My doom is upon me
Over the last few weeks I’ve been thinking hard about work, wondering whether to chase a high-powered book job or even just freelance writing and editing. I’d basically decided that I wasn’t going to look for work, because I’m loving Oxford so much; the history, the culture, the books, everything. For at least the next two months, I decided, I would relax, read, paint, look after Steve and enjoy Oxford.
Well today, I begged for a job. Twice. I wrote down every contact number I have and pressed it into a bemused person’s hand. If I could have knelt down and begged in the space available, I would have. I then played my trump card - that I would work for free.
Yes readers, I have met my doom. And it’s the worst kind of doom. Vintage doom. You see, I have found this shop (although ‘shop’ seems the wrong word for the bower of earthly delights, the paradise of desire, the nirvana that I have found) in central Oxford.
It is unlike anything I have ever seen. EVER. I first saw it two weeks ago down a tiny quiet lane, a simple shopfront with a display window and door. But the ‘display’ window was a junk heap. Crammed right up against the glass, from the top to the bottom were, variously, a crocodile handbag, a hat covered with brooches, a Ralph Lauren dress, a 1950s ball dress, silk embroidered tea dresses, shoes galore, old books, ropes of beads, tweed jackets, men’s hats... it was crazy. They were chucked in, not arranged, just thrown at the glass from the inside. There are no opening times on the door, but today, after walking by it three times there was finally a light on and a tiny little Dutch lady (maybe 55) inside. I went in. I say ‘in’ but you can only get two feet in the door. And the sight that greeted my famished eyes....
The shop is about ten feet wide by twenty long. The only free floor space is a piece about two feet wide by three long, right inside the door. I was in it, the owner was in it, so no-one else could come in. I’m six feet tall, and the pile of vintage clothes (in RUBBISH BAGS) came up to my waist on all sides. On my right, further than I could reach, against the side wall, was a rack of extraordinary dresses and coats. By straining every muscle I could just reach over the heap to grasp the bottom of a coat or two to try and pull it out from the rest. Then I looked beyond the Everestian slope in front of me and saw that the piles beyond were higher than my head and reached all the way to the back of the shop. Like, the light was dim back there because the clothes were obscuring it.
Oh readers, just THINK what’s back there! From what was coming to hand just on top of the piles near me - stunning 1930s tea dresses, silk, satin, ancient lace, patchwork, crimplene, 1950s tennis dresses, tweed coats - I knew it would be a gold mine. I also knew that the only way I’d ever get back there was if I worked for her, and knew with a deep and spiritual certainty that I would work for free if I had to.
I asked to see a silk 1960s dress from the window and discovered how the owner gets stuff; she leaped up on a pile like a little vintage leprechaun and handed it down to me. Then when it didn’t fit she began digging at her feet, pulling dress after dress out until she dragged out the most perfect 1950s LBD. I took off my jacket and shirt (thank goodness I wore a singlet top today because there are no changing rooms) and slipped it over my jeans. When I went outside to look at my reflection in the broken glass door (there are no mirrors) a French girl who’d squeezed into the shop behind me with her boyfriend (and who was looking as dazed as I felt) said “It... nice. Nice details... Very pretty.”
She reached out and touched the detailing, then clearly thought it was a bit weird that she’d done it. But I knew how she was feeling. Our eyes met in intercontinental understanding. We have shared something special here today, that glance said. This is the best shop in the world. You will return to your country and I to mine, but we will always talk about today, and this moment, when you bought the perfect lilac silk 1940s shirt, your boyfriend found that tweed jacket that makes him look even hotter than he already is, and I found this divine dress. Go in peace.
There’s no eftpos facilities and no credit cards. There’s no cash register. You have to pay the exact amount in cash, because there’s no change. After I left the shop I just stood there staring at the window, dazed, wanting only to go back in and rootle around in the mess. I plan to sweetly harass her until she lets me work there. Fingers crossed that this tale is not done!
The pic is of the window (and my bike with the weekend’s food shopping) - it’s considerably tidier than the first time I saw it. If anyone wants to know where it is, message me - I don’t want to put the name here and it to get shut down as a fire risk! (Because, you know, the authorities read my blog.)
Well today, I begged for a job. Twice. I wrote down every contact number I have and pressed it into a bemused person’s hand. If I could have knelt down and begged in the space available, I would have. I then played my trump card - that I would work for free.
Yes readers, I have met my doom. And it’s the worst kind of doom. Vintage doom. You see, I have found this shop (although ‘shop’ seems the wrong word for the bower of earthly delights, the paradise of desire, the nirvana that I have found) in central Oxford.
It is unlike anything I have ever seen. EVER. I first saw it two weeks ago down a tiny quiet lane, a simple shopfront with a display window and door. But the ‘display’ window was a junk heap. Crammed right up against the glass, from the top to the bottom were, variously, a crocodile handbag, a hat covered with brooches, a Ralph Lauren dress, a 1950s ball dress, silk embroidered tea dresses, shoes galore, old books, ropes of beads, tweed jackets, men’s hats... it was crazy. They were chucked in, not arranged, just thrown at the glass from the inside. There are no opening times on the door, but today, after walking by it three times there was finally a light on and a tiny little Dutch lady (maybe 55) inside. I went in. I say ‘in’ but you can only get two feet in the door. And the sight that greeted my famished eyes....
The shop is about ten feet wide by twenty long. The only free floor space is a piece about two feet wide by three long, right inside the door. I was in it, the owner was in it, so no-one else could come in. I’m six feet tall, and the pile of vintage clothes (in RUBBISH BAGS) came up to my waist on all sides. On my right, further than I could reach, against the side wall, was a rack of extraordinary dresses and coats. By straining every muscle I could just reach over the heap to grasp the bottom of a coat or two to try and pull it out from the rest. Then I looked beyond the Everestian slope in front of me and saw that the piles beyond were higher than my head and reached all the way to the back of the shop. Like, the light was dim back there because the clothes were obscuring it.
Oh readers, just THINK what’s back there! From what was coming to hand just on top of the piles near me - stunning 1930s tea dresses, silk, satin, ancient lace, patchwork, crimplene, 1950s tennis dresses, tweed coats - I knew it would be a gold mine. I also knew that the only way I’d ever get back there was if I worked for her, and knew with a deep and spiritual certainty that I would work for free if I had to.
I asked to see a silk 1960s dress from the window and discovered how the owner gets stuff; she leaped up on a pile like a little vintage leprechaun and handed it down to me. Then when it didn’t fit she began digging at her feet, pulling dress after dress out until she dragged out the most perfect 1950s LBD. I took off my jacket and shirt (thank goodness I wore a singlet top today because there are no changing rooms) and slipped it over my jeans. When I went outside to look at my reflection in the broken glass door (there are no mirrors) a French girl who’d squeezed into the shop behind me with her boyfriend (and who was looking as dazed as I felt) said “It... nice. Nice details... Very pretty.”
She reached out and touched the detailing, then clearly thought it was a bit weird that she’d done it. But I knew how she was feeling. Our eyes met in intercontinental understanding. We have shared something special here today, that glance said. This is the best shop in the world. You will return to your country and I to mine, but we will always talk about today, and this moment, when you bought the perfect lilac silk 1940s shirt, your boyfriend found that tweed jacket that makes him look even hotter than he already is, and I found this divine dress. Go in peace.
There’s no eftpos facilities and no credit cards. There’s no cash register. You have to pay the exact amount in cash, because there’s no change. After I left the shop I just stood there staring at the window, dazed, wanting only to go back in and rootle around in the mess. I plan to sweetly harass her until she lets me work there. Fingers crossed that this tale is not done!
The pic is of the window (and my bike with the weekend’s food shopping) - it’s considerably tidier than the first time I saw it. If anyone wants to know where it is, message me - I don’t want to put the name here and it to get shut down as a fire risk! (Because, you know, the authorities read my blog.)