Fashion Reich

My guide to vintage shopping in Berlin, as featured in the lovely, shiny, press your face to the pages glossy magazine Black Book.

An unexpected continuation of The Saga of The Black Leather Mini Skirt

The trouble with fashion is that certain pieces don’t always translate. The smooth long vowels of one language become jarred and awkward in another setting, and soon enough all that was great about a certain thing gets lost in what comes from being a slightly different you, in a very different place. As someone who moves around a fair amount, I am very aware of this. The yards of brown string and wooden beads, while perfectly fitting on a Kenyan beach, will lose any appeal under a grey London sky. London shoes are not Berlin shoes. A Parisian outfit in Cape Town will suddenly look overdone. And I know this. I really do. Which is why The Skirt has taken to a shelf since my return to London. In Berlin, The Skirt was in its element. It was a perfect piece. It solved all of my skirt dilemmas. I was absolutely content in my skirt wearing. Oh, how I loved that skirt. However, when I got back to London, something about The Skirt wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something certainly was amiss. Some days I would put the skirt on, um and ah, and invariably, just before leaving the house, throw on an alternate leg covering instead. Needless to say, The Skirt hasn’t exactly been on centre stage since its Berlin heyday.

But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.

On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked.
‘How Much?’
I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.

Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”

Falling apart at the seams

I feel utterly trashy. Not the good kind of trashy, a glitter on the pillow, smeared eye makeup and an inexplicable left brogue sans owner found in the kitchen kind of trashy. No, I am referring more to the plastic garden furniture in your living room kind of trashy.

Everything I own is falling apart.

My Laptop
The state of my laptop is thoroughly depressing. I remember when I got it and it seemed to weigh as little as a single stamped envelope. It was small and fast and the keys had just enough yield that typing created a pleasant tapping. My laptop seems to have aged with me. Let’s just say it’s not as svelte as it once was. I am embarrassed to show it in public. The keyboard is clogged. I have no explanation for this. I clean the keyboard regularly, and yet it seems as if a thin layer of filth has infected it and I need to type really hard for the letters to register on screen. Often, the C will refuse to work unless I hold my thumb down on it for several seconds. The F10 key is missing. Thankfully I have never had a use for the F10 key, so it doesn’t hinder me too much.

The insides of the poor thing are in even worse shape. At random intervals, my internet explorer will open umpteenth windows of whatever site I am on. Frantically, I work to shut them all down, but my computer is not as fast as it used to be and this takes time. Sometimes, if too many open up too quickly I simply have to wait for all 47 windows to open and the inevitable crash that ensues. At least once every 2-4 days, my screen flips upside down. There is an awful moment when the screen goes black and then my cursor will appear, the tiny arrow pointing down. Then the whole screen will return, only upside down. I have no idea why this happens. I’ve run virus checks, spyware checks, AVG, everything I can think of. Even my computer genius brother doesn’t know why it happens. When it does, I have to restore my system. This is not the most speedy of tasks. In fact, I believe that system restores are filed under ‘Ball Ache’ in the big book of life. To make matter worse, I have to restore my system UPSIDE DOWN and in reverse. When I drag my mouse right, the cursor goes left. It’s a bloody nightmare.

The speakers no longer work. They haven’t worked for about a year. However, you could still get sound through headphones. This morning, the headphone port spat out tiny bits of plastic and metal. In order to get sound before, you had to press the jack down, as there was, I can only assume, a bit of a dodgy connection. However, the laptop is apparently tired of that and now there is no sound to be had. At all. The prospect of not being able to watch Michael McIntyre clips on youtube panics me more than I can fully tell you.

My battery charger, after a long and drawn out ordeal, also died a painful death. Unable to acquire a new Dell charger, I resorted to the cheapest charger I could find. Please note that I searched for days to find said charger, and eventually found one at MediaArkt (8000square metres of electrical good hell) that cost a sickening 50 Euros. That was the CHEAPEST one! It is roughly the size and weight of your average clay brick and due to compatibility issues, I was incensed to discover, cannot charge my laptop, but instead acts only as a power source. Accidently knocking the flimsy cord and dislodging the charger has resulted in many unexpected shutdowns and much filthy sailor swearing.

My Clothes
My boots finally died. I have tried to fix them but alas, this time I don’t think I will be so lucky as to coax a few more days of fully zipped wear out of them. I also inspected the soles and found them alarmingly worn down and completely without grip. This would explain why the smooth tiles of my building’s entrance hall are such a treacherous seven steps for me. Today I closed them up by wrapping a thin belt around my calf. It didn’t look bad and if one was none the wiser, it could easily pass for pirate punk. But being in the know, the whole thing had the slightly musty smell of homelessness and free soup. Why not wear other shoes, you ask? The other flats I have here are all in similar states of disrepair. Holes abound. It was raining out. I thought it safer to wrap a belt around my lower leg.

All of my trousers have holes in them. My jeans are about to give. The darning on my black trousers is teetering on the brink of embroidery. The handles of my favourite oversized horse bag bought in Paris far too long ago are held on by safety pins. This is not ideal when carrying heavy loads. My Pringle socks have holes in the toes.

Everything is falling apart. At the seams. Other things on the precipice of ruin include my ridiculous mobile (what was I thinking, getting a Prada phone? The things I will do for an attractive carry case.) My headphones. My luggage. My Chloe Paddington. I won’t go into too much more detail as I don’t want this to seem as if I am complaining. I’m really not. I’m simply stating the facts as they are. I find the whole thing amusing really. It’s all a bit Poète Maudit, but no need for concern until I wake up in Nina Hamnett territory.

My final word on 'The Skirt'

Completely inappropriately, this bizarre little dance was captured at the very sombre and fascinating 'Holocaust Memorial.' I promise that the image captured is not at all reflective of my feelings about the memorial, the travesty it spoke of nor the shitty weather we were experiencing at that moment. Frankly, i don't know what is going on with it. However, it does show my skirt. Corlia, I have no more to say on the matter.

The Skirt

For Corlia. Just me and my skirt, hanging out.

The Debacle of the Black Leather Mini Skirt

(A story in 2 parts. Part 2)

Okay, so, I decided that I needed to buy a black leather mini skirt. It couldn’t just be a regular old black skirt, as I already have one of those and I can’t afford to be doubling up on wardrobe pieces at this stage of my life. So, I decided that black leather it was to be. And not slutty biker black leather, nothing you’d see in Coyote Ugly or could imagine Paris Hilton wearing. Rather, something vintage, high waisted, the skirt equivalent of Michael Crowe’s literary sock, ‘a sock you can really read something in.’ It would go with EVERYTHING! I could just imagine it. Tucking my grey wife beater into it. Pairing it with my black riding boots and Chloe Paddington. The coupling of my future skirt and grey woolly tights would be the Bill and Hillary of my wardrobe, the power couple. My skirt and I were going to do great things, write great books, travel to great places, see great sights. I may have put unnecessary pressure on the poor skirt.

So, like any girl on a budget, I hit the second hand stores. I have seen the insides of some second hand stores in Berlin. From the top of Prenzlauer Berg to the bottom of Kreuzberg, I’ve looked. I looked for days. And days. Sure, there were skirts, but none of them were quite right. Too long, too small, too shiny, too expensive. Eventually, at a store a little closer to home, the Humana near Alexander Platz (not the mammoth five storey store I previously mentioned) I found two contenders. I traipsed into the dressing room and found that the first, while fantastic on the hanger, was not ideal when it was on. It was intended for someone with both a smaller waist and bigger ass than I. To say that the cut was odd is an understatement. It also had two very strange pockets that caused the front of the skirt to balloon somewhat when you moved. It was not hot. I put the skirt back on the hanger and tried the second one on. The second one... the second one was PERFECT! It was everything I wanted in a skirt. It veered just on the right side of rock n roll without collapsing over the line into joan jett and her power mullet territory. It begged to be paired with an oversized bun and a cardigan. It was my Michael Crowe literary sock. And it was only 9 euros! Result.

Happy that I had found my skirt, I put my jeans back on and stepped into my riding boots. I zipped up my left boot, smiling to myself. I zipped up my right boot and found that smile quickly dissipate into abject horror as the slider from the zipper of my right boot detached itself from the teeth. My knee length boot flopped open, a leather puddle at my ankle. I sat in near tears, trying desperately to fix the zip. But it would not fix. It was, quite truly, pretty fucked. These are my favourite boots. Right now, they are my only boots. I NEED THESE BOOTS. Winter in Berlin begs for boots like these. Eventually, I made peace with the fact that these boots could not be fixed without some pliers, some scissors and a needle and thread. I would have to go home and fix them there. However, I couldn’t walk with the boot flapping open as my foot kept slipping out. So I tried to tuck the boots into my jeans, a reverse from the usual jeans into boots look I usually go for. The thing is, I wear pretty tight jeans. Skinny jeans. As it is, there is little room to manoeuvre, never mind make space for a knee high leather boot. So it ended up that I could fit the top 5 inches or so into the jeans and the rest of the boot sort of scrunched up around my ankle. Think of a leather leg warmer, if you will. I unzipped my other boot and did the same thing with it. If I was going to look ridiculous, I at least wanted to look even whilst I did it. Unhappy, I grabbed my skirt, went to pay, and then walked the 25 minutes home in my stupid, broken boots.

At home I performed an hour long boot surgery to seeming success. The boots zip up again, but they are fragile and frankly, I don’t know how much longer they have left in them. Trying to focus on the positive, I think ‘Well, at least I have my skirt.’ With great ceremony, I take it from my bag to admire it. And horror of horrors, I took the wrong fucking skirt. Oh god. In my hands in the tiny waist, huge ass, bubble stomach pocket skirt. Oh no no no. This skirt is not a skirt I can really read something in! I have to exchange it. Another terrible realisation dawns. I have to exchange it and I’m going to have to do that IN GERMAN. I’m not happy. So the next day I go back to Humana and spend a good hour looking for the other skirt. That Humama boasts that it has over 20 000 articles of clothing and I’m pretty certain I looked through at least 7000 of those to locate the skirt I accidentally left behind the day before. Skirt in hand, I go up the counted and in my best German (which, honestly, still isn’t very good) ask if I can exchange. The skirts cost the same amount, however I see that the skirt I purchased was previously more and marked down. You can’t exchange sale items. Eventually, through verbal grovelling in broken German and an inadvertently comedic skit that involved me demonstrating just how bad that skirt looked on me, the kind woman behind the counter broke down and let me exchange. And then she gave me this look, as if to say, “You, get out. Before I change my mind.” I grabbed the skirt (the right one!) off the counter and skipped out of the store, running gleefully home.

I'm happy to report that I was right about my skirt. It goes with everything. It even makes a pair of broken boots look good.

Leg(ging)less in Berlin

(A story in 2 parts. Part 1)

Londoners know two things: Abstract anger and leggings. The former needs little further said. If you’ve ever ridden the tube at rush hour, you know what I mean. I don’t hate it. I kind of love it. It’s intrinsic to the workings of The Big Smoke and somewhat endearing; a blood vessel in the thigh of the city I love and call home. However... The leggings. We can talk about the leggings. You cannot brush past a hipster in topshop without being in a two foot radius of a legging clad beast. It’s been this way for some time now. I’m not judging it. I am part of it. I wear leggings. I understand the love of leggings, the damn near need. If only all leg wear gave one such comfort, such freedom, looked so good tucked into riding boots. However, love, freedom and comfort can lead one into a false sense of security and for a while there I believed that leggings were a universal (read: first world, vogue reading) fact. However, after arriving in Berlin and travelling no more than the distance than the airport to my apartment a horrific internal line of questioning made itself known:
“Holy God, have leggings not arrived in Berlin? or, have they arrived and left? Am I wearing work out gear in public right now? Is this more or less ridiculous than when Edie Sedgewick wore her ballet get ups to bars in NYC in the 60s?” after a mild panic attack on the S-bahn, I look down at my outfit and think, Fuck Edie. This is a good look.

In any case, the question has continued to plague me: Where are the leggings? What are girls wearing instead? There are a lot of leg covering variations but no consistent through and through replacement. I have been on the lookout as I need a new pair. My black leggings, trusted companions I bought in SA for R30 has a homeless sized hole in the left leg of them (amongst other smaller holey friends) and frankly, no amount of darning can repair them to the state of public showing. They are beyond help. So I’ve been looking for some new ones, to no avail. After a while (as in, from my arrival to now) I have given up the leggings charade, thinking I should move on. My plan to move on went like this.
1) I need some good thick tights for winter. Something more aggressive than the old opaque black staples. Something REALLY wintery. Something..... Woolly. Maybe a grey pair. I don’t know. Why not?
2) To go with my hot new/grannyesque tights, I need a black skirt.
After I arrived here I realised that my somewhat new but wholly beloved high waisted brass buttoned black mini skirt was accidently packed away in some godforsaken black hole of a cupboard somewhere in south London. Thus, to survive winter in Berlin I needed a new one. And the more I thought about it the more I thought that a regular black skirt simply wouldn’t cut the mustard. What I needed to go with my wardrobe was.... was... was... a Black. Leather. Mini. Skirt.
Okay, before I get into the debacle of buying said skirt, let me give you a quick rundown of how I stand, clothing wise. Three years ago I was one of the glorious 8% of females who owned and wore more than 108 pairs of shoes. I had more clothes than I can even pretend to be embarrassed about. I loved my wardrobe. I fucking loved it. I had pink silk shirts, gold lurex dresses, polka dot poodle skirts I bought in Italy and kept ‘just in case’ I ever found the occasion to wear them. Platforms from the nineties, vintage 50s pumps, grey mohair gloves that reached my elbows and filled me with pure, unadulterated joy.... I OWNED ALL OF THESE THINGS.
However, time and life has moved on. I no longer have the space or money to store such frivolous wonders. So, as time has gone on, I’ve shed more and more of my so called crap and am now the not quite so proud owner of less than 40 pairs of shoes. It pains me. I know that I am a shallow bitch and that people in Africa are starving, but still it pains me. The machete I’ve had to take to my shoe collection pains me more than I can ever fully tell you. I digress. When it comes time for me to move place to place (as I do) my wardrobe decisions are made somewhat easier by my condensed wardrobe. I have two good pairs of jeans. One, a dark blue pair tapered to the ankle, the other, a light blue stone wash ripped to shreds. I wear wife beaters. They are my go to top of choice. I own one black cardigan (a hand me down from Shelley that neither I nor her are ever sure that she in fact handed down, but still, two years and several notches down the colour black scale later, I continue to wear) and it goes with very wife beater I own. I have a few shirts I’m partial to.
My outfits, generally, go something like this:
jeans/leggings + wifebeater/ shirt + good shoes + beret/russian bear hunting hat/sack of eggs knitted hat + scarf.

Scarves are one of the reasons I love winter. It is my firm belief that any outfit can be made massively more appealing with the addition of a hat and scarf. A regular old combination of blue jeans and a white wife beater can be transformed with the addition of a scarf. Hermes was the god of travellers. Later, the fashion failsafe of the basically clothed everywhere. I rest my case.

In any case, I sometimes get a little bored of my repertoire. Especially considering that I count myself, if not groundbreaking (although I still hold that I was the girl who brought deck shoes back to Battersea) somewhat stylish. I arrived in Berlin with almost NO CLOTHES: some wife beaters, two pairs of jeans, a pair of leggings, white brogues, white plimsolls, black platform high heels, pink heels, black riding boots, my trusty leather jacket that belonged to a succession of Sharp aunts until arriving on my willing back in 1999. My meagre selection of clothes is supplemented with lots of fantastic hats and scarves. And that’s always been okay for me. Until I arrived in Berlin and my leggings are no longer acceptable to wear in public and it gold cold and wintery and I thought, “Goddamn, I need some woolly tights and a LEATHER MINI SKIRT”

As it turns out, woolly tights are easy enough to come across in Berlin. Unlike leggings. And the skirt.... Well, the debacle of the leather mini skirt will follow. For now, just know, if you’re coming to visit, buy your leggings in London. They are, as we say in the classics, “not so much in this town.”