" The last fair deal in town," the neon green flyer proclaims.
Fuck that.
The East End thrift store is, once you brave the creepy back alleys of White Chapel a bit of a dissapointment. The word thrift store usually implies that things are, now here is a novel idea, but cheap. And when I say cheap I mean five pounds maximum. I think the only things that were five pounds was this belt dragged out of the seventies, quite forcibly it would seem as it had almost snapped in half.
First let us focus on the positive, it was a fantastic little party. The venue, whitewashed warehouse stuffed with vintage oddities= amazing. The people= gorgeous. The wine=free. The men= half were gay. The music= began at seven with Elvis and ended up in minimal electro trance territory around ten, how did we get here? So it really was a very successful night from all other perspectives. Actually from all perspectives I ended up dropping thirty pounds.
These days I am quickly realising I have a problem, I am reminded of this every month when I finally run out of clean socks and the only underwear left are the 'special occasion' Dolce and Gabbanna's. When I am faced with such dire circumstances I cave and use the student halls laundry facilities, to the great detriment of my pocket book. So I wash all my clothes and realise when my closets and drawers are full to the brim that I have an incredible amount of clothes. The fact I can go for a month wearing new clean outfits everyday is a testement to this. Perhaps a bit of false economy but why spend twelve pounds to wash your clothes when you can get a new outfit for that. And to aggravate this problem most of the newest additions to my happy wardrobe are one off space age stripper clothes that I can't figure out just how to wear. Like the blue spandex biker trousers from Berlin with bright yellow stripes running down either side, What does that match with? Or the sequined leggings, I've had them for a month and still haven't worn them (but this weekend that will change, I am committed).
In either case last night I picked up some new additions, a triangular cut black silk number that reveals my abs and has a massive gold sequin butterfly emblazoned across the chest. Trust me, it is pure sex, I've just realised I will make a new feature of putting up pictures of myself before I go out, that will be fun. So there is the butterfly sex top that really accentuates my shoulders set me back twenty pounds and then there is the yellow hooded cape.
We were at a loss to acurately describe said cape, I was thinking the forest guards from the M. Night Shalaman film
The Village. My friends thought Frodo Baggins meets a Dementor. Some kids we just met said it is the love child of Vivenne Westwood and Gareth Pugh. So the story I am sticking to is that Gareth took me back to his studio and sewed it for me during our night of love. Sadly not true unlike the story regarding the jacket I stole from Jodie Harsh, now that is true. In either case it was a tenner=irresistable.
I suppose for the sheer volume of fabric I made out with a deal but the thing needs desperately pinned and sewn into an acceptable shape. In the meantime it is hanging off my closet door, all seven feet of it.
Come to think of it I shouldn't bash the clothing selection, all of us bought something quite nice, and moderately priced. But it is just I was expecting massive, fabulous selection, dirt cheap. What we got was blah selection with a few jems that you had to wade through the press of gorgeous people piled up between the racks to get your hands on. Mind you this is not wading through the press in Primark beating off thirteen year old chavs and obese African women for that five pound leather jacket or perhaps that flourescent cylinder bag. The East End thrift store promises the absolute finest in crowded shopping. They will put only the hottest, best dressed people between you and that mini dress covered in parrots.
The sales staff was incredibly nice, everyone was up for a chat. We met great new people, got slightly tipsy, bought some things we maybe shouldn't have. All in all a lovely platform from which to launch to the Hoxton Bar and Grill. Where of course I was wearing the new cape.
I love London, the kids painted in neon going to SE ONE for a rave didn't even bat an eye as I took the tube home. Though the Elephant and Castle bag ladies didn't know what hit them.
Marcel
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