, personalised pair of shoes. I sulked and promised myself that when I had a job I would come back and treat myself.  I’ve had one job or another for nearly 20 years.  This week I went back to Totnes and now I have a pair of boots being made-up to fit.  I suspect I will be back again…  for purple, or green, or…

With the internet I can just type the name, make, model, serial-number and colour of my preferred bra and get an exact purchasable match in less than one minute.  Excellent,  underwear wooshing its way to the Wendy House.  All is well

 Then

The Royal Mail left me a little note to let me know that my ‘package’ was too big to fit through my letterbox.  Not being a larger lady in the underwear department this was a baffling concept.  This meant a trip to the Reading central post-office on Satruday morning during peak Reading shopping traffic congestion.  While listening to Jonathon Ross interview Spandau Ballet I noticed a shop with hand-crafted wood furniture in the window

Dangerous

An hour later I had picked-up my new underwear, removed the ridiculously bulky packaging and bought a hand made ‘gun cupboard’ for my mug collection

Expensive underwear

Pink.  They shout Charlotte across my chest. 

Following me home from a tourist shop in the steamy southern US city several years ago.  They continue to lure me into long undressed Sunday mornings, afternoons, evening.  Blurring the edges between day and night.  The baggy track-suit-like pants could cover the nether-regions of a fat person.  Down my hips they slide, jostling to trip me up on the decidedly dangerous Wendy House stair-ladder. 

Can I escape their clutches?

friend: you’re wearing a skirt, I’ve not seen you in a skirt before

I pull open my cosey warm cardigan to reveal that the skirt goes all the way up to my armpits

Wendy: a dress

friend: Oh!

friend:  that’s a pretty top

Wendy: it goes all the way down to my knees

friend:  lets call it a dress

Wendy: yes, lets

I want some of dickies red hawk action trousers,  don’t you? 

They’ve got zipped hand thigh and back pockets. 

YES! 

They are only £12.95. 

BARGAIN! 

They are sold by Screwfix.  Whereas Diamond Back USA sell toolbelts.  One day I’ll treat myself to my very own toolbelt,  and hang around my house with a powertool or two in it.

In a rare, mercifully quick,  shopping moment I replaced 3 pairs of well-worn, too-small, skinny, hipster blue jeans with new jeans that:

• fit
• don’t break along the seams when tugged
• say ‘not-a-soccer-mom’
• tone with my ‘I’m-a-professional-person’ jackets
• are not blue
• chafe to the optimum temperature in all the right places and none of the wrong places

Way too much excitement for one day,  I must lie down and breath slowly lest I become overwhelmed by it all.  You all take care,  don’t over exert yourselves,  its tough out there and a well stitched pair of jeans can help keep things under control.

Years before I read Peter Pan when I was less than 4ft tall I had an imaginary friend.  Without wings, he could fly into my bedroom at night while my unsuspecting family carried-on their downstairs life-after-my-bedtime.  Unlike Peter pan, John wore ordinary clothes:  flared corduroy jeans, t-shirt, jumper and daps.  You could easily miss noticing John in a crowd of shorter children.  John had an ordinary quiet, thoughful, way about him.  His silences matched mine.  He was good company.

John could fly right through the force-field that protected me from the monsters beyond the wardrobe.  The force-field that looked like bedroom walls but was infact protection that moved with me as I travelled through planet Wendy.  John knew how to co-pilot the big red double-decker bus,  the bus that was cunningly disguised as my single bed.   Unlike my real friends John didn’t scream or throw the extra pillow at the slimey poison-tongued Lizards that chased the bus.  John could use his powers of flight to lift the bus out of the swamp.  John was magic,  he could corale the heard of wild unicorns into the wardrobe without saying a single word.   He was my secret, special friend. 

John stopped joining my evenings when, in my teens, evening adventures moved into the world beyond my parents home. I wonder if John’s still out there,  whether he grew up or maybe became someone real.

Sometimes I miss him 

Sometimes

 In 1978 I was witnessing the dramatic emotional rollercoaster’s and soap operas stories of my friends while they discovered ‘going out’ with each other. Fascinating. Tearful toilet consultations, betrayals in the school playground, ambushing at the school gates, but worst of all for me – underwear became important. One girlfriend took me aside to provide worldly advice on behalf of my concerned girlfriends. The advice was:

Wendy, you really should wear a bra, they look a disaster

At home I asked mum ‘can I have a bra?’, ‘yes dear, if you want’. Gosh that was easy. We went to the local M&S  where they measured the relevant pasts of my body and I tried on several ‘ ‘training’ bras. Training because evidently I needed to practice bra wearing skills. Even the smallest training bra was less that half empty on me. It seemed silly, mum and I persisted in this pubescently significant purchase, neither of us overtly questioning the need. I wore the elasticated mini-monstrosity to school. At school the straps were twanged by all sundry as we moved between classes. I didn’t wear it again. ‘Disaster’ was a less painful experience than strap-twang-burns Ever since then I have regularly failed carefully provided training-to-be-female exercises.

Jilted John sang Jilted John the ‘B’ side was ‘going steady’ (with Susan)

Since 1981 my dress sense has been significantly influenced by Julian Cope.  As the Guardian recently reported:

Julian Cope arrives on my doorstep looking exactly like he does in all his photos. He is wearing leather trousers, heavy boots (it is midsummer) a flowing camo jacket and The Hat. He politely takes his boots off when asked, but The Hat stays on throughout the afternoon

Julian was the front man for one of the first bands that I saw live in concert, Teardrop Explodes, the band included Alan Gill who co-rote rewards and joined Teardrop from Dalek I Love you  who’s Compass Kumpas album is one of my favourite vinyls.  Through the years Julian has supplied much worth attenting to including a couple of treasured books (e.g. The Modern Antiquarian).  Fabulous fellow.

Teardrop Explodes sang Rewards

can all be fitted in school uniform at Reading’s BHS.  As their sign says they ‘fit the Nation’.  If the picture is anything to go by,  they fit the nation of boys… I wonder why girls were invisible in their window display,  I looked for a partnering sign but none could be found…

Luckily their online advertisement includes girls in the nation together with boys, ethnicity and unisex,  I wonder why they opted out of this approach for their window displays. 

As ever,  Jackson is ahead of the game with its fabulous schoolwear department.

In 1973 my pre-teens were spent enjoying and observing the evidence of early outbreaks of total clothes rights that came with the flamboyancy of Glam Rock as people on the street took their lead from popsters like The Slade, Marc Bolan, David Bowie, Gary Glitter, Roxy Music, Wizzard, and around this time I belatedly discovered The Bonzo Dog Doo-dah band and of course…. 

The Sweet sang Ballroom Blitz.

I credit them as inspiration for a pair of tight red trousers in my wardrobe that make appearances most winters like Sweet songs in the UK.

The following song’s lyrics were common playground chant’s that probably significantly influenced the formative years of anyone from my generation named William…

The Sweet sang little willie

Comments on the fragrant wearing of non-specific-animal-print velvet trousers (NSAPVT) in a built-up area.

US:  Awesome pants!

UK: Top trousers!

Asian: (points at the NSAPVT, looks me in the eye and smiles)

Reasons why I love Reading 257:  innovative mall decorations

This display made me smile and envy the people who constructed it for the obvious fun in both conceiving of the idea and implementing it.  Very creative and entertaining.  Excellent job. I wonder what their christmas decorations will be like?  I will certainly be returning to the Broad Street mall…

When spottydog visited the Wendy House I gave her a full 1 minute tour.  The full 1 mintue tour is the executive version of the 30 second tour.  It is akin to the 15 minute Hamlet only quicker and with less literary credibility.  As audience, spottydog’s role was to provide her unique insight into potential lifestyle developments.  Half way through the tour,  near the end:

Wendy:  this is my wardrobe (US = closet.  A closet is a place where you keep skeletons, hence the title of this post)

Spottydog: that’s orderly

Wendy: its half empty

Spottydog:  its organised by colour and size,  even the shoes

Wendy:  Errrrrmmmmmmm…….   …is that bad?

Spottydog:  its not scatty

Lifestyle development suggestions involved, ‘open the beers’ and ‘you need more plants’.  Spottydog, spot-on again.

According to the Gaurdian summer music festivals are popular events but there are too many festivals chasing too few ’star’ acts.  The Observer lists ‘Boutique festivals’ as small-is-beautiful with reportedly shorter queues, higher quality food,  and more child-friendly facilities than large such as Reading, Glastonbury and t in the park.

On the August Bank Holiday weekend over 80,000 people visited the town of Reading town for the festival.  I snuck out on the train heading west for the smaller Bristol Jazz festival.  Wandering towards the train station I passed many Reading festival attendees in the de rigeur style that involved:

• denim shorts.
• personaised wellies.
• a British variation on the grunge theme. 
• NO suntan
• sunglasses cunningly repurposed as hair-bands. 
• bum bags (US = fanny-packs)

Padding removed from swimsuit bra's (flickr photoshare)

I reached my teens in the late 1970’s before the introduction of the ‘wonder-bra’.  Now,  bra’s without inbuilt padding, often called ‘push-up’ bras, are the smaller portion of the brazier market.  Luckily some designs do enable you to easily remove the default-provided padding and some celebrities are plucky enough to not-wear this generally unnecessary accessory and deal with the publicity that makes an issue out of their choice (e.g. Charlie Dimmock).

I can also verify that Jacksons stocks some fabulous bras without padding or underwiring,  Jacksons is a fashion rebel,  I love it!

Since leaving my parents’ home in the early 1980’s I’ve hankered after a classic wool dressing gown bordered with coloured-chord. Over the years I’ve compromised with fluffy-cotton dressing gowns, Kimonos and stylish smoking jackets.  Finally,  the exceptional Jackson’s summer sale delivered the real thing.  Extra-large mens’ was the smallest size available.  The shop assistant said that they had ordered the ‘Lloyd Attree and Smith’ (Gentlemans outfitters since 1857) dressing gowns based on regular requests from customers.  Unfortunately, when the dressing gowns arrived the customers were not prepared to pay the full retail price.  

Jacksons will not be restocking these Lloyd Attree and Smith 100% wool dressing gowns. 

Much to the mature, mens department, shop assistant’s amusement I tried-on the XL dressing gown.  It did not trail on the floor though I will have to roll the sleeves up by about 6 inches to keep them out of my breakfast. 

I treated myself to the warm stylish, oversized, high quality gown and a couple of white hankerchiefs in readiness for the impending onset of winter…  …it really is a wonderful experience in the early dawn, wrapped in wool beneath the dew-covered conservatory with a hot mug of tea.

As you know,  I don’t need the help of heels to fall-over and scrape my knee, uppity curbs are sufficient, it is a wendy-way of being…

Sophie King received £7,200 compensation for ‘pain, suffering and loss of amenity’ due to a broken ankle resulting from a fall when the heel of her newly purchased shoe broke.  The Guardian’s Ariane Sherine thinks Sophie deserved a broken ankle and should repay the damages.  At least one fledgeling member of the UK caring(?), medical, profession agrees with Ariane’s view that women should expect to suffer pain for conforming to patriarchal, consumerist, pressures to wear sub-standard dangerous products,  in this case,  high-heeled shoes.  Both the Guardian and medical blog point out that Sophie, the victim, was 5 ft 9.  The sheer audacity to be a girl AND tall without recognising that she expected to suffer substandard, dangerous goods, while maintaining her social obligation to conform to patriarchal ’sexy’ values. 

This is a classic example of the patriarchal approach to dealing with systematic abuse against women by requiring an adjustment to the behaviour of the victim rather than the perpetrator of the crime.  Legally referred to as ‘contributory negligence’ , infamously called-out in 1980’s UK when a man convicted of rape was not given even a custodial sentence by Judge pickles because the woman (victim) was negligent in her behaviour by wearing a mini-skirt.  Huh?! 

I’m glad that this time, the legal system protected the victim, Sophie King. 

Shoe manufacturers systematically target physically-dangerous (high-heeled) shoes at women, not men. It is a clear case of female-gender abuse.  A trap targeted only at female health.  On planet Wendy an insightful, talented, lawyer would bring a class action against the shoe industry for being the instrument of perpetrating systematic violence against women.

The travel company has provided a trip dossier that includes a very specific pre-holiday check-list on what to pack!  Useful and appealing to my listophilia:   

I’m a tad concerned about the lack of underwear and nightwear worn by my fellow passengers, self, and the skipper. Publically displayed jiggly-bits can put one off one’s beer or book.  The lack of ’dressing’ requirements for evenings in the Taverna, or Temple visiting, is also a tiny disappointment.  Luckily for the male guests there are no requirements to bring skirts or dresses. All the listed gear fits into this holdall with space to spare, for an unlisted skirt, underwear, binoculars and possibly a pretty dress.   I’m still waiting for my promised paper airline ticket to arrive…

While packing a day-bag to attend a local water-festival I noticed that my Oakley prescription sunglasses were not,  as expected, nestled amongst my collection of spectacles dating back to 1979,  in my spectacle drawer. 

There was a minor panic outbreak  because I will need these glasses for my rapidly impending Greek Sailing Holiday.  I quickly searched all sensible places where I may have put a pair of sunglasses.  They weren’t anywhere sensible.  The following morning I double-checked all the sensible places,  the following morning I looked in a few down-right silly places to put sun glasses (e.g. spare tea caddy).

3 days later,  my morning random search for the oakleys included my winter-jumper draw. There they were,  between two wool jumpers…..  

The passport under the sink and the sunglasses between the woolly-jumpers are two of the Wendy House mysteries that may never be explained…

A noticable style difference between UK and US males is that UK males have embraced the shoulder bag.  This store shows a range fairly representative of what I see slung over young dudes arms,  dudes in suits,  dudes in jeans,  dudes in khaki cargo pants, and none-dudes in all sorts of bizarreness. 

My fembot footwear provides aesthetical and sizical proportion to the tarmac cracks outside the wendy house. The current fall-overness-potential alert level is orange with a hint of cerise. 

With one notable exception I have managed to avoid shops that sell unnecessary things at bargain prices that help you save money, by spending money, during the January sales.  This is the story of my notable exception.

While exploring the small Olympic Penisula town of Sequim,  pronounced ’squwim’, I found a clothes shop with more than 4 interesting hats in the window.  Drawn in for the fun of trying on hats.  Strewn all around the shop were more, more, MORE hats.  Hand-made,  innovative hats.  I asked one of the 3 shop assistants if they had a card of the milliner.  No.  Do they know if the milliner has a website?  no. 

Sigh.  I may never find hats by this Milliner again.  After an hour or so experimenting with 30 plus hats while the 3 shop assistants left me to my game,  I realised that I would be uable to leave the without making a purchase.  I selected 3 hats that filled niche’s in my current collection and carried them over to the counter where the assistants were merrily chatting and solicted their expert advice. 

Which of these 3 hats should I buy?

The youngest assistant,  possibly in her late teens liked they way I looked in the powder-blue closh.  I liked the softness of the wool, orginality of the 1920’s style inspired design.  The middle-aged assistant liked the aubergine (US = eggplant) velvet floppy affair.  The colour is that of my PhD university gown.  The elderly assistant liked the black-white-grey fluffy pillbox.  As the three ladies argued amongst themselves about the relative benefits of each hat I listended intently.  I asked myself

• will this hat blow-off in a high wind?  No, all fitted well.
• can I washing this hat?   Yes, all were washable.
• Do I have a hat like this one? No powder-blue hats. No aubergine hats. My grey fluffy hat has a fabulously large brim.  

In a rare moment of wreckless purchasing I whipped out my credit card and bought all three for under $60.00 (approximately thirty quid).  The assistants were all happy that I had valued each of their advice and favoured none.

Later I discovered that Parkhurst (Blue closh Milliner) hat’s are sold online.  Dangerous knowledge for a Wendy to have…..

There is a trend amongst the young adult girls of Seattle.  I’ve not noticed boys indulging in this fluffy passtime.  The trend is wearing your pyjamma pants as everyday wear.  What does this dressing choice say?

Possibly it’s a variation on the notion of ‘come to bed eyes’,  ‘come to bed pants’?  Maybe it’s a way of expressing how ‘laid back’ you are “I’m so laid back I didn’t even bother getting dressed this morning“.  Could it be that these girl’s objected to the storyline of ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ and they’re making a point about the fashion industry,  they’re awake in Seattle and not following the store-based clothing classifications.  A wee rebellion against the fashion industry.  Hoorah! 

Here’s a couple of girls sporting the look in a local Coffee House:

The folded arms, ankles-crossed, pony-tails, multiple uncoordinated colours, jacket shorter than t-shirt and trainers (US = sneakers) are all optional extra’s but definitely part of the core ‘look’ I see the local girls stylin’ in.  I may have to try this out to get the full experience of the fashion-rebellious pyjamma’s as outer-wear thing. Like wearing other people’s clothes, but not quite since I will have to purchase my own Hello Kitty Pyjamma pants. 

I’ll report back on the experience.  Wish me luck

twenty-first post in a pg-13-rated Wednesday series of “why wendy’s single“.  

Reason # 21: borrowing clothes

Due to an unfortunate accident aged 17 (1981),  with a track (into you like a train) on the second Psychedelic Furs album,  I like to wear other people’s clothes.  This raises a number of challenges which may, or may not, be publishable in subsequent posts.  Luckily,  quite a few English chaps* have found it rather amusing when they discover that I literally want to get into their trousers etc. and have been indulgent of my little proclivity.  Since arriving in the US there have been a few minor outbreaks of Wendy in street camoflauge, but nothing too PG.

* male gender specific usage

It troubles me to view

in the gutter a sole shoe,

the last surviving remnant 

of a motor car accident.

The poem title is a play on the double meaning of the American word for Autumn, because it is Autumn now.  

The poem was inspired by Wendyhome blog searchers’ interest in footwear, the single shoe I recently saw in the verge and the many single shoes I’ve seen litter the roadside verges and gutters over the years. 

How did they get there?  What happened to the other shoe,  to the owner?  Is there a Wendy mother that looks after the lost shoes (rather than lost boys)?  The word ’sole’ is deliberately used to reference it’s phonological equivalent ’soul’,  as if these shoes refer to the souls of their owners.

When I see these lost shoe’s my tearducts start insisting on hyperactivity.  Not knowing how they got there, or what has happened to thier original owner causes sadness.  Lost souls leads to sadness…..

you in your best vest

me in my plastic pants

you’ll knock me up

to hang out

downtown

A poem written primarily for None-USA English speakers.  Inspired by multiple miner difficulties at various stages in my enculturation to the USA such as attempting to find a quality waistcoat (vest) to wear with my tail jacket,  being told I was wearing nice pants (trousers),  being told I would be knocked-up (called for) in the morning and being invited to hang out (come out to play).  Not to mention a funnier, clever, poem about a vest by a professional poet,  so I wont mention it.