crimplene crush

There was quite a bit of Crimplene in our house when I was growing up.

My mum, and nanna who lived with us, were both pretty keen on it.

What can I say, we had no automatic washing machine or central heating. Drip-dry, non-iron clothing must’ve seemed heaven-sent.

Embedded in my memory, never to be erased, is a pair of red Crimplene bell-bottom flares, trimmed with white top stitching and a matching white button to the side of each knee.

And my best party frock, in pale blue smocked Crimplene, with white plastic flower buttons.

Here I am wearing said frock, at my birthday party:

Ah, how I loved that dress! I must’ve been seven or maybe eight at the time.

When I was not a lot older, I grew to despise Crimplene. As indeed did most of the rest of the population.

The whole perspiration-trapping, hair-raising, static cling-and-chafe of it.

As Wikipedia succinctly puts it: “Crimplene began to fall out of fashion. Other, lighter-weight polyester fabrics like Trevira replaced Crimplene for their ease of movement and ventilation”.

I became strictly a natural fibres kinda girl.

But pattern addiction is a powerful thing. Capable of outweighing even matters of ventilation.

I have a new-found Crimplene crush:

I got this lovely frock in the bargain basement at my favourite local vintage emporium Baklash - for a fiver.

It didn’t quite look like this when I bought it. I am mid-process of adapting it from size “Tent” to something I can actually wear. It’s just tacked at the moment (which is why the sleeves look a little odd), but hopefully you can see the potential.

And not just for sweaty armpits and electric shocks.

It has a lovely twin-keyhole neckline, flared skirt and long back zip.

It has made me re-evaluate the whole man-made fibres thing. I think they’re overdue for a revival.

It may be hard to equate Crimplene with glamour nowadays, but once upon a time…

There must be lots of unloved-but-lovely synthetic patterned fabrics out there just waiting to be rehabilitated. After all, they are virtually indestructable.

With my new-found enthusiasm for dressmaking, I’m already wondering if I could make a similar frock myself.

Perhaps for summer… if I stock up on deodorant.

Or then again, maybe it would be better in cotton.

sew sad

I have an abiding love of vintage haberdashery and sewing equipment.

There are fewer and fewer bits around as time goes by, lending them a value and rarity that makes them all the more precious.

They can also be beautiful.

Vintage sewing accessories also, for me, have something of a melancholy quality…

I don’t quite know why.

Nostalgia for times gone by? Perhaps…

I inherited my grandmother’s, and later my mother’s haberdashery collections. So they make me think of these two women, whom I loved and who passed on their love of sewing to me.

But I think, maybe, it’s also to do with unfulfilled dreams and plans…

Sewing projects never sewn…

Works in progress never progressed…

Incomplete and abandoned…

Artifacts left in limbo long after their owners are dead and gone.

small souvenirs

When I was a child, we didn’t generally get bought stuff all the time. Birthdays and Christmas of course, but not all the time.

Little things were treasured.

However, when we went on a trip, we always got a little souvenir.

My thing was badges. I collected all that came my way. Freebies mainly, promoting products now long-discontinued.

I still have a tin full of them. I used to get them out and arrange them, or count them, or even wear them. But not for a long while.

I sorted through them at the weekend. What to do with them now?

I’ve pinned my travel souvenirs onto an old cushion cover.

The rest are still awaiting their resurrection. Any ideas for repurposing are welcome.

miniature obsession

I think I am regressing as I get older.

First, it was getting back into sewing in a big way, which I originally became obsessed with when just a mere slip of a thing, but then neglected when boys, alcohol and bands became more interesting.

Then, I found a photo of me aged about 8 and noticed with shock that my hair is currently remarkably similar in style. My hair has somehow travelled back in time, quite of its own accord, although it is not these days quite as lush and blonde as my childhood crowning glory, obviously.

I now seem to be feeling the stirrings of another childhood obsession: the dolls’ house.

When we were children, my sister and I shared a tiny box bedroom. We did not have a proper dolls’ house – not for lack of wanting one, I hasten to add. This spurred us to create fabulous and intricately furnished miniature apartments located in suitcases, amongst Dad’s bookshelves and within the top cupboard of our built-in wardrobe (the penthouse apartment).

Our Pippa dolls lived a glamorous imaginary lifestyle of shopping and bitching. They were all millionairesses aged 16, which was the most hopelessly glamorous age to be, before you ended up past it at 20.

My local charity shop has three dolls’ houses for sale at the most reasonable price of £15 apiece. I have eyed them covetously, particularly the two 1960s ones, since before Christmas.

I went in with my 8-year-old lad today and prodded and stroked said houses. I told him I wished I had a girl-child as well, so that I had an excuse to buy one. He sensibly responded “why don’t you buy one anyway mummy?”

I think I might have to pop back tomorrow. Perhaps I could wall mount one and pretend it’s a house-shaped display shelf.

I think I am well on my way to my second childhood.

Pippa dolls photo courtesy of http://notwavingbutironing.wordpress.com