Decent Quality Outfits

 

By Sue Gourlay

It’s not just my way of promoting a sustainable lifestyle. Think of the money I’m saving buying all these recycled dresses and skirts, jumpers, hats, gloves, shoes and socks. Yes I admit, most friends pooh-pooh the idea of wearing secondhand bathers and undies, but hey, I’ll let you into a secret; a good scrub of the crotch with a block of Sard can work wonders. Still, let’s face it; if the gusset looks a bit too crusty, well you’d want to know where it’s been, wouldn’t you?

I realise of course that I can now absolutely afford to wear the poshest of labels but, as my dear old gran used to say, ‘look after your pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves.’ Besides, these days, even a so-called ‘quality’ labelled garment has no doubt been sewn together in some sweatshop someplace where the use of insecticide-soaked cotton is de rigueur.  On second thoughts, that may not be a bad thing –the insecticide I mean.

I was preparing for an international flight; my new globetrotting role as Australia’s Ambassador for Recycling demanding a wardrobe suitable for every conceivable climate and occasion. Naturally, aiming to maintain my frequently lauded stylistic flair while coping with the government’s new insistence on economy class, and, combined with the airline’s stringent luggage restrictions, I logically chose the layered look as the key strategy toward perfecting my onboard travel attire.

Obviously, I was mindful that one can only wear a certain amount of clothing before drawing unnecessary attention to oneself albeit I readily admit that as I made my way through to the check-in area, fellow travellers may have construed that I was decked out in an inflatable sumo suit, notwithstanding, designer.

My now (twice again) repacked suitcase, still proved somewhat overweight; nonetheless, with the frozen smile of the check-in staff apologising to those in the queue behind me, I surprised even myself when, after only a moment’s thought, I remembered the numbers of the combination lock safeguarding my wares. I thoroughly recommend 1, 2, 3. The culprit was, as I’d anticipated, that last minute beloved blue mohair which had, after all, forced its way into my case.

The cardigan had cost $4.00. Ha, rather smugly I congratulated myself once again on the benefits of purchasing from an opportunity shop; shrewdly assessing that one’s items can simply be cast-away when forced into such predicaments without the guilt of wasting too many dollars.

And yet, I pondered.

Mohair will no doubt soon be back in fashion and it’s a genuine 12 ply Cleckheaton criss cross cable knit from the 60’s. So boho; all that work, and it’s quite a thrill to wear such a piece of, yes, artwork. They’ll no doubt be mad for it when I address U.N. Deftly I wrap the knitted arms around my neck and over my head creating a truly magnificent turban-inspired-headscarf to complement my sumo attire. Suitcase – correct weight!

Some stare, not necessarily at the perspiration forming above my brow, rather, I prefer to consider, in admiration of my ingenious design and flair. Truth be known, I simply despair at the lacklustre style those t-shirted, thong-wearing Bali brigade see fit to travel off-shore in. Even more so, I dread the thought of facing similar rabble on a return flight, inevitably sun burnt to a crisp and bedraggled in poorly printed batik-look sarongs barely hiding their shell-torn infected arms and legs, beaded braids, nose rings and newly acquired puss-seeping, Barong-inspired tattoos.

You might be wondering whether I may have dressed like that when younger; the two of us, Donald and Moi in tie-dye? No. You are quite wrong, although Donald was never as adverse as I to wearing pret-a-porter. I believe my passion for fashion commenced at a very young age when I was taught to be aware of one’s knickers in case of bus accident – say no more – other than, for that I am truly thankful.

That said, I was not from a wealthy family and therefore became quite accustomed to what I like to refer to as ‘merry-go-round’ shopping preferring, like my mother, to wear a pre-worn Jenny Kee rather than new Big W.

Donald however is now my ex-husband; the following statement will indicate my reasoning behind his current status.

‘Why on earth do you still insist on wearing that ridiculous second-hand stuff?  You’d be far better off purchasing a couple of decent quality outfits instead of spending willy-nilly on op-shop crap in the hope that it will one day come back into fashion. You look absolutely bizarre in that get-up.’

Donald would scrutinise every piece of new (pre-loved that is) clothing I’d bring home prior to my placing it in our combined walk-in robe to ensure his Country Road polo shirts and sensible Gazman trousers wouldn’t face the possibility of cross-contamination.

As I explained when leaving him; since becoming the Ambassador, it’s now even more important than ever that I maintain my standards, after all, I have to lead by example.

It’s simple; there are those who do and those who don’t, nevertheless, I do understand that there are subgroups. Those, who are prepared to purchase secondhand jocks and socks and those who are not, and those who only think fungus and Tinea when eyeing-off must-have, thigh-high, Italian patent leather CFM’s.

True, it had crossed my mind that a recent bout of athlete’s foot had subsequently developed on the post wearing of a pair of red Mary-Janes, and perhaps, they were a bit on the manky side, but hey, they were red, and it’s impossible not to buy red shoes when they are almost one’s size.

Before hitting the gates of no return, I decide on caffeine, head over to Muffinia and nestle between two gentlemen, one dressed in a mint green safari suit, the other in Stewart tartan plus fours. Although I think it’s best not to overly second guess about any ASIO disguises, we smile rather knowingly at each other and I make a mental note to self to congratulate our newly financed secret service on their attention to detail.

It’s difficult to understand why those, who are more than happy to loll around in hotel beds, a washed sheet being the only barrier between them and the steamy secretions of the previous guests or in times of ill-health, lay on obviously laundered, yet once virus-ridden blood-soaked hospital sheets, are the very same people who cringe at the idea of wearing anything that previously belonged to someone else.

They are quite appalled in fact, that by its very situ in the opportunity shop, the discarded, unloved, no longer required item must have been thrown out by some poor diseased soul, or worse, someone quite recently dead. Actually, I will admit that if it’s elastic-waisted, hanging in the retro aisle and a personal name label is involved, that presumption may well be the case.

No matter, I’m sure the deceased spent a lifetime, as most of us, utilizing a daily routine of soap and water, roll-on deodorant and perhaps a splash of eau de cologne. Even if the clothing came via a funeral parlour, its original owner now laid out on the slab, there would have bound to have been quite a few purification procedures involved, what’s more, I suspect in such a sterile environment, any donated items would be far cleaner than what may be hanging in one’s current wardrobe.

I’ve only come across lice eggs once, nestled into the hem of a gorgeous black cashmere coat. Obviously, they were very astute insects and I rather respected their choice of home. Nevertheless, a de-louse was required and clearly, being of such quality fabric, the washing machine was totally out of the question. Further, as a dry cleaning bill was, at that particular time in my life, way beyond my reach, a month-long holiday in a tightly secured garbage bag seemed an excellent alternative for my newly acquired finery and its freeloaders. I’m a bit of a squeamish gal, yet embalmment in cashmere seemed a rather glorious finale and one I may consider further as my own demise draws ever near.

When eventually setting my coat free, I felt positive that all hatched critters would have fully succumbed to suffocation, and any future incessant scratching on my behalf, was purely coincidental. After all, I had referred to both Google and Wikipedia together with backup from my now rarely consulted and somewhat rather dusty Encyclopedia Britannica for good old-fashioned information to confirm my belief, that the most reliable method of extermination of the Pediculus Humanus was via asphyxiation thereby choosing to avoid the advice from Facebook friends; we all know how judgmental they can be.

To be honest, the entomologist illustrations in Britannica were rather more endearing than the coloured photographic plates via the internet, and later, while viewing under a microscopic situation, I thought them to be rather cute looking creatures with their fat little abdomens, furry arms and feelers. Okay, best not to think too much about their blood-sucking minute, yet most effective teeth, and although not everyone’s cuppa, well, you know, God’s creatures and all of that. In fact, I found myself humming along to that hymn I’d learnt years ago at Sunday school – can you hear it?

# Lah lah lah lah lah de dah
All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All wise and wonderful
The lord god made them all#

OK I confess, if I’d thought for one second that hair lice were lurking around, I wouldn’t be so flippant. I know what disaster can arise when an infestation of those particular parasites overtake a school for, as a voluntary choir assistant, I recall those looks in the playground as prying parents made note of likely suspects, discussing with absolute conviction the names of the culprits amongst frenemies. The amount of times I heard it ‘Well you can just tell which kids by looking at them, can’t you?’ Meanwhile, year in year out, itchy teachers, exasperated yet again, repeat via morning assembly, ‘And I repeat – the arrival of nits has nothing to do with one’s own personal hygiene.’

‘Really?’repeat those mothers accompanied by their know-all sniggers. ‘Really?’

Until.

The 3.30 time-to-go-home bell rings and their perfectly groomed and spotlessly clean darling little off-spring run through the school gates furiously scratching their soon-to-be scabby scalps.

‘Oh my God!’

And later that evening, as the lousy vile insect infestation hits home, a spousal discussion must decide upon whether to alert one’s cleaners, for as all would be aware, cleaners are renowned rumourmongers and even though we couldn’t live without her, not so readily replaced at $10 per hour. Then again, there is that lurking suspicion about who might have introduced the mites in the first place!

And so, through mutterings of ‘we usually use organic’, it’s only after an Einstein-enthused explorative probing of every head in the home prior to the unleashing of chemicals equal to Roundup combined with atomic weaponry that total annihilation, the only acceptable outcome, is achieved. And finally, the moaning and groaning that comes with the combing ceases, and the ghastly, hopefully now dead (they better be), yet inevitably still clinging minuscule eggs are eradicated. Until the next time.

– Stop pulling my hair, you’re hurting me –

Despite their usage, those little wooden combs are rather adorable aren’t they, who would have thought?   Tourist memorabilia from India or Thailand; the finest of fine-tooth carvery delicately decorated via a single-hair brush in much the same manner as that of a painted miniature portrait bearing the vision of a loved one.  What’s more, I’ve been assured, absolutely, one hundred per cent ‘they don’t use lead in their paint anymore’.

It’s a shame that the purpose of such gorgeous little implements is somewhat tainted by what many now consider to be, a foul activity. Of course, I’ve noticed that lice combs are frequent occupiers of opportunity shop shelving yet even I might consider twice prior to their re-usage.

I’m thinking it’s time to head through to customs. I’ve already removed my headgear, however I’m hoping I won’t have to disrobe too many layers as re-dressing may take some time and I admit that I’m not looking forward to how many beeps will transpire while walking through security. Last time the tin clasps on my suzzies caused quite a commotion.

As I rise, Mr. Plus Fours leaps up and I detect the faint, yet fetching familiar whiff of mothballs.

I remind myself that I’m representing my country and I need to focus on my upcoming speech and the task ahead, when the word repurpose comes to mind and inadvertently I’m recalling that movie about a politician having it off with her bodyguard.

‘Allow me to assist,’ he offers. I note his fair-isle woollen vest, puffy-sleeved, pirate shirt and green man-bag. Momentarily, I wonder at the state of his gusset before accepting his hand and we head to the security gate and an inevitable undress prior to catching our flight.

 

About the author:

Sue left school the day she turned fifteen, accomplished VCE in her forties, and went on to complete a Diploma of PWE at RMIT.

Prolific in all areas of creative expression Sue’s stories and poetry appear in various anthologies including The Boroondara Literary Awards Anthology when she won first prize. Sue recently became a finalist with Geelong Writers Prize 2023.

Sue paints and regularly exhibits her work.  Her photographic image was selected for the cover of the 2022 Geelong Writers Anthology.

Sue’s employment encompassed various roles within the media industry, including the editing of children’s books together with providing both lyrics and melodies for a range of children’s songs.

Sue regularly meets with like-minded locals who enjoy writing simply for pleasure.