Mad March & Ethical Fashion Con-Fusion

I’m late, I’m late! Noooo, I’m not pregnant – just way overdue. Where did February go? I just don’t know! But here we are well into March. In Bunhill Cemetery the daffodils are a-shaking their shocking yellow heads; and the bluebells are a-tinkling which means one thing: spring! Ding dong the witch is dead get outta bed…

Spring has sprung and I’ve returned from my year of self-imposed exile to London tan’s Eastend to start a-new. So I began my new London life in style by attending the Fashion Fusion Expo, “a showcase for the very best in ethical and sustainable designers”. A short stroll daan the

I'm off to the sustain-a-ball

frog (that’s authentic cockney rhyming slang …) to the labyrinthine Truman Brewery, the FFE was a little hard to find. But once I found it boy I wished I hadn’t.

I’d been peachy keen to get my teeth into some sustainable style, not to mention “…get up close and personal with … industry experts…” as the website claimed. I mean I’ve just become a fully fledged Holistic Colour & Style Consultant, don’t you know, and I want to make some contacts: designers I can tell my future clients about, that sort of thing. But after costing an arm and a leg to get in – a tenner, Olympia prices! – there turned out to be all of ten stalls; a couple of which looked strangely similar, so they kinda cancelled each other out…

And I’d set my heart on listening to a talk given by Image Consultant, Hannah Jean, who was supposed to be on at 12 noon, Saturday. She has an interesting slant on image and self empowerment and runs a project for teenage girls called Diva-licious – this is the

Curiouser & Curiouser

sort of stuff I want to hear about, the sort of stuff I want to do. But the talks were rescheduled and no-one seemed to know what was happening when: curiouser and curiouser. And by the time Hannah Jean appeared she was even later than this blog, and not all I’d anticipated. So I cut my losses and left.

I did manage to have a chat with some some lovely ladies however, including: Frank & Faith, who were exhibiting an array of simple separates in sustainable fabrics, in lush colours, made in the UK; NV, an “…ethical accessories company … producing entirely handmade, high quality bags and accessories, designed in Britain and created in Calcutta…”; and the Ethical Fashion Forum, who told me, it would be worth attending their monthly socials for networking porpoises… (I went to see Alice in 3D the night before last, and I’m toadally off my head now).

Surely the Fashion Fusion Expo was meant to establish ethical and sustainable as viable alternatives to fast

Green (& ethical) with NV

fashion? Instead it showed that green is not the new black it claims to be, but a pale imitation. My climate change enthusiast (if you can be enthusiastic about such a thing) house-mate had tagged along and insisted the reason for the FFE failure was that there isn’t that much ethical or eco fashion around, full stop. I was like, er, yeah there is! I mean, if the sustainable style message is missing this gal, then there has to be something seriously wrong.

And if events like these are the face of the ethical fashion industry then there’s no wonder people are sticking to their fast fashion fix. Fast fashion comes in enticing, addictive ‘eat me’ ‘drink me’ consumable, disposable packaging; and Green is still perceived as a bitter pill to swallow. For ethical and eco high ideals to be embraced by the high street, and beyond, events like these need to stop being Fashion Con-Fusion – ho ho ho – and start catwalking the talk.  (A bit like me and the old colour & style consulting business!)

Being Green [with Envy] – Monsters, Dare Devils & J Alfred Prufrock (Who he?)

“To thine own self be true.” (Above the stage at Conway Hall)

 

Lady Gaga happy in the faux frog skin she's in

Green may be the new black, but what happens when green goes bad? I don’t mean when you go all OTT with the emerald velvet and wind up looking like Kermit the Frog. I mean green as a way of being, as in green-fingered, as in balanced and harmonious; the flipside of green as in pleasant, green as in good. I’m talking green as in envy. This was the question the School of Life was posing the other wild, wet and windy Sunday. 

I was having a go at killing 2 birds with one stone, not literally of course. All sounds rather messy if you ask me, you’d need a big stone, for starters, the kind Wiley Coyote used to drop off cliffs to flatten Road Runner – speaking of which, there’s a lesson to be learned here: only stone a bird while it’s standing still and if you’re going for two, then maybe opt for something that’s not gonna move suddenly – think dodo.  

So… anyway, the birds: The School of Life Sunday Sermon and My Cultural Life. The stone: Me turning up. Two different outfits I’d been meaning to tag along to in the same place at the same time – it just had to be done!

Satan's happy in the satin-lycra skin he's in...

Finding and meeting the My Cultural Life crew was easy enough; us early birds… escaped the elements and shivered with the rest of the philosophically curious flock in the foyer; under the all-seeing gaze of an improbably tall, improbably thin chap in a scarlet satin-lycra catsuit. Apparently this almost mythical man was no less than the legendary Johnny Satan, the Sunday Sermon’s minister-cum-compere.

Mr satin-clad Satan led us in a sing-a-long kinda hymn thing of that depressing Donnie Darko ditty Mad World, before introducing guest speaker, Oliver James, of Affluenza fame. Basically, OJ said envy = jealousy with claws on (aka the green-eyed monster). Well, he didn’t, I said that, but you get the idea…

"Surprise, surprise, Scylla!"

And if you don’t, then good old (ancient, in fact) Ovid gave us a damn fine demo of the destructive force of envy-in-action in his tale of Scylla, the water nymph – not the red ‘aired Liverpudlian songstress and host of Surprise Surprise, in case you were wondering. Glaucus, a minor sea god, had gone all Lady Gaga over sexy Scylla, but got seriously browned off when he failed to bag his babe. So who you gonna call? Well, not Circe the Sorceress, if this is anything to go by; cos, taking a shine to Glaucus herself, she decided to turn Scylla’s watering hole into a toxic hell hole, and poor Scylla into swamp thing. Eek!

The point is, envy is bad, not just for the envious, or the envied, but for everyone and everything. OJ laid the blame squarely at the door of capitalism and that crazy carousel ride consumerism. Keeping up with the Joneses and indeed coveting the Joneses stuff is basically the root of the fleurs du mal we call envy. The solution? The Scandinavian approach for one, apparently… And looking a bit closer to home – (1) feeling good in your own skin and (2) getting into your flow (ie, stuff you loved to do as child) as often as possible. Perhaps Circe should have tried fuzzy felts before resorting to poison?

The sermon concluded with tea and a slice of green-iced cake. Mr Satan urged the flock to have a chin-wag with a stranger over cha, but I felt that I was doing my bit by meeting up with the hitherto unknown My Cultural Life groupies. Honest. Actually, I harboured a desire to say something ground breaking to the marvellous Monsieur de Botton, who I’d seen swanning about the entrance hall. This was, oooh, the fourth time I’ve been a stone’s throw from my fave philosopher, but what to say? “I’m your number one fan?” No.  So I said, nothing, again.

Speaking of procrastination and major lack of self esteem I was most intrigued by OJ’s brief reference to TS Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  He reckoned it was a portrait of life half-lived and Prufrock, like all those scared of their own shadows, was likely to be struck by the green-eyed monster:

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Laundry Clouds & Silver Linings

Every pile of laundry has a silver lining. That’s my new saying anyway. This blog began with the premise that my wardrobe may be the external representation of my internal state. Since then the wardrobe situation has metamorphosed from a group of disparate piles into one giant pile of dirty laundry interspersed with some out-of-season attire vacuum-packed into a few suitcases. And yes, my life looks pretty much the same way…

On the other hand despite the disarray I can see that with a lot of TLC and a new wardrobe to put it in, my so-called-life will be in full working order again! 

My glittery-green-eyed guy has gone awol once more. And I can only look in the mirror and say, “I told you so!” Lesson: two wrong-headed people do not make a right relationship.  Maybe it was the enticing aroma of his Body Shop Bilberry Detangler – it does it to me every time! But no more, the Eau d’ Angst his lack of direction and my lack of confidence emitted has left an overpowering odour in the air.

One of the many things I loved about him was how he appreciated my style. This meant a lot to me because, as he said, the way I dress is an expression of my creativity and he always, always made me feel I was perfect the way I wore…

Only for the past few months I’ve been expressing something more akin to Catweazle than creativity, wearing whatever I could cram in my bag. I’ve been thinking about all that Law of Attraction stuff – you know, where you get what you focus on – and I am wondering whether my tramp-like tendencies – my tweed coat has a huge hole in it and my red coat looks as if I’ve had a near miss with the Hooded Claw – have attracted my current rootless, bag lady state.

The thing is I feel pants – I mean in myself, not other people’s… well, it depends.  I still haven’t completed that Be Gorgeous course…I haven’t ‘trusted my vibes’, meditated, Relax [ed] and Attract [ed]… or got my hair cut in over a year… or done any of the things I knew I should to feel better.  And worst of all I have really let myself  down by believing I needed Mr Glittery’s validation.

A breath of fresh laundry...

As I lay awake the other night listening to the World Service, I heard this woman talking about loving yourself. She said people make the mistake of thinking their relationship is a base on which to build their life, when in fact your life should be self-contained contentment and your relationship the cherry on top. So that told me! No cherries till you’ve got your pastry baked or your tart goes all floppy – no-one likes a floppy tart. Or in other words all that glitters and smells like Bilberry Leave-in Detangler is not gold; and behind the smell of air-dried, hand-pressed laundry lies a lot of washing and ironing.

Life Laundry:
Clean up your act with the help of a Life Coach…
Rachel Bamber
Fiona Harrold
Jackee Holder

Eco-Laundry:
Green & clean products straight to your door …
Abel & Cole
Spirit of Nature
Nigel’s Eco Store

 

Fear & Loathing in Marks & Spencer’s – Where have all the Good Pants Gone?

Angst In My Pants:
Part 2 – Pants
An ill-fitting or unsightly pair of pants can  curb your enthusiasm no end, just as the perfect pair of everyday drawers can help you work, rest and play. Their inherent power is such that not only do superheroes sport briefs, but some have long since worn them over their tights – with pride.  Like the power behind the throne and all that, the role of pants is kinda taken for granted and they are used and abused with little to no thought, until one dares to bare, or they reveal themselves, usually via VPL or low slung slacks.  But more worryingly still, aside from causing low grade unease, according to the film, More than Pretty Knickers by Eco Boudoir, a really bad pair of pants can be bad for the planet.  Yes, the humble brief can be a toxic, energy guzzling, sweatshop produced menace.

So, armed with the knowledge your knickers could be more evil than Evel Knievel you try to find some kinder, ethical, eco-friendly, everyday underpants at a reasonable cost to you and the environment. 

How bad are your pants?

This, dear reader was my pant plan.  Setting out with a jaunty air of optimism and anticipation at some planet-loving pant action  I entered the underwear aisle of ‘your’ M&S only to have my hopes dashed and my plans foiled.  The place was awash in Fairtrade Cotton t-shirts and vests, yes, but knickers – nada.  I had hitherto not considered such an eventuality and this left me stumped.  The question was: where could I get me some good-for-everything, everyday briefs at an ever so nice price?

Fear not! I not only come armed with some good pants solutions, but also, I have some brief advice as to finding your perfect partner in pants anti-eco-crime.

Colour
The 70s penchant for the beige and brown colour palette has left a certain someone I know marred by the memory of being presented with a pair of brown y-fronts adorned with a fetching stamps of the world print, trimmed in orange – not to mention some vague consternation at his mother’s misguided notion that he was into philately. 

Everyday underwear should be understated, colour wise, I reckon, but, also there’s the whole dirty dye issue, which begs the question, do your patterned pants have something to hide?

The 70s was pants for pants

Fabric
Same guy, same pants, that other 70s obsession, nylon knickers, and a pair of polyester slacks, with cowboy and Indian print pockets – result:  sweat pants.  How a pre-pubescent boy could perspire that much has a remained a mystery to this day, but he has harboured a grudge against them postage stamp pants ever since. 

Cotton, of course, is the fabric of choice – as it’s supposedly kind to your behind, but it’s not always so great for mankind.  More sustainable fabrics like bamboo and Lenpur, a fibre made from cultivated tree clippings, are becoming popular alternatives – whatever doesn’t tickle your fancy is key to fabric choice… ahem.

Style & Fit
Once, on a camping trip with my family, I awoke to find I was wearing a huge pair of man’s olive green, tanga pants.  Was this a Jekyll and Hyde type situation I wondered vaguely. Had I been a fully grown male at night, only to awake my usual seven year old, girl self in the morning?  The truth was only slightly less sinister.  My little sister, her mind ravaged by days of Devon’s version of Deli Belly, had been awakened in the night by some strange grumbling noises she cunningly detected were coming from the vicinity of my knickers – this information from the same person who heard Rudolph get his antler stuck in the chimney.  So, naturally, given her past performance, my bleary-eyed parents took her at her word and finding it to be completely unfounded, continued in their somnambulist states to put me in some over-sized, misshapen, manky coloured dad pants – eergh.  So, yeah, style and fit maketh the pant.  

Go commando? I don't think so...

How to Wear
First wear your own.  Second wear one at a time – the aforementioned sister once wore about ten pairs she had taken a shine to, only for them to slide down her legs, gather in a heap at her feet and slip off into the street as she was being pushed along in her buggy.  Third, wear, some… If you’ve negated to wear your knickers, do not hold your skirt aloft in the middle of the Post Office and announce, ‘Mummy, mummy I’m not wearing any knickers!’ to all and sundry.  The apparent power inherent in going commando is totally diminished by scenes like these, but then again, going commando is pretty overrated unless you’re doing it for the fear factor – for most of us a good pair of pants is like an adult security blanket.

The Good – Bog Standard – Pant Guide
Make your tatty tees into new knickers – supernaturale
Say ‘pants’ to poverty and be a real do-gooder in the Pants to Poverty, Purely Natural, organic and fairtrade pants
Bag yourself some anti-bacterial bamboo briefs – Spirit of Nature

Part 1 – Bras

: : : : : : : : : : :

Angst in My Pants – Laying the Foundations to a Better Wardrobe & a Better You.

“To put it bluntly, I seem to have a whole superstructure with no foundation. But I’m working on the foundation.”

Marilyn Monroe

Foundations, foundations, foundations

In this time of economic upheaval when we all share a feeling of angst in our collective pants we are prone to retreat to the sofa of self-preservation and comfort-eat ourselves silly. One Friday, when my parents had opted for the Indian take away cure-all, my mother attempted to pay the expressionless cashier with a pair of black lacy knickers she had pulled from the cavernous depths of her handbag. The cashier gazed, unfazed, as my mother tried to convince onlookers that she had not intended to offer her underwear, or any other services hinted at, in exchange for a lamb korma, but carried the offending item with her just ‘in case’. “There’s nothing worse than being without clean knickers,” she explained. Or with, in this instance. And yet she had a point – when it gets down to it, we all need to get back to basics and think: foundations, foundations, foundations.

In my quest for a more ethical and eco-friendly wardrobe the question of underwear has proved somewhat problematic. And I’m not talking fancy fripperies – you know, those cobweb-like affairs made by fairy-fingered folk entirely for the benefit of the beholder, with little care for the Ruben-esque curves they should be holding. I’m talking the bread and butter of your underwear collection, which should be like a lover: comfortable, reliable and effective. And, if like me, you have more dash than cash, affordable too.

Part 1: Bras

We’ll work from the top down.  This week we’ll talk about bras. 

Multi-Breasted Fertility Goddess Syndrome (MFG)

Many a splendid breast is being let down by an unwise choice of bra. A lot has been said about the perils of VPL (‘visible pantie line’ for those of you still unaware), but the subject of the many multi-breasted fertility goddesses roaming the streets is hardly mentioned. MFG is, in my humble opinion, one of the biggest enemies of the stylish ensemble. Yes, the whole deciphering your cup-size thing can be a little daunting, and I guess some, like the woman on the 133, may even be tempted to let them all hang out, long, limp and pendulous – but ladies, the cleavage should always be situated around the upper chest area and not risk being sat on by a fellow passenger.

To be honest I’ve had my fair share of trouble with bras on buses, notably with my first bra (more wishful thinking than breast-ful needing I have to admit ) , which, having so little to cling onto gave up the ghost, released itself from its moorings and displayed its wrinkled, white, deflated self about my neck like a pair of sad old balloons left over from a party. I’m sorry to say my years of bra-blems are not over and I am often forced to endure the errant bra strap scenario, which encourages a sort of lopsided shrug in order to keep it in check – think Quasimodo.

Like a glove...

 

And once you’ve got yourself a reliable bra which fits like a glove, then remember: one bra does not fit all occasions. Obviously there’s the whole strapless / backless consideration, but colour is also important. I once had to swap bras with my sister, in a nightclub lavatory, because she had worn white beneath a black top, resulting in her breasts glowing like Belisha Beacons in the ultra violet lighting – rumour has it she was the inspiration behind Electric Six’s video for Danger! High Voltage.

Bra-sics – Where to go for the green, the good and the glamorous:

Greenfibres Green goddesses go here

Figleaves – Green Leaves is every Eve’s fave eco undies department

Ciel – Organic undies

Sleek ‘n’ Chic – Vintage va va voom

Next time we’ll be talking pants!

: : : : : : : : : : :