Label Etiquette

Today I’d like to address the issue of labels. We all know what they are: irritating little tags that poke into the back of your neck and make you itch.

Sometimes they stick out of your collar and you know nothing of the matter until some kind soul approaches and tucks it in neatly for you. Depending upon their manner, you are thankful, sheepish, or utterly humiliated.

The important point here is that clothing labels are by nature supposed to be hidden. This means inside your clothes. Not visible to the public.

Sometimes clothing manufacturers attach temporary labels to the exterior of their garments. This is usually for some kind of informational or promotional purpose.

…clothing labels are by nature supposed to be hidden.

One such example are the labels the Paddington Coat Factory attach to their coats, proudly proclaiming the fabric content to be 80% wool, 20% cashmere – that 20% is a huge selling point! No doubt this is to avoid the alarming tendency of the hoi polloi to paw the coat about, trying to ascertain this very information.

But I digress. Once you have purchased the item; taken it home and lovingly unwrapped it; and tenderly hung it on a padded satin hanger, it is permissible – nay, let us say imperative – that you untack the label and throw it into the bin immediately.

Unlike the otherwise impeccably attired gentleman pictured above, arm lovingly nestling his amour, I see absolutely no reason to advertise a designer’s name on your sleeve. Unless of course you heart them very much.

Raspberry ’Eers*

I love raspberries – raspberries and cream, raspberries in my morning muesli, raspberry lollies  (the jelly kind), raspberry liqueur (that would be framboise). I have also been on a quest for the elusive raspberry-flavoured beer (*hence my lovely punning headline).

Now, I know it is more traditional to dangle cherries from one’s eers. However, I was inspired by the memory of a Marie Claire cover photo of Sarah-Jessica Parker many years ago. She was wearing a pair of eerrings that distinctly reminded me of raspberries, as do these very tactile pink Indian ‘beaded beads’. I decided to make me some raspberry confections.

For the stem, I used tiny jade rectangular beads bought years ago on eBay, attached to findings I made myself from sterling silver wire; the raspberry sits on top of a little round bead of pink candy jade. The contrast between the pink bauble and the translucent green jade is so pretty.

I love how lively these are to wear, as though they jiggle about with sheer exuberance just for being worn. But perhaps that’s only me: a non-alcoholic instant mood enhancer, they put a spring in my step.

But I still want the raspberry beer.

Slipping On a Pair of Holidays

I have this dress which makes me happy. It’s not my prettiest dress, or the most expensive. When I wear it though, it is like slipping on summer; like the first day of holidays. That feeling is priceless.

Tired of wearing pants all week, I pulled it off the hanger to wear on Friday. It meant I had to wear shoes with some sort of elevation to them, but they had to be comfortable to walk in; thongs certainly wouldn’t do. I found a pair of leather wedges in a soft red and slipped them on. On my way to school, I pulled out a favourite red and white striped shawl from my tote and wrapped it round to ward off the chill.

Ohhh! Suddenly I realised I was wearing an outfit entirely composed of items I had bought on holiday a couple of years earlier. I’ve already recounted the stories of the Zara dress and the pashmina. Here is the tale of the shoes.

When I wear [the dress], it is like slipping on summer; like the first day of holidays…

I’d gone out one afternoon already dressed for evening festivities (a Christmas do on a yacht), intending to while away two or three hours shopping in one of Dubai’s enormous malls. Whilst out, the shank on one of my cream leather mules snapped in half, which meant suddenly this casual shopping trip assumed a sense of urgency, as I had to find a suitable pair of shoes to replace them.

Frantically I shuffled from shop to shop in the broken shoes, trying to find a pair of footwear that I a) liked, b) were leather and c) were not too expensive. It was more difficult than you would imagine. Eventually I ran these wedges to earth in a Bata boutique. I didn’t love them, but they would pass muster.

I distinctly recall the pleasure with which I threw the broken shoe in a bin in the middle of the mall.

On the yacht, my escort accurately gauged my true feelings. He nevertheless whole-heartedly approved of the shoes. They are a bit too preppy for me, with their blanket-stitched edges, but nowadays I wear them occasionally, and they make me smile fondly.

Sparkles For a Song

I can’t resist sparkly things. They catch my eye wherever I go, and like a magpie I’ll snatch them up (if the price tag meets my approval).

Every one of these brooches above was found in a charity shop, vintage boutique, or on eBay, for the price of a song. I don’t think I paid any more than US$15 for any of them, and a good deal less for some.

Sundry sparkly bags, bowties and pins, from Shag.Why do women love jewels, I wondered? Of course, in the past men have worn jewellery as often; both sexes for reasons of status, artistic and emotional expression. One article I found online proposed that women are avaricious souls who demand diamonds as proof of love from their men. It is probably true of some women, but I felt a bit insulted. I’m just as happy with my pretty fakes.

This necklace from Shag reminds me of Nicole Kidman’s necklace in ’Moulin Rouge‘.More pleasing to me were these poetic gems I unearthed. I confess I don’t actually wear my brooches very often – I mainly like to look at them, at their bright colours, so pretty when the light catches them and turns them into flame.

But these vintage trifles aren’t quite big enough for me. The ones that really make me gasp are these modern dazzlers regularly displayed in the front window of Shag, on Chapel St in Windsor. They are positively enormous, jaw dropping – and I am convinced go for nothing less than an operetta.

London is the capital of Paris*

“I’m sure I’m not Ada,” she said, “for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn’t go in ringlets at all, even when I slave away for hours with the curling wand and use product and everything.”

“Besides,” continued Tatiana as she fanned herself with the White Rabbit’s quaint antique wooden fan trimmed in navy silk ribbon, “I don’t like the name Ada at all. It is so unglamorous. Not like my name.”

“And I’m sure I can’t be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things and she, oh! she knows such a very little! She’s the sort who would show her ankles in public,” Tatiana continued her snide internal monologue, forgetting for the moment that she was a giantess and sitting cross-legged on a tiled floor in a most unladylike fashion.

“I don’t like the name Ada at all. It is so unglamorous…”

Tatiana tossed the white kid gloves about thoughtfully. “Let me see: four times five is twelve, and London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome – no, that’s all wrong. I’m certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I’ll try and say ‘How doth the little—’”

How doth the little snake
Weave its snakey little way
Through the grass and take
Me for its prey?

How cheerfully he seems to smile,
And speaks with lying tongue
Of merely basking in the sun,
Yet strangling me all the while.

“I’m sure those are not the right words,” said poor Tatiana, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, “I must be Mabel after all.”

Tatiana mournfully gazed at the large pool of tears, and just moments before she wholly gave way to hysterics she suddenly remembered. The absinthe! It was surely all crocodile tears, she told herself, and cheered up immediately.

Any moment now she’d shrink magically back to her proper size and slip through that door into that lovely garden.

If only it were that easy for all of us.

*With apologies to Lewis Carroll for butchering his text.