Hello non-existent readership,
Well, as the spectacularly irritating saying goes, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. Of course, what seems obvious now is what tickles the deity the most is whapping your ebay feedback rating with the first negative feedback you've ever had on the eve of your Inevitable Dominance Of New Media And Beyond.
It's rare, true enough, that the phrase 'oversized and dirty' leads to something positive but I confess I've not felt so mortified in quite some time. But there it was, verbatim and in my feedback column, the unambiguous thumbs down.
A small part of me feels wrathful and protective as a pageant mother: "Look at her -- she's beautiful!" It's best if you imagine this said in a intense whispered Kentuckian accent, tearful lacquered eyes, boring into you. I loved this dress, love it still, and the thought of someone unwrapping it and curling their lip makes me want to bury myself under a pile of wet coats.
Here's the original listing text, the starting price was £7.50:
This vintage hot pink Frank Usher wrap dress is ripe for all sorts of martini-quaffing and oil-baron slapping. I fondly imagine that the person who wears this is habitually pushed into swimming pools at glamorous parties whilst wearing jewels worth more than my house.
I bought this from ebay a few years ago. I don't doubt its authenticity though it has had a life before and there are a few faults, which I've tried to photograph: the pearls coming away slightly at the wrap tie and the slight orange staining at the base of the skirt. It's largely hidden by the folds and is fairly subtle but I've adjusted the price to reflect this.
Of course, the buyer probably has a point - the glory of Peptol Bismol pink has blinded me before. I geniunely tried to list its faults, but clearly I was looking at it with nostalgic eyes. This dress is Alexis Carrington to me, old school glamour shot through with Miss Havisham-esque ruin. It starred in my first and extraordinarily shitty art school film, the sole wardrobe of Miss Manners, a character in a fictional 1940s romantic comedy about the ghost of a Southern etiquette coach who helps the hapless Henry Fonda-esque hero get the girl.
The full horror and shakeycam is on youtube somewhere but criminy, I've suffered enough today and I refuse to link to it. All you need is this screenshot to know is that it was primarily about texture and purity. And I was twenty two. And also shut up.
I've sent the buyer a grovelling e-mail offering a full refund and to pay for her to post the item back to me. As well I might: A woman can't embark on a literary and aesthetic overall with soiled feedback. I believe Confucius said something very similar.
Also, and pathetically, I want my girl back. I feel like her southern honour has been impuned. I had no notion others would see her as bedraggled and unworthy of wear. Already and quite against the spirit of the project, I want my stuff back. It's about texture. And purity. And shame.
I heartily anticipate growing up tomorrow. Maybe we'll have one more night of cocktails. One More Night & Then Barnardos... that's a movie I'd watch.
If you are not heartily put off, buy my precious things.