Daydreams and fairytales

Who knew that it would come to this. Long held dreams of finding a creative outlet, whether through the medium of print (as long as I can remember I wanted to be an author), through buildings (why else spend years years attempting to become an architect) or some other fancy (yes, I once thought I had a hope as an artist, as a singer...I soon came to the realisation that I was sadly deluded). But here we stand, and it turns out that the thing that I may be passionate enough to actually follow through on, the area where doubtful, dowdy and occasionally even frumpy little old me may have a creative bone, is in fashion. Specifically, in vintage.

Yes, my obsessive buying of old patterns over the years may have a good outcome. The sewing skills carefully harnessed and nurtured over the years actually have a purpose. I may be a nerd, but with any luck, I will be one who can pay her rent, and do it in style. I may sit in trackies or leggings and simply awful shirts while I work on it, and I may lack the motivation, but I may also make money off it now. All thanks to a little website called Etsy.

Forgive the excitement. It's not the first time I've used sewing to make ends meet. I've done bits and pieces for friends before, but never in areas that have interested me - making curtains is not an exciting occupation for someone with a short attention span - or that I've been happy with the outcome (turns out I need a bit more practice before making pants for other people). And work - my regular, every day office work, that is - has reached a particularly low point. So low that I've followed through on the threat to start applying elsewhere. So I am ridiculously happy at the thought that I may have my own thing, if I can make it work.

At the moment, it's just working with vintage patterns, but I have expansion plans. And there's been enough interest in my initial efforts to make me think that there could be something there. Here's hoping, because I'm moments away from losing it completely with customers at work. Or with the small children playing with a repetitive noisy toy outside my room right now. Thank god for itunes and for sewing...It might just be enough to get me through, and it might save my sanity. Not to mention L's nephews...

After a fashion

There's something about a good costume drama that sucks me in every time. I'm currently fathoms deep in love with Downton Abbey, and the love affair is showing no signs of easing. Whether it's the ability to sit and gloat as Lady Mary gets thrown at any man with a suitable fortune and/or title, safe in the knowledge that I do not have to worry about such things, or the poor footman, William, being subjected to the sort of workplace bullying and victimisation that we have laws to stop these days, or from some deeper enjoyment of watching things which recreate a by-gone age - supposedly more innocent, but really just different - I don't know.

Actually, I do have some idea what part of it is. It's the costumes. I'd love to have an excuse for wearing something like the gorgeous gowns they showcase - although perhaps not the corsets required to achieve the tiny waistlines. God knows I have enough problems at the moment without adding a tendency to faint due to lack of oxygen because I've been laced too tight. Instead, I've been trying to figure out ways of updating the look, getting some of it into my own wardrobe, at least my work wardrobe, which has become surprisingly ladylike for a girl who didn't own a skirt or dress that wasn't a uniform from the age of 15 through to 19.

I hate the expression ladylike, though. Or I should, as a believer in women's rights and equality. But somehow even though I don't want to live my life in a ladylike fashion - all staying at home and looking after the children, being subservient and second class, swooning at the drop of an embroidered handkerchief - I love the concepts associated with it. My favourite periods are almost all those where women wore "ladylike" clothes, yet still managed to show that they were up to whatever task was thrown at them. The suffragettes, the flappers, Rosie riveters, they all had awesome fashion. And dear god, what does it say about me that I've reduced some of the women who pushed the boundaries of society to the dresses they wore? Ah well, tis sad but true. We are what we eat, but we're also what we wear. And what fabulous things they were.

Baby steps

It seems that my entrepreneurial side has taken over while my mobility has been limited. Yes, that's right, the threatened back seizure happened, and I've had a week of enforced inactivity. And during that time - particularly during the long weekend that fell in that period - I've had plenty of time to mull over various things. Funny how much the mind works when the rest of you doesn't, when you need to call for help to get out of bed without almost passing out in agony - and I wish I was exaggerating that particular detail, but my mother can confirm that slightly panicked phone call that went out last Friday morning, before the lovely pain killers kicked in, before my 2 year old niece kissed me better.

During that time, I was fussing and fuming about the lost sewing time I had planned for the three day weekend. And some wheels began to turn. Slowly, yes, but then again, and avalanche starts with a trickle. It picked up a little speed tonight, though. After last night's effort on eBay buying up vintage patterns to add to what is already an extensive collection, today I registered a business name and a domain name in preparation for being able to sell the products of my efforts.

Things are really kicking off around here. I'm planning not only to make, sell and - eventually - design clothes, but I'm also plotting ways of funding travel through this. Think of it - Killi's London Blitz, a tour for fans of the wartime period in London...stopping off in Paris and Amsterdam for a couple of days as well. Now I just need to get some product to sell, some research into the whole travel issue, a website up and running, and, well, any kind of clue how to turn this into something that I don't get bored with. Hmm...But the first steps have been taken, anyway. And now I'm kind of vertical again (although not right now, thanks to heading back to work before I was really ready), I can get on with the realities of what is required. Fabric shopping this weekend. I can hardly wait to watch my hard earned flow through my fingers...

The Importance of Being Idle

As I sat and waited for the cold that won't die to leave my body - contemplating leaving my body myself, just to escape the bloody thing - I did, well, nothing today. Largely due to the fact that every time I attempted to move, either I suffered from separation anxiety (my tissue box and I are besties at the moment) or I suffered from extreme white-hot rods of pain through my sinuses. Or maybe that was just the anxiety kicking extra hard. Given choice between idleness, anxiety or pain, I chose idleness.

It's amazing what your brain throws up when you have vaguely hypochondriac tendencies and are actually sick. I spent a good half hour this morning wondering what would happen if the sinus infection took the worst case scenario and did actually do what it has threatened before, leaving me bed ridden while it slowly turned my head to mush. I'm not generally given to end-of-world scenarios, so it was amusing to indulge in every little detail, particularly dwelling on the guilt that would afflict Flatmate L when she discovered that her slurs about me pulling a sicky were completely off-base. I was interrupted by a phone call from her, wondering why I wasn't answering my work email address, and being cheered up no end by the observation, "Didn't you have Friday off as well? They're going to sack you." Thank you for the mood enhancer.

So, with my mind back at work, if not my body, I drifted to other thoughts, carefully lying still and watching Top Gear on BBC iPlayer (why does everything have to have an 'i' in it now? Even the electric car that they guys on Top Gear made had an 'i' somewhere in the name they gave it. And why is is always lower case?) And somewhere along the way, I strayed into pondering one of the guys who sits on the floor below mine.

I've had plenty of time to observe him. He started not long after me and, on days when I'm only slightly late, rather than horribly, I follow him into the office and he holds the door for me. We bump into each other in the kitchen sometimes, too. It's not a big office, so it's hardly surprising, really. But what is a little strange is that I've never heard him speak. I'm fairly certain that he can - word would have passed around far more quickly if he was mute, given our office-wide love of talking about each other - he just doesn't. It's only recently that he's even acknowledged that he's holding the door open for another person, giving a gentle smile and looking somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. I don't have great knees. There's no reason to stare at them. Mind you, I have to admit that I find his ankles inordinately fascinating. And it's for no other reason than them being on show so regularly.

He's a tall man, with the stoop of those over six foot who are generally surrounded by shorter people. I always assumed that it was to make it easier to hear what people were saying. I know I always end up bent double with my shorter friends, and I'm not nearly as tall as him. The thinning hair on top of his head suggests that he's kind of outgrown it. It never seems to get any thinner, so I assume that's just the way it's always been. With blond hair, blue eyes and seemingly good dentistry by English standards, he's not a bad looking boy. That's kind of why I noticed him in the first place. He dresses fairly stylishly on casual days. Not being lucky enough to be on my new floor, where they hide the cretins they don't allow the clients to see, he's generally dressed in business clothes. Which are a whole other story to his casual gear.

It must be easy to dress most men for the office. A pair of black trousers which may or may not be part of a suit. A white shirt. A tie to give a bit of variation. There are less rules about what's appropriate for different occasions. Some seem to wear the same basics and just shuffle the ties around to different days. This guy is no exception in that area, but there is one part of his wardrobe that I think someone really needs to sit him down and talk to him about. His trousers.

Have you ever seen the old movies, things where Cary Grant or Walter Matthau had their trousers pulled up around their arm pits? Think the male equivalent of granny-undies, but much more obvious to the world. Combine that look with bad posture and long legs, and you've got something close to what I'm talking about. His ankles must have frozen on snow day earlier this year, but he never thinks to pull the waistband down to sit somewhere near his hips, giving his ankles the coverage I've got no doubt they crave. Sometimes I get a tingling in my hands as I see him, and itch to go and give a good tug to the legs. He's known for it among the girls of the office, who call him Harry-High-Pants and rarely know his actual name. For someone who seems to go to such great lengths to hide themselves away, he draws an awful lot of attention with his trousers.

His jeans, well they seem to fit. It makes me wonder if his mother buys his work clothes, and has never quite gotten used to the idea that her son is all growed up now. He does seem a little like the type to get the final bit of his toothpaste wiped away with the corner of Mum's apron just before he leaves for work, packed lunch in hand. His casual clothes, he picks for himself. He looks far more comfortable in them, that's for sure. I think I've seen him actually talking to someone when he was wearing his jeans and a checked shirt. The change in him was remarkable. Not quite Clarke Kent/Superman, but not far short.

So why have I just written so much about a guy at work who doesn't speak to me, whose mother may still be buying his clothes, and who makes me giggle? Chalk it up to too many fluffy romance books while I've been sick. The winning out of the pain over the tissues is hopefully a sign that I'm on the mend. Or that the antibiotics will be kicking in soon, at any rate. Until then, I'm doomed to schmaltz. I apologise in advance.

Supersize me

I have been attempting to put together a reasonable outfit for a date tonight. In the process, I discovered an almost total lack of suitable clothes - the downside of the casual office/no life combo is a distinct absence of variety in the clothing choices made on a daily basis. So I went shopping last night. It was a successful trip, I'll say that at the outset. I have an outfit which I am proudly sporting at my desk today, ready for the make up to be applied and the saunter to the meeting place. But along the way, I made some discoveries.

I have moaned about my size and shape for as long as I can remember. I've always been at the upper reaches of the ranges sold in ordinary stores, by which I mean shops that aren't catering for a specific segment of society, whether it be, to borrow Flatmate L's unflattering descriptions, the short shop or fat fashion. For as long as I can remember I've been borderline. Sure, there was a period way back in the early 90s when I could easily trot along to Sportsgirl and load up on t-shirts with multi-coloured lettering, short brightly coloured shorts and all the trendy items of the moment, most of which I cringe to remember now. But the problem with that memory is that while I was getting about in small sized adult clothing, my friends were still shopping in the kiddy section. And that's before we even get started on my feet, which have barely been contained by the ladies shoe department since I was about 13. And hats? Forget it.

And even though shops are now carrying the next size up, it seems that I've grown right along with their sizes and am still forced to concede defeat on a regular basis when I realise that not only am I holding the biggest size they make (notice, not carry, stock, have on the rack...it's make. They don't come any bigger), but that it is made for someone who is decidedly not me.

Which leads me to my discovery. It has now become clear to me that, like a McDonalds meal deal, I have been supersized. It's not that I'm totally disproportionate, whatever the BMI police would have you think. I have a waist, I have some muscle definition in my arms and legs, parts of my are quite toned (not all, but hey, how many people ARE toned all over?). It's just that I was seemingly built on a bigger scale. How it's taken me this long to realise, I don't know. Maybe it was the wallowing in misery about body image for so long. But here it is. I am tall, I have an hour glass figure of sorts (hippy, busty, with a waist in between...figure that's close enough), I have big feet, big hair. I'm a scaled up version of the average 5'4 woman. OK, so the scaling isn't precise, but there it is.

Now all I have to do is get them to accurately scale up the clothes. They've started making boots for people with hockey-player legs. One day, they'll start selling clothes in mainstream shops for scaled up people too. One day, I will be able to walk into any shop and only my lack of cash will stop me from buying one of everything in the shop, in my size. Well, a girl's gotta dream, right?