In many ways, lockdown has challenged our sense of identity and how we look is a big one. When there is no one to make an effort for, do we still make an effort? Personally, I think yes, in some form or another. Because our lives essentially become other people’s memories, and it starts with how you look.
Some people say they don’t care about that stuff, and I think that’s totally fair and wonderful, but it also tells their story as much as someone who does. Whether you wear designer Hermès scarves around your neck on a casual day, or 3-for-$20 cargo shorts from a catalogue, you are telling us about you with your clothes. You are creating your image. We are getting to know you before you’ve even said a word.
It doesn’t mean those who have no real care for putting outfits together are not interesting, creative and vibrant, like ‘fashion’ makes us believe people are. It just means they have more important things to think about, as far as they are concerned, which is a massive statement on their character and one that we can all admire. If I spent less time worrying about this stuff, I’d write approximately six more books a year.
But I spend a lot of time thinking about the way I look. I always have – not that I’ve always got it right. As a teenager on Guernsey, the safest thing was to follow trends and fit in, but I always hated nineties clothes, even in the nineties. I would occasionally try to go rogue, and I’d throw together something that I thought might make some waves in my social group. One look was a giant, oversized mustard turtleneck jumper with GREEN JEANS and purple DM boots. I thought my use of colour was admirable, but I got called many things that day (‘giant banana’ and ‘pot of Colman’s’ being two of them). I later went through a phase of wearing baby blue flares that didn’t really fit, with varying T-shirts that had funny slogans on them. This became my look for most of my sixth form, when I started to work in a pub. My favourite was one that said ‘SIZE IS EVERYTHING’ in big bold letters. I’m so glad smartphones didn’t exist back then, as I can keep any physical photographic evidence of these fashion nightmares locked safely and securely away.
But I tried, because I knew I cared about clothes. I knew they weren’t just things that I wore, and I knew fashion trends were not for me. I didn’t want to look like everyone else, but I had no idea how to style myself back then, I was looking in the wrong places. Fashion mags were full of really well put together people, but that isn’t me. I dress emotionally. I know that sounds wack, but it’s true. The reason I love vintage is because the clothes that I buy make my tummy flip when I find them. I’m like the kid in The Goonies when he finds One-Eyed Willy on the ship. The way his eyes light up at the shiny gems, that’s me in a vintage shop. The entire process thrills me. The effort of rooting through so many things, only one of each, waiting to spot something that attracts me. Then, the anticipation of it fitting, then the sheer joy when it does. I love spending my money on things I know no one else has. I love knowing there are not multiples of that piece in different sizes. People say to me ‘how did you find that dress?’ and I love to tell them ‘I didn’t, it found me.’ I don’t care if a dress costs $10 or $500, I can love them just as much. When I realised my ‘style’ was a feeling rather than a look, everything came together.
There were no vintage shops in Guernsey when I was growing up, so I couldn’t have known what was to come. Years before discovering vintage I’d started to veer towards those shapes: sixties-inspired tops, and eighties party dresses. But they were all remakes, and something about them never gave me a thrill, but I was heading in the right direction. My aunt and uncle were furriers in sixties London (don’t get cross, they don’t do it now and I do not support the fur trade on any level), and as a result they were very passionate about the way clothes were made. As they had largely made bespoke pieces to order, I think they drummed it into me how much a piece of clothing can mean to someone, and what goes into making them. It took me a while to work out my place in fashion, or my version of it. But my clothes and the effort I put into my appearance are a big part of who I am.
I dream about dresses and design them in my head all the time. For fun, even when I’m not shopping, I trawl Etsy and eBay. The first thing I do when I buy a garment is turn it inside out to see how it was made. Sometimes, they were made by designers, other times you can tell that a woman likely made it herself following a pattern, and those are my favourites. I love the history of clothes, how different styles defined the decades. But I also love the clothes’ own personal history. Nothing gets me going more than when someone can tell me who a garment belonged to. My wedding dress, for example. I got it from my dear friend William Banks-Blaney who is the genius behind ‘William Vintage’, which was a very high-end shop in Marylebone, selling exquisite Dior gowns and Chanel suits likely stitched by the lady herself. I knew I wanted to wear vintage on my wedding day, so went straight to him. We’d been playing around with a gorgeous, almost golden Dior gown. It came with all of the internal corseting and was truly the most stunning, elegant and photogenic dress. BUT, it was very formal. That wasn’t the kind of bride I wanted to be and the fact that I had committed to it, and a seamstress was working to make it fit, was keeping me up at night. For one fitting I turned up and I was notably morose, but would never have admitted why. William put the dress on me and I agreed, it looked gorgeous. But it wasn’t right. It was expensive. And I felt like I’d made a massive mistake. And then, as if a magical spell had been cast over me, my eyes were drawn to a heap of twinkling blue tulle that was slumped onto a chair.
‘What is that?’ I asked William.
‘Oh, I need to steam it. It’s a gown that belonged to Princess Lillian of Belgium, I—’
I stopped listening. As I walked over to it, I tossed aside the Dior. I picked up Lillian’s dress and stepped into it. My reaction? I couldn’t stop dancing.
‘This is the bride I want to be,’ I told William. And because he is wonderful, he agreed. The Dior went back on the rail, and Princess Lillian’s blue dress, which fitted me perfectly, became the dress I got married in. I was so proud of its history.
Dresses make me disproportionately happier than any material object should, and just because I wasn’t allowed to leave the house during lockdown, I never gave up on my outfits. Kaftans, jumpsuits and novelty skirts got me through it. And when I say they got me through it, I mean they made me feel happy. Clothes do that for me. I don’t know if that makes me kooky or shallow, but it’s how it is. I do think it probably stems from being a writer and having worked in a solitary way for many years now. I learned pretty early on that if I didn’t get dressed in something I loved, I wouldn’t get much done.
As some people may reach for jeans, the outfit I reached for most on a day in lockdown was a voluminous, high-waisted, green striped skirt with watermelons all over it. I wear it with a cut-off green-and-white-striped T-shirt (it clashes, and I love it) that I got in a clothing swap at my workspace. I’ve had the skirt for over ten years. It came into my life when my friend Ophelia had been living in my flat while I was away, and she left it there. When I got home and found it, I loved it so much that I didn’t mention it to her. I agreed with myself that she had six months to claim it before I took it for my own. She never did. To this day, she has never mentioned this sensational skirt, which means it meant nothing to her, which literally makes no sense to me because it deserves better. Ophelia, if you’re reading this, I know we never discussed this out loud and I am sorry for that. You are one of the most stylish people I have ever met, but you really lost me on this one, girl.
The skirt became my lockdown uniform. Teaching me that comfortable clothes can still be awesome, and as I create these childhood memories for my kids, they will remember me in colours and print. Hopefully this will make them feel as happy to look back on as they made me feel at the time.
I know most people didn’t bother with ‘outfits’ during lockdown, and I get that too. A lot of my friends said they spent most of their time on Zoom calls dressed like news readers. Smart up top with PJs on the bottom. I probably did five Zoom calls throughout the whole of lockdown – luckily that isn’t my world and the social ones never worked because of the time difference with LA. But I’d like to assure you that even for those five, my outfits were awesome.
If you think I am being ridiculous, I’m not. Think back to your childhood. Was it your mother, your dad, a teacher or a friend’s mum whose image you can see as clear as day even now? That’s because something about it became an emotional memory for you. I have a few. As I mentioned, I remember very little of my mum, but the smell of her Chanel No. 5, the creaking of her black leather trousers, the silk of her eighties party dresses – I’ll always remember those. I may not know what she sounded like, but I can see her, smell her and feel her whenever I need to. I want my kids to be able to see, smell (Dior Addict – it’s the one Charlize Theron advertises; I know, I know, the similarities between us are endless) and feel me for the rest of their lives too. And so I work on those things for them, even in lockdown, because one day I’ll just be a memory. And I want that memory to be awesome.
Also, I hope that by me wearing great clothes they will choose girlfriends (if they veer that way) who wear awesome things that I can borrow. I also need someone stylish to leave all of my clothes to, and I am on a genuine mission to work out who that will be.
Good clothes make me feel happy, so whether anyone sees me or not, I keep wearing them. I do wonder though, if there will be people out there who might take this as an opportunity to re-emerge as something different. Maybe their style has always bored them, or they felt too self-conscious to try anything new. But life will never be the same after this because we’ve all lived through the unimaginable, so if this isn’t an opportunity to fire up some new looks when you’re allowed to step outside your front door again, I don’t know what is. Change has been forced upon us, so why set limits on how much of it we can take for ourselves? Isn’t that a lovely thought? When the world experiences such change, maybe individuals can get on the bandwagon.