I am a fashion womble, ‘cause I like to find

clothes that the everyday folk leave behind

in charity shops. They’ve got quite a range

the vintage, the bargain, the oddball and strange:

 

Chenille turtlenecks that are falling to pieces,

stonewashed Wranglers with turn-ups and creases,

a Hellbunny dress that won’t fit round the middle,

a gabardine coat that smells slightly of piddle,

zip-up fleece jackets with pictures of cats,

an astonishing range of unwearable hats,

an obi, a kaftan, a salwar kameez,

a belt with diamante that spells out ‘Louise’,

a little grey dress, too old to be posh,

numerous items that shrank in the wash,

a jar of old buttons retrieved from an attic,

a nylon chemise that crackles with static,

flip-flops and galoshes, size 3 Mary-Janes,

an Armani shirt with some dubious stains,

skirts from Per Una, cut on the bias,

a double-G bra with sticky-out wires,

tents that scream joy – I’ve slimmed out of these!

trousers suspiciously worn at the knees,

a hoodie that says 'I love Duncan from Blue',

things that were cheaper in Primark when new,

the Union Jack dress thrown away when

Miss thirty-odd knew she’d not fit that again,

and wedding gown after gown for rag student dress up;

kept twenty years, but now they’re just messed up

and old-hat, and the bride’s old and fat

and her daughters, they didn’t want any of that.

So, it’s dumped in a bin bag like any old rubbish

and left for the wombles of fashion to rummage,

like me…

And I don’t care what anyone thinks.

My sense of fashion ‘aint asleep. It’s just having forty winks.

 

 

This is one I wrote on the bus yesterday  (it's a long journey) on the way to work, after which I was headed straight to Bilston for the marvellous Bilston Voices. Yesterday I was wearing some of my infamous charity fashions. Today only my hat is second-hand, but it's quite wearable. I have insisted on wearing some that aren't in my time...