New stock they did indeed have, my dress being amongst it. Love at first sight. It’s hanging on the outside of the wardrobe (where all things must hang until I’m over my crush – only then can they move into the darkness of the other side) and I’m rather chuffed that it’s mine. Perhaps you’ll be wonder what all the fuss is about, but trust me, it couldn’t be more me if it tried.

I’m desperate to tell you about something that happened last week, but I thought I would hold off until I had photographic evidence. But I’ve decided that I can’t wait to tell you, so I’m going to. Hopefully this will heighten your anticipation for the photos (I know, I’m deluded). So, here’s the thing. You know Retro Rehab, vintage shop extraordinaire? They had a sale last week. Not just any old sale, but a sale of clawing insanity. Basically, the idea was that you could buy a bag (just their ordinary plastic carrier bags) for a tenner and then fill it up as much you wanted (or as much as you could, as most interpretations went). They had filled the shop up to the brim with all their back-stock and devised this idea to get rid of it and make some cash.

Well, it worked. I had expected maybe a few other faithfuls when the shop opened at 11. Instead, there was a queue down the street. (Yes, I queued.) Vintage shopping makes us girls competitive, doesn’t it? Feral, even. I didn’t get to go in the shop in the first batch. Gutted. I had to watch through the window as girls greedily grabbed whatever fabric they liked and rolled it up tight and stuffed it into their bags. Some girls even had their boyfriends with them, for the purpose of holding the bags, of course.

They let the first batch of girls basically empty the shop in about half an hour. All of us stood out on the street were traumatised by the fact that there was nothing of any value left and wondered if there was any point waiting. But then! When the shop emptied they came out and announced that they were going to spend 10 minutes filling the shop back up! Yes! When they had done this, they let the next batch of eager girls in (me included). I couldn’t get close enough to the rails to look properly, so I decided upon the cunning technique of running my hand along and searching out any item that was not made of a static-shock-inducing material. I pulled out the item and if I saw any potential, kept it under my arm. I worked this process all around the shop. Then I bought a bag for a tenner and shoved them in, in order of importance.

In the end, I came out with 8 dresses. I have to say, I’m mightily impressed with my choices. I can’t show you them yet, because I need to do a major job with the fabric scissors and some bondaweb (all the dresses are much too long). If I had been truly cunning, I would’ve taken the fabric scissors with me and cut the excess material off there and then, thereby freeing up space in the bag for perhaps a couple more dresses. Alas, I am not made of such cunning. But I reckon 8 dresses for a tenner is a bit of a billy. I will take great pleasure, when anyone asks where the dresses are from (which I’m sure they will, they are that nice!), in telling them, “It was £1.25 from Retro Rehab!”

So, I need to get busy with the scissors. What better time to give my wardrobe a spring-clean too? In the meantime, here’s one of my favourite Parkinson photos. Would you believe me if I told you the girls in this picture are talking about the Retro Rehab sale?

I should be saying all of this on Sunday, shouldn’t I, or at least Saturday? But meh! Forgive my warped sense of time; having been slightly under the weather, time is hardly my priority (nor blogging, as you might have guessed). Indeed, I would love nothing more than to sleep through the rest of the week, right through the weekend and beyond. For a thousand years, if you will. If anyone could lend me a time capsule for this purpose, I’d be chuffed, thanks!

One more thing! Yesterday I heard someone use the word ‘flouncy’. Yes! Bring back the flouncy! I haven’t heard this word since I was, well, I don’t know, about 6, surely? Amazing though (even if it was being used with regards to a pen). I herein commit to making regular use of this underrated word. Speaking of which, I walked into a popular high street shop yesterday and everything had completely changed (in a spring-clean, let’s-go-on-holiday kind of way) and I must say, everything looked very, very flouncy.

Tomorrow, I promise a far more worthwhile rant. Filled with elaborate flounces and the like. In the meantime, here’s a very lovely vintage image of the seaside (and one of my favourites) to transport you out of this cold February Wednesday and get you dreaming of a far warmer and better world. I hope this adds something a little flouncy to your day.

Every now and then, I steal the shirt(!). There is nothing in the whole of my wardrobe that has quite the same appeal. It is the perfect accesory, the perfect finishing piece. I’ve tried countless times to find an equivalently appealing shirt, one for my side of the wardrobe, but alas, I have always failed in my quest. There are hundreds of denim shirts to be had these days, in charity shops, vintage shops, high street shops – the market is huge. However, I have never found one that I would ever favour over my boy’s shirt, however hard I’ve looked.

He bought the shirt years ago in the Levi Shop and it has weathered so beautifully. The denim has softened to perfection and the colour has faded in a way that could never be achieved again. The sleeves roll up faultlessly. It is just the right amount of effortlessly-too-big on me, so it looks brilliant open, can be belted flawlessly, and can even be tied up cowgirl style. And, importantly, it washes up a treat. Whenever I have tried to find a replacement, they have always been too stiff, too blue, too big (in a makes-you-look-four-sizes-bigger way rather than oops-don’t-i-look-slim-in-my-accidentally-too-big-shirt), too new, or too thin. I’ve considered buying a new Levi one and hoping it will age in the same way as my boy’s, but that would take alot of wears and alot of years. I don’t have that time, I want it now.

I have bought one denim shirt in my time. It’s a vintage, pale blue, proper cowboy number with brown suede stars on it. A wonderful find, but it only does what I want it to do occasionally, only looks good from certain angles. I wish it was much smaller and more naturally battered. I wish it would age more gracefully. It has served its purpose, though; it does its job on days when I’m not allowed my boy’s shirt (after all, it is his, so he gets first dibs) and created a wonderful sun-shield in the fields of Somerset last June. But, essentially, if I have any sort of choice, I would always go for the perfectly aged Levi number, my boy’s very special denim shirt.