My Clothes Cull And Other Stories

In the last year or so, my partner and I have undergone a massive clothes cull as part of an ongoing major house contents cull. Inspired initially by two excellent decluttering programs on TV – cheers, Nick Knowles and Stacey Solomon – and, more practically, by simply not being able to cram anything else into our cupboards, as well as not knowing half of what we already had lurking in their depths. I likened it to going shopping in our wardrobes. Quite exciting; we even found items with their labels still firmly attached. Oops.

We halved my partner’s clothes and shoes but there were still way too many pieces. It was a start, and he’s since whittled them down even more. He is trying to keep to his self-imposed rule of just a dozen tops, a dozen trousers, jackets and more; although he’s not quite there yet.

Then it was my turn. I went through my tops, trousers and jeans. I don’t wear skirts or dresses anymore and finally turned to my jackets while recalling the advice a friend once gave me: ‘You can never have too many jackets.’ In fact, when that friend was made redundant many years ago, the first thing she splurged on was a designer jacket. I thought it rather reckless of her given the circumstances but it made her happy, so who was I to judge?

Clothes should make us happy. They’re an expression of ourselves, after all. What are we saying to the world? What’s the point of having these things if we don’t enjoy wearing them? I once knew someone who bought a pretty blouse to keep ‘for best’ but she never went anywhere, apart from to the local shops and back every day. It was still wrapped up, unworn and tucked away in a drawer when she died. Perhaps it made her happy just to look at it and think she might wear it somewhere nice one day?

Growing up, we had a lot of our clothes made for us as it was cheaper that way. Plus it meant they were a little bit different; something I’ve always aspired to. The shops didn’t offer so much choice back then. As a teenager and young woman, my mother made her own clothes and even once made herself a pair of sandals. Even less choice in those far-off days, of course.

At college, I had just a handful of clothes and can still remember each item. We were all hard-up students but because we were in the same boat, it didn’t bother me much. It was also the time of punk so, in theory, you didn’t need a lot of money to be fashionable and could get away with footless tights and a bin bag with strategically-cut holes for arms and head. I kid you not, although you’ll just have to believe me, since no photographic evidence is available (phew).

When I began my career, I earned very little and had so few clothes they all fitted onto just one small clothes rail. I clearly recall a visiting friend being appalled by my lack of clothes, asking me if I had any more stashed away elsewhere (nope). I envied people who could afford to wear something different every day (she was one of them).

I’ll never forget the up-and-down look of utter disdain a colleague gave me as I walked towards her in the office, sporting my frayed and newly-patched cotton chinos. Unfortunately, this was long before the fashionably distressed look came in and I merely felt embarrassed, scruffy and poor.

I must add, here, that I’d just bought my first flat with my then-boyfriend and we were very hard up at the time. We had next-to-nothing, so any spare money went on bills and furniture, not fripperies such as clothes or shoes, and we wore our clothes over and over until they fell apart.

I often turned down social invitations and even, once, a good friend’s wedding, as I simply didn’t have anything suitable to wear and no money to buy anything new either.

I reckon I can lay claim to inventing the ‘shacket’ as - with no money for a proper jacket - I often wore shirts over thinner tops in the summer.

One year, Marks and Spencer came to my rescue by bringing out black suede slippers that looked a little like loafers, and I wore those as a much cheaper substitute for the real thing.

I knew someone who was also buying her first flat – on her own – and who had no money left over for clothes. She would buy something from a shop one day, wear it once or twice, then return it a few days later. With the labels intact, of course. I thought this was taking huge risks but she always managed to get away with it.

For my last job interview - the one with the snooty colleague - I went shopping for something suitably smart. I tried on a khaki linen shirt-dress in one shop but it did absolutely nothing for me. In fact, I looked and felt old and dowdy in it. Just as well, really as it cost the princely sum of 40 pounds - we’re talking the late 1980s here - which was just too much for me at the time. It was unlikely I’d be wearing it anywhere else – apart from other interviews, perhaps.

I returned home empty-handed and looked through my so-called wardrobe (railrobe?) with increasing despair and desperation, ending up with a long floral cotton skirt, pink short-sleeved cotton shirt, pink sandals and a floral canvas satchel. Oh, and my denim jacket. I was certain I wouldn’t be considered on the basis of my outfit alone and felt pretty wretched altogether.

Little did I know, the woman who interviewed me – my boss for the next 29 years – loved bright colours and flowers and practically hired me on the spot. Those clothes were the tail-end of a phase I went through in the 1980s when everything had to be every shade of pink: shoes, sandals, bags – even my Walkman was pink. My wardrobe back then was simple: still a bit of black, grey and white, plus denim jeans and jacket, but predominantly pink, and the aforementioned floral – including two pairs of rather funky floral-patterned trousers, which I loved wearing.

Gradually, my career and finances improved and I met people in fashion retail who were hugely influential in helping me sort out my pitiful clothing situation. I had completely lost confidence in myself by then, my shape had changed and I was uninspired by anything in the shops. I wore mostly black and loathed trying things on - an experience which often left me in tears of frustration. Thanks to them, I was introduced to labels I’d never heard of before and finally found the brands that suited me better.

I lost a bit of weight, gained more confidence and started buying clothes – lots and lots of clothes! It felt wonderful after so many years of making do and trying not to mind, and I’ll happily admit I went a bit mad.

I’m lucky there are a lot more styles around these days that suit me - especially online - where I do almost all my clothes shopping. I still fear and dread the changing room mirror. Finally, I have a clear idea of what I like and feel comfortable in. I still have lots of my favourite black, but also grey, white, tan, khaki and denim. I admire colourful clothes on others, but have no desire to wear them myself. I hate drawing attention to myself and, for that reason, am much, much happier in winter clothes. I find summer clothes too flimsy and exposing. I need structure!

I am, however, becoming bolder in what I wear by experimenting with mixing patterns. So long as I stick to similar tones, it seems to work well. As I’ve aged, my mantra has become: ‘Funky not frumpy.’ I hope that’s what others see, anyway!

Despite our big cull, I’m now in the somewhat ridiculous situation of owning more clothes than I ever did while working. Still nothing suitable for a wedding, though. It’s wonderful to have such choice, of course, and it’s boosted my confidence levels no end, but I’m unlikely to wear every item I own however hard I try. Recently, I braced myself for another cull, and managed to pass on 17 tops (17!) and two trousers. That’s it for now, but I’ve told all my friends, they’re absolutely not allowed to get married…