I am a fashion womble, ‘cause I like to find
clothes that the everyday folk leave behind
in charity shops. They’ve got quite a range
the vintage, the bargain, the oddball and strange:
Chenille turtlenecks that are falling to pieces,
stonewashed Wranglers with turn-ups and creases,
a Hellbunny dress that won’t fit round the middle,
a gabardine coat that smells slightly of piddle,
zip-up fleece jackets with pictures of cats,
an astonishing range of unwearable hats,
an obi, a kaftan, a salwar kameez,
a belt with diamante that spells out ‘Louise’,
a little grey dress, too old to be posh,
numerous items that shrank in the wash,
a jar of old buttons retrieved from an attic,
a nylon chemise that crackles with static,
flip-flops and galoshes, size 3 Mary-Janes,
an Armani shirt with some dubious stains,
skirts from Per Una, cut on the bias,
a double-G bra with sticky-out wires,
tents that scream joy – I’ve slimmed out of these!
trousers suspiciously worn at the knees,
a hoodie that says 'I love Duncan from Blue',
things that were cheaper in Primark when new,
the Union Jack dress thrown away when
Miss thirty-odd knew she’d not fit that again,
and wedding gown after gown for rag student dress up;
kept twenty years, but now they’re just messed up
and old-hat, and the bride’s old and fat
and her daughters, they didn’t want any of that.
So, it’s dumped in a bin bag like any old rubbish
and left for the wombles of fashion to rummage,
And I don’t care what anyone thinks.
My sense of fashion ‘aint asleep. It’s just having forty winks.
This is one I wrote on the bus yesterday (it's a long journey) on the way to work, after which I was headed straight to Bilston for the marvellous Bilston Voices. Yesterday I was wearing some of my infamous charity fashions. Today only my hat is second-hand, but it's quite wearable. I have insisted on wearing some that aren't in my time...