Judging books by their covers

How is it that I never have money for phone bills and petrol but always manage to scrape my last few dollars together for new books? These pretty young things were just calling my name on the shelves of Angus and Robertsons, practically free with my staff discount. Practically ;-)

I'm sad to say I'm one of those silly, shallow people guilty of judging books by their covers. I can’t help it, I just love stories wrapped up in pretty jackets! I would rather spend the extra dollars on a luxuriously embossed cover and textured pages than buy the cheaper Penguin version printed on dull toilet paper (again, where do all these extra dollars magically appear from??). And if I see a book that I already own in a prettier version than the one I already have, it’s a pretty big temptation not to buy it again (which is where my collection of Alice in Wonderland books comes from).

I tried to resist buying A Life in Frocks. I really did.  I knew it wasn't the type of book that I like to read and would be one of those forgettable stories that you read and then when a friend asks you what it was like, you can’t remember a thing about it. But after catching my eye for the third time on my meandering around the biography section, I finally succumbed to the inevitable and bought the blasted book!

As suspected, I am about three-quarters of the way through the novel and still don’t really understand what the book is supposed to be about. There was however one section of the book which did strike a cord with me which was when the author wrote of how clothes have the ability to transport us and how certain pieces of clothing not only hold so many memories but say something so essential about the kind of person that we are.

Now, along with being a book hoarder (or bibliophile as a certain someone called me the other day ;-), I am also a major clothes horse! Until recently, my wardrobe was bursting at the seams with clothes that I can't, won't or shouldn't wear anymore and it was only after reading an article in Frankie about reducing our carbon footprints that I was persuaded to go green and donate my unwearable clothes to the less fortunate. As I sorted through my wardrobe, I couldn't pick up a single item of clothing without being reminded of a funny story that accompanied it, a memory of where I was the last time I wore it or the occasion that I bought it for.   Here are some of my most memorable items of clothing and the stories that go with them. I would love to hear some of yours! 

THE KILT

In the same way that the scribbled, stitched and stretched pair of jeans in ‘The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants’ tell a hundred tales of love, loss and travel, my wee Scottish kilt was with me from start to finish on one of the biggest adventures of my life. I bought it at a tartan shop on the Royal Mile when I arrived in Edinburgh in the summer of 2008 and I wore it for the first time to a Ceiledh, where I twirled for hours with sweaty dance partners and drank so much Irn-Bru that my tongue was stained orange. I wore it when I went to Belgium where I ate countless waffles and walked all around the entire town of Brugge with a sprained ankle. I wore it on my first date with Jakob, a Swedish hipster who worked at the Elephant House where I went to write and gave me free lattes and elephant-shaped shortbread biscuits. I wore it during the coldest winter of my life, with German leg-warmers and thick, woollen tights. I wore it with a red beret and a souvineur shirt that read ‘Resident of the Berlin Psychiatric Ward’ in the most culturally clashing outfit imagineable. Putting on my kilt is the equivilant of opening a suitcase full of travel journals and photographs. Every fibre of that tartan fabric screams to me of adventure and mischief and unquenchable wanderlust.


THE PLATFORM TRAINERS

As a twelve year old, I was desperately in love with the Spice Girls. It wasn’t enough that I knew all the songs and dance moves, owned all the memorabilia and had a shrine to them on my bedroom wall; I wanted to BE one of them. As much as it pains me to admit, the red hair that I now sport originates from a time when I was imitating Ginger Spice. So when I saw those gleaming white platform trainers just like the ones that Baby Spice wore in the window of Truworths, I just had to have them. I think up until then my mom had been picking and buying my clothes which made the trainers feel even more grown-up and slightly naughty when I bought them with my own pocket money. They gave me the much needed confidence (and the much needed height!) that I sorely lacked when my family moved from Johannesburg to a tiny seaside town in the Western Cape where I didn’t know a single soul. They came to a sorry end after only a few months of owning them when my spiteful little pooch decided to get her revenge for being left home alone for too long and gobbled them up, laces and all. Maybe she wasn't such a fan of girl power.

THE RED TRENCHCOAT

My red jacket was my signature piece of clothing until I lost it last spring on an unfortunate night out at Lulu’s. It was bought while I was doing my journalism studies at university and became affectionately known as the ‘Lois Lane’ jacket among my friends and writing pals. This coat made me feel like a writer and made me want to work in a busy, bustling newsroom writing thrilling expose’s and doing investigative reporting in black-rimmed spectacles and starched white blouses with the collars popped up. This coat was not made for any wilting wall flower because everywhere I went, I became known as ‘The Girl in the Red Coat’ especially if I wore my matching red beret and clear acrylic umbrella with the cheeky red trim. I think the coat was the equivalent of a tracking device for my friends because they looked even more distraught than me when they found out that my precious coat was no more and all wondered how they would ever find me in a crowd now.

THE PURPLE WIG

Could there be a more frivolous thing to buy than a purple wig? Probably the most pointless of my travel purchases, I bought this on holiday in Sydney at the Paddy markets and spend a very entertaining evening wearing it on our apartment balcony, yelling to people passing by, 'Deal or no deal!!' It did come in handy when I had a 1920's night to go to last year...but that's about it really.

Lots of love,

Miss Manship

xxx

*Reminiscing of a summer past*

After my recent jaunt of being a penniless traveller, I am slightly overwhelmed with the amount of clutter I have accumulated in my room. A major clear-out is in progress and between the stacks of sheet music and pressed flowers, I found this note. It's dated a few days after my return from my trip to Scotland in 2007, my first ever trip away from home and was scribbled in the wee hours of one of my jet-lag induced sleepless nights.

'I am missing Edinburgh. I miss cold, stone buildings and misty meadows and twenty different shades of lush green. I miss the buzz of learning and laughing and singing. Excitement and pleasure and feeling as though I have never been happier than at this very moment. I miss Carly and Liza, Amir and Tashi, Roxanne and Will and my Spanish senoritas. I miss feeling dumb and inspired and light and slightly beautiful. Also, the lovely sensation of belonging. I miss Japanese tourism, pillaging, dancing and discovering.

I miss being the Pied Piper and the lone Australian. I miss being Red. I miss being a mystery. Life without chores and T.V. and my cellphone (but not facebook...that I could not live without). I miss early morning lectures and frosty nights and terrible cafeteria food. I miss grumpy old ladies and blistered ankles and broken glasses.

I miss defiant graffiti!

I miss sparkly red Dorothy shoes and terrible pick-up lines and even worse poetry scribbled in the sleepy aftermath of a beautiful dream. I miss having beautiful dreams. I miss the colourful Indian shops, cluttered second-hand bookshops and classy vintage stores.

Like that place where you bought your kilt from.

I miss being able to get away with wearing pink snakeskin ballet slippers and shiny blue tap shoes. Roald Dahl coffee mugs and C.S. Lewis biographies. Being defiant and cheeky and indulged enough to get away with it. I miss sharing secrets and wicked whispers in dirty pubs and trendy coffee shops and having my grammar corrected. Persian and Hebrew, Spanish and Gaelic. I miss feeling alive.'